Fill: Rubicon, (1/4)xahra99March 3 2011, 10:16:06 UTC
A:N. This turned out much, much darker than I had originally planned, so apologies if you had something else in mind. Watch me work over my deeply ambiguous felings about this fic over at my livejournal at http://xahra99.livejournal.com/35469.html#cutid1 in the essay 'Crossing the Rubicon, or How I Made my Beta Reader Question Both my Morals and my Sanity' On a slightly more optimistic note, enjoy...
Rubicon: An Eagle of the Ninth fan fiction by xahra99 for the_eagle_kink community anon prompt: Esca/Placidus, hatesex.
Calleva Atrebatum, A.D 140.
"Aren't you Marcus Aquila's slave?" The voice is Roman, languid, and condescending. It sounds familiar. Esca spins around. His feet skid in the mud of the marketplace. He nods. "I'm his slave," "Ah yes," the Roman says. "The failed gladiator." Up close, his appearance is as aristocratic as his voice suggests. He wraps his cloak around his body and walks around Esca, treading carefully to avoid splattering his legs with mud. One finger touches his chin lightly in thought, like he's studying a horse. It's a quiet morning, so he has plenty of space. Esca hates him instantly, the way he's learned to hate all Romans. The Roman's toga is crisp and pale. He stands out in the drab marketplace. Esca, in his shabby tunic, blends right in. As it should be, he thinks. This is his country, not theirs. They don't belong here. He stands looking down at the mud while the Roman peers at him. "Come here," the Roman orders. Esca steps forwards. He recognises the man now, but he doesn't understand what he wants. "You must be busy," the young tribune says. "How are your plans going?" "Well enough," Esca says. He waits for a moment while the tribune examines him. Up close, the Roman has dark hair and a refined voice that seems incredibly bored with everything. He has an aquiline nose and large ears which his hairstyle almost but not quite hides. He smells of stale wine and rank sweat. There's a spot of spilled wine on his toga. "Can I take a message?" Esca offers. He folds his arms tightly, more against the Roman than the cold. "A message?" Placidus says in surprise. He sways slightly on his feet. Esca wonders if he's still drunk. "Ah, Yes. Marcus. Dear Marcus. A message." He shakes his finger, which is long and thin like the rest of him. "Yes. And you shall address me as Tribune." He brushes a spot of mud from his cloak. "Tribune Placidus." Esca nods to save him from having to say anything. Placidus studies him with dark eyes, tilting his head on one side like a crow. There is something about his manner which Esca does not like. "What was your message, Tribune?" he asks. Placidus smiles. "Come with me," he says. He takes Esca by the shoulder of his tunic and half ushers, half-drags him across the marketplace towards the shops on the other side. Like most Romans, Placidus is taller than Esca, and the Briton finds it hard to match his stride. They leave the square and walk into a street which Esca does not recognise. Placidus crooks a finger of his free hand and two bulky legionnaires slip from under a wine-shop's awning and follow him. Esca feels a stab on unease as Placidus turns right and right again into a narrow alley lined with the blind back of houses. It's a dead end. A peeling wooden door stares at Esca at the end of the alley. It's tightly shut and the houses are solid Roman-style houses, two storeys high. The seal-grey sky is reduced to a narrow slit. A strip of morning sunlight shines weakly high up on one wall above Esca's head. A feral cat slinks through rubbish at his feet. The alley stinks. The houses are not the sort of houses a man like Placidus would have. Esca wonders uneasily why Placidus has brought him here. Placidus lets go of Esca's shoulder. He beckons him closer like he's going to speak and steps forwards. He doesn't say anything. Instead he raises his hand to Esca's face and touches his jaw. Stubble catches as he strokes his hand up and down. Esca knocks his hand away.
Re: Fill: Rubicon, (2/4)xahra99March 3 2011, 10:17:03 UTC
Placidus smiles, withdraws his hand and hits Esca very precisely across the face. The blow knocks the Briton a step backwards. He does not fall, although his body twists to absorb the blow. He raises his hand to his lip and touches wetness. "Stand still," Placidus hisses. He reaches out again and strokes Esca's hair. Esca stands woodenly as the Roman's fingers stroke him as casually as his father would have petted a hound. He looks down. "I'm not your slave," he says to the floor as Placidus' fingers tug at his hair. When the Roman refuses to stop, he reaches up and catches his wrist. Placidus' skin feels like wax, greasy and cold. "I belong to Marcus Aquila," he says, and hates. He hates that this, his master, is his only shield. He hates Placidus and his sly fingers and Marcus for saving his life and Rome for doing this to him and his tribe in the first place. "Of course you do," Placidus says, withdrawing his hand. He wipes his fingers on his toga and for a second Esca thinks he's going to get away with this. "Has he even had you yet?" He says it so nonchalantly that it takes Esca a moment to even work out what he's said. He feels his face reddening. Placidus smiles. "No?" he says, his voice ever so slightly slurred. "Well, there's a first time for everything." Esca takes a step back. Placidus' smile broadens. When Esca takes another step back and spins around to leave, the first soldier's breastplate is an inch from his face. Behind him, Placidus sniggers. Esca turns back to face the tribune, his eyes searching desperately along the alley for a way out. The only sight that greets his eyes is high bare walls and closed doors. Buildings where he comes from, he thinks, aren't so solid. Meaty hands grab his shoulders and send him staggering. "As I was saying," Placidus announces, and takes a step forwards, towards Esca. Esca recalls Uncle Aquila's words even though they weren't addressed to him. You can't let the likes of him do this to you. He tilts his head back and catches a brief glimpse of the sky, silver as mackerel, before he brings his head forwards with as much force as he can muster into Placidus' face. He's aiming for the Roman's nose, but Placidus is just a bit too tall so he gets his chin instead. It's surprisingly solid. Esca sees red spots behind his eyes. He staggers forwards, into the Roman. Placidus is too busy clutching at his face to take much notice. Blood oozes between hi s cupped fingers. Esca shoves him aside without much effort. The soldier's hands loosen and Esca is free. He spins, staggering, and bolts towards the mouth of the alley. He almost reaches it. Roman boots kick his feet out from under him and he hears Roman laughter as he sprawls in the mud. The legionaries grab his wrists and wrench him to his feet with one hand bent painfully between his shoulder blades. Esca hisses a Brigante curse and struggles to escape. He fails. One of the legionnaires grabs him by the back of the tunic and swings him face-first into the nearest wall. Esca ducks to protect his head, but he strikes it hard, shoulder first, and falls painfully into the heap of rubbish at its base. He opens his eyes to the sight of Roman sandals pulling back to kick him in the face. He tries to grab an ankle to stop the man from kicking him but it does no good, His grip slackens and falls away. Somebody treads on his hand. A sandal thuds painfully against his ribs. Esca's breath hitches. Placidus lets them beat him for a few minutes before he says, "Bring him here." The legionnaires pick Esca up easily and shove him to his knees. One of them wrenches his hair back until he's looking up at Placidus through swollen, half-slitted eyes. His chest heaves. Esca manages one painful word. "Why?" "Because I'm bored," Placidus says. "And because you're his." He doesn't say because I can, but he might as well.
Re: Fill: Rubicon, (3/4)xahra99March 3 2011, 10:17:53 UTC
There's a cart at the end of the alley, tilted with its tail in the air and the shafts digging into the mud. They drag Esca up and slam him onto the cart. Splinters bite into his cheek. Cold mud sucks at his feet. He's lost one of his shoes. Blood runs from his lip, soaks into the spongy wood and runs down the slanted base of the cart towards the ground. Placidus pulls his toga up. He presses forwards between Esca's bare legs. Esca fights. He spits a curse in his own tongue and rolls on his side, grabbing for the low sides of the cart. His breath pours out white in the cold air. He hears Placidus groan, and then, miraculously, he hears the creak of a door opening further down the alley. It slides open a crack and then opens wider. A woman hurries out. She looks British, and Esca calls out to her desperately; piuthar, ma 'se ur toil e, but the woman doesn't speak his dialect or else she's not listening. She averts her eyes and scurries out of the alley like a mouse escaping from its tunnel. She doesn't even look at him. "Shut your mouth," Placidus grates, "slave." He knots his hand in Esca's hair. Esca tries to rise but Placidus slams a hand down between his shoulder blades and knocks him back down onto the cart. His weight presses painfully down on Esca, squeezing the breath from him. Esca jerks his head to the slide and gasps for air, his head wedged against his own arm until all he can see is the blurry dark line of his own tattoos. Placidus fumbles in his toga. He draws back for a moment and then surges forwards. Esca bites down on his lip as Placidus forces into him. He inhales painfully, pinned down by the larger man's weight as he thrusts. "Good," Placidus gasps. He halts for a moment, adjusts and then picks up his rhythm, faster this time. Hot breath, smelling of wine, gusts into Esca's face. Placidus' hands move down his body like fat spiders. He can't breathe. One of the legionnaires laughs quietly. Esca wishes he had died in the arena. He wishes he had kept his knife. He wishes Placidus would hurry up. Rome killed his family, he thinks, and now it's killing him. Placidus groans again. His hands curl around Esca's hipbones, lifting him up. Every jerk of his cock hurts like fire. Placidus' breath hisses between his teeth, loud in the still morning air, and a bead of sweat drips from his labouring forehead onto Esca's neck. Esca tries to move but he can't; Placidus has him pinned. "Ngh!" Placidus gasps. His hips jerk and he shudders, coming hard. His hips twitch once more and he slumps onto Esca's body, heavy and damp. Fluid slicks Esca's thighs as the Roman softens and slides out. After a few moments he coughs, releases his grip on Esca's hips and stands unsteadily. Esca hears the rustling of fabric as Placidus adjusts his toga. He curls up in the bottom of the cart and waits. "It should be me, you know," Placidus says from behind him. "I wanted to be a soldier." There is a long silence before Esca realises the sentence his addressed to him. He jerks his head up, his skull throbbing. "And he's a hero," Placidus continues. "It's not fair." He reaches over and pats Esca on the hip. "Hasn't had you though, has he?" Esca closes his eyes and shakes his head. The movement shakes something loose and the alley spins sickeningly, red and white dots flashing behind his eyes. When he looks up Placidus and the legionnaires are gone. He's alone in the alley. The sun is shining directly overhead. The bright light hurts his eyes. He coughs, and tastes blood. Midday is long gone by the time he makes it back to the Aquila villa. Stephanos opens the door, takes one look at Esca swaying in the doorway and says "What happened to you?" Esca shakes his head. He doesn't say anything. Stephanos tuts over his ruined tunic, but he lets Esca lie down on his pallet instead of putting him to work and gives him a bowl and a sponge to wash the worst of the blood away. The sun slips down the wall and Esca drifts towards sleep.
Re: Fill: Rubicon, (4/4)xahra99March 3 2011, 10:18:29 UTC
When he wakes the shadows are long and Stephanos is standing over him with a worried expression on his face. "He's asking for you," he says. Esca does not need to ask who he is. Stephanos offers him a new tunic. Esca takes it from him, pulls it over his head without a word. He staggers to his feet and goes outside. The gardens are bathed in light the colour of honey, beautiful despite their Roman design. Esca catches sight of his own reflection in one of the pools as he passes and is shocked by what he sees. His eyes are deeply shadowed; almost skull-like. The rest of his face is an unrecognisable mess of bruises and ghost-pale skin. The scent of basil and lavender follows him as he limps between the flowerbeds to the patio where Marcus is seated. The Roman watches him with sharp dark eyes. "Who did this?" he asks. Esca just shakes his head. "I can't help if you don't tell me," Marcus says. Esca notices that he is staring at his ear and wonders if he hasn't washed all of the bloodstains away. "I can't do anything." Black anger curls inside Esca, as cold and dark as bog water. He looked away, unable to stand the pity in Marcus's eyes. "It doesn't matter," he says. The Roman stares at him as if he's gone mad. "Of course it matters," he says, his voice thick with some suppressed emotion. "You're mine." Esca closes his eyes briefly. He remembers Placidus' voice, as poisonous as nightshade. Has he even had you yet? It's his fault, his fault for daring to think it would be different with Marcus. This is Rome. Placidus is Rome. Ugly and awful, and it hurts. This is what he gets, what he deserves, for thinking it could be anything more. Marcus reaches forwards to touch the bruises on his face and Esca jerks away. They stand there for a moment, looking at one another, until Marcus flicks his hand in dismissal. "You can go," he says; Roman arrogance wrapping around him like a cloak. I hate everything you stand for, Esca thinks. He spits in Marcus's soup that evening at dinner. Marcus, of course, doesn't even notice.
Re: Fill: Rubicon, (4/4)xahra99March 4 2011, 06:33:55 UTC
So..yeah. I still don't like this fic. I wanted to write a story about Esca, in the filmverse. As the film changes the place in the story when Esca is freed, the only possibility of writing Marcus/Esca without being stuck to a very very very narrow time slot was to make the sex essentially nonconsensual, seeing as one of the partners could not refuse, irrespective of what his feelings were. I think I would have more of a problem writing a story that represented that as a positive thing, possibly something even kinky, rather than a story that featured a rape scene that was pretty nasty to read but was probably pretty realistic when dealing with most slaves actual sexual experiences, given human nature. But I still don't like this one. Must write a happy, non.kinky fic...
Re: Fill: Rubicon, (4/4)sistermineMay 16 2011, 19:29:36 UTC
Wow. Not so much a kink and more like real life. This was powerful and moving and rather horrific, and what an antidote to the slavefic I'll admit I've got going on in my head. Went and read your musings, and thought they were really to the point. Not sure what I think on the topic at the moment, but thought this was a fine bit of writing.
On a slightly more optimistic note, enjoy...
Rubicon: An Eagle of the Ninth fan fiction by xahra99 for the_eagle_kink community anon prompt: Esca/Placidus, hatesex.
Calleva Atrebatum, A.D 140.
"Aren't you Marcus Aquila's slave?"
The voice is Roman, languid, and condescending. It sounds familiar.
Esca spins around. His feet skid in the mud of the marketplace. He nods. "I'm his slave,"
"Ah yes," the Roman says. "The failed gladiator." Up close, his appearance is as aristocratic as his voice suggests. He wraps his cloak around his body and walks around Esca, treading carefully to avoid splattering his legs with mud. One finger touches his chin lightly in thought, like he's studying a horse. It's a quiet morning, so he has plenty of space.
Esca hates him instantly, the way he's learned to hate all Romans. The Roman's toga is crisp and pale. He stands out in the drab marketplace. Esca, in his shabby tunic, blends right in. As it should be, he thinks. This is his country, not theirs. They don't belong here.
He stands looking down at the mud while the Roman peers at him.
"Come here," the Roman orders.
Esca steps forwards. He recognises the man now, but he doesn't understand what he wants.
"You must be busy," the young tribune says. "How are your plans going?"
"Well enough," Esca says.
He waits for a moment while the tribune examines him. Up close, the Roman has dark hair and a refined voice that seems incredibly bored with everything. He has an aquiline nose and large ears which his hairstyle almost but not quite hides. He smells of stale wine and rank sweat. There's a spot of spilled wine on his toga.
"Can I take a message?" Esca offers. He folds his arms tightly, more against the Roman than the cold.
"A message?" Placidus says in surprise. He sways slightly on his feet. Esca wonders if he's still drunk. "Ah, Yes. Marcus. Dear Marcus. A message." He shakes his finger, which is long and thin like the rest of him. "Yes. And you shall address me as Tribune." He brushes a spot of mud from his cloak. "Tribune Placidus."
Esca nods to save him from having to say anything. Placidus studies him with dark eyes, tilting his head on one side like a crow. There is something about his manner which Esca does not like.
"What was your message, Tribune?" he asks.
Placidus smiles.
"Come with me," he says. He takes Esca by the shoulder of his tunic and half ushers, half-drags him across the marketplace towards the shops on the other side. Like most Romans, Placidus is taller than Esca, and the Briton finds it hard to match his stride.
They leave the square and walk into a street which Esca does not recognise. Placidus crooks a finger of his free hand and two bulky legionnaires slip from under a wine-shop's awning and follow him. Esca feels a stab on unease as Placidus turns right and right again into a narrow alley lined with the blind back of houses. It's a dead end. A peeling wooden door stares at Esca at the end of the alley. It's tightly shut and the houses are solid Roman-style houses, two storeys high. The seal-grey sky is reduced to a narrow slit. A strip of morning sunlight shines weakly high up on one wall above Esca's head. A feral cat slinks through rubbish at his feet. The alley stinks. The houses are not the sort of houses a man like Placidus would have.
Esca wonders uneasily why Placidus has brought him here.
Placidus lets go of Esca's shoulder. He beckons him closer like he's going to speak and steps forwards. He doesn't say anything. Instead he raises his hand to Esca's face and touches his jaw. Stubble catches as he strokes his hand up and down.
Esca knocks his hand away.
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"Stand still," Placidus hisses. He reaches out again and strokes Esca's hair. Esca stands woodenly as the Roman's fingers stroke him as casually as his father would have petted a hound.
He looks down.
"I'm not your slave," he says to the floor as Placidus' fingers tug at his hair. When the Roman refuses to stop, he reaches up and catches his wrist. Placidus' skin feels like wax, greasy and cold. "I belong to Marcus Aquila," he says, and hates. He hates that this, his master, is his only shield. He hates Placidus and his sly fingers and Marcus for saving his life and Rome for doing this to him and his tribe in the first place.
"Of course you do," Placidus says, withdrawing his hand. He wipes his fingers on his toga and for a second Esca thinks he's going to get away with this. "Has he even had you yet?"
He says it so nonchalantly that it takes Esca a moment to even work out what he's said. He feels his face reddening.
Placidus smiles. "No?" he says, his voice ever so slightly slurred. "Well, there's a first time for everything."
Esca takes a step back. Placidus' smile broadens. When Esca takes another step back and spins around to leave, the first soldier's breastplate is an inch from his face.
Behind him, Placidus sniggers.
Esca turns back to face the tribune, his eyes searching desperately along the alley for a way out. The only sight that greets his eyes is high bare walls and closed doors. Buildings where he comes from, he thinks, aren't so solid.
Meaty hands grab his shoulders and send him staggering.
"As I was saying," Placidus announces, and takes a step forwards, towards Esca.
Esca recalls Uncle Aquila's words even though they weren't addressed to him.
You can't let the likes of him do this to you.
He tilts his head back and catches a brief glimpse of the sky, silver as mackerel, before he brings his head forwards with as much force as he can muster into Placidus' face. He's aiming for the Roman's nose, but Placidus is just a bit too tall so he gets his chin instead. It's surprisingly solid. Esca sees red spots behind his eyes. He staggers forwards, into the Roman. Placidus is too busy clutching at his face to take much notice. Blood oozes between hi s cupped fingers. Esca shoves him aside without much effort. The soldier's hands loosen and Esca is free. He spins, staggering, and bolts towards the mouth of the alley.
He almost reaches it.
Roman boots kick his feet out from under him and he hears Roman laughter as he sprawls in the mud. The legionaries grab his wrists and wrench him to his feet with one hand bent painfully between his shoulder blades. Esca hisses a Brigante curse and struggles to escape.
He fails. One of the legionnaires grabs him by the back of the tunic and swings him face-first into the nearest wall. Esca ducks to protect his head, but he strikes it hard, shoulder first, and falls painfully into the heap of rubbish at its base.
He opens his eyes to the sight of Roman sandals pulling back to kick him in the face. He tries to grab an ankle to stop the man from kicking him but it does no good, His grip slackens and falls away. Somebody treads on his hand. A sandal thuds painfully against his ribs. Esca's breath hitches.
Placidus lets them beat him for a few minutes before he says, "Bring him here."
The legionnaires pick Esca up easily and shove him to his knees. One of them wrenches his hair back until he's looking up at Placidus through swollen, half-slitted eyes. His chest heaves.
Esca manages one painful word. "Why?"
"Because I'm bored," Placidus says. "And because you're his."
He doesn't say because I can, but he might as well.
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Placidus pulls his toga up. He presses forwards between Esca's bare legs.
Esca fights. He spits a curse in his own tongue and rolls on his side, grabbing for the low sides of the cart. His breath pours out white in the cold air.
He hears Placidus groan, and then, miraculously, he hears the creak of a door opening further down the alley. It slides open a crack and then opens wider. A woman hurries out. She looks British, and Esca calls out to her desperately; piuthar, ma 'se ur toil e, but the woman doesn't speak his dialect or else she's not listening. She averts her eyes and scurries out of the alley like a mouse escaping from its tunnel. She doesn't even look at him.
"Shut your mouth," Placidus grates, "slave." He knots his hand in Esca's hair. Esca tries to rise but
Placidus slams a hand down between his shoulder blades and knocks him back down onto the cart. His weight presses painfully down on Esca, squeezing the breath from him. Esca jerks his head to the slide and gasps for air, his head wedged against his own arm until all he can see is the blurry dark line of his own tattoos.
Placidus fumbles in his toga. He draws back for a moment and then surges forwards. Esca bites down on his lip as Placidus forces into him. He inhales painfully, pinned down by the larger man's weight as he thrusts.
"Good," Placidus gasps. He halts for a moment, adjusts and then picks up his rhythm, faster this time. Hot breath, smelling of wine, gusts into Esca's face. Placidus' hands move down his body like fat spiders. He can't breathe.
One of the legionnaires laughs quietly.
Esca wishes he had died in the arena. He wishes he had kept his knife. He wishes Placidus would hurry up.
Rome killed his family, he thinks, and now it's killing him.
Placidus groans again. His hands curl around Esca's hipbones, lifting him up. Every jerk of his cock hurts like fire. Placidus' breath hisses between his teeth, loud in the still morning air, and a bead of sweat drips from his labouring forehead onto Esca's neck. Esca tries to move but he can't; Placidus has him pinned.
"Ngh!" Placidus gasps. His hips jerk and he shudders, coming hard. His hips twitch once more and he slumps onto Esca's body, heavy and damp. Fluid slicks Esca's thighs as the Roman softens and slides out. After a few moments he coughs, releases his grip on Esca's hips and stands unsteadily. Esca hears the rustling of fabric as Placidus adjusts his toga. He curls up in the bottom of the cart and waits.
"It should be me, you know," Placidus says from behind him. "I wanted to be a soldier."
There is a long silence before Esca realises the sentence his addressed to him. He jerks his head up, his skull throbbing.
"And he's a hero," Placidus continues. "It's not fair." He reaches over and pats Esca on the hip. "Hasn't had you though, has he?"
Esca closes his eyes and shakes his head. The movement shakes something loose and the alley spins sickeningly, red and white dots flashing behind his eyes. When he looks up Placidus and the legionnaires are gone. He's alone in the alley. The sun is shining directly overhead. The bright light hurts his eyes. He coughs, and tastes blood.
Midday is long gone by the time he makes it back to the Aquila villa. Stephanos opens the door, takes one look at Esca swaying in the doorway and says "What happened to you?"
Esca shakes his head. He doesn't say anything. Stephanos tuts over his ruined tunic, but he lets Esca lie down on his pallet instead of putting him to work and gives him a bowl and a sponge to wash the worst of the blood away.
The sun slips down the wall and Esca drifts towards sleep.
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"He's asking for you," he says.
Esca does not need to ask who he is. Stephanos offers him a new tunic. Esca takes it from him, pulls it over his head without a word. He staggers to his feet and goes outside.
The gardens are bathed in light the colour of honey, beautiful despite their Roman design. Esca catches sight of his own reflection in one of the pools as he passes and is shocked by what he sees. His eyes are deeply shadowed; almost skull-like. The rest of his face is an unrecognisable mess of bruises and ghost-pale skin.
The scent of basil and lavender follows him as he limps between the flowerbeds to the patio where Marcus is seated.
The Roman watches him with sharp dark eyes.
"Who did this?" he asks.
Esca just shakes his head.
"I can't help if you don't tell me," Marcus says. Esca notices that he is staring at his ear and wonders if he hasn't washed all of the bloodstains away. "I can't do anything."
Black anger curls inside Esca, as cold and dark as bog water. He looked away, unable to stand the pity in Marcus's eyes.
"It doesn't matter," he says.
The Roman stares at him as if he's gone mad. "Of course it matters," he says, his voice thick with some suppressed emotion. "You're mine."
Esca closes his eyes briefly.
He remembers Placidus' voice, as poisonous as nightshade.
Has he even had you yet?
It's his fault, his fault for daring to think it would be different with Marcus. This is Rome. Placidus is Rome. Ugly and awful, and it hurts. This is what he gets, what he deserves, for thinking it could be anything more.
Marcus reaches forwards to touch the bruises on his face and Esca jerks away. They stand there for a moment, looking at one another, until Marcus flicks his hand in dismissal.
"You can go," he says; Roman arrogance wrapping around him like a cloak.
I hate everything you stand for, Esca thinks.
He spits in Marcus's soup that evening at dinner.
Marcus, of course, doesn't even notice.
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I still don't like this fic. I wanted to write a story about Esca, in the filmverse. As the film changes the place in the story when Esca is freed, the only possibility of writing Marcus/Esca without being stuck to a very very very narrow time slot was to make the sex essentially nonconsensual, seeing as one of the partners could not refuse, irrespective of what his feelings were. I think I would have more of a problem writing a story that represented that as a positive thing, possibly something even kinky, rather than a story that featured a rape scene that was pretty nasty to read but was probably pretty realistic when dealing with most slaves actual sexual experiences, given human nature.
But I still don't like this one. Must write a happy, non.kinky fic...
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Went and read your musings, and thought they were really to the point. Not sure what I think on the topic at the moment, but thought this was a fine bit of writing.
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