getaapologist

[getaapologist]

Fic request : reader taking care of San after he returns home

A/N: I hope this is acceptable! I'm not sure how I feel about the back two thirds. But it's here.

Routines in the Night

Pairing: Sam [Warfare] x reader

Summary: Sam is trying to work at being steadier on his feet. He's trying to hide it.

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight mention of gore.

Lying still hurt. The thought of getting up hurt more. But Sam did it anyway, careful of your arm slung over his belly. Careful not to wake you. Not wanting to bring you into his ceaseless pattern of insomnia since being shipped back.

At least there was a chance of being productive with this limbo. Stuck between sleep and true wakefulness, lost in thoughts he’d rather not revisit. They lingered in the corners of the rooms like ghosts.

The sun, almost like the moon, hanging ominously. Power lines twisted and tangled, far too much slack. The mincemeat of–

No. Skip that.

Tap, tap, tap. 

Every internal sound was shockingly loud, uncomfortably so. Everything else, inaudible. Like being submerged. 

He knew his brain had been kind, in a way. Holding back the tsunami of pain that was about to come his way until he was aware enough to receive it. He should have passed out. He wished he had passed out. But he hadn’t. 

And now everything else just hurt… less. Stubbing a toe? Negligible. Slicing open a finger while attempting to dice an onion with his leg shaking? Just a papercut–

Brock. 

He should call him. Check in.

Not at this hour.

Sam moved slowly, taking cautious steps up and down the hall. It was just narrow enough for him to reach out and have his fingertips slightly touching the white walls. He was careful to avoid the picture frames as he went, attempting to stay balanced. As he turned on his heel, he froze, a twinge of pain shooting up his spine.

Breathe. 

Each moment he spent on his bad leg caused it to tremble, a wave of tension and sweat washing down over his shoulders and back. Nausea just on the fringes of his awareness.

He knew he was pushing past reasonable limits. He should have stopped a while ago. But all he could think of was that concerned look you’d get in your eyes anytime he tried to move. 

He wasn’t helpless. He was a frogman. Frogman Sam. This was nothing. Just something to get himself over. 

Like lying in the surf, sun gone down. Skin so cold it was numb, couldn’t feel the brothers he was linked up with. Waiting for that next wave. 

Do you breathe now? Or will that breath be full of saltwater? What about now? 

It’s cold. Too cold. Ice. Shivering, shaking. Core temperature dropping with each passing minute. Sand everywhere, rubbing like high grit against his skin with each passing wave.

He leaned heavily against the wall, nudging a frame nearly off its nail. It swung, coming back to ghost along his cheek. He was on his bad side, the very idea of pushing off with that leg feeling impossible. He would have to fall. There was no way he was pushing himself back up.

This was it, seafoam filling his mouth, the salt bitter and overwhelming. He would drown here. Just couldn’t cut it. That’s what they’d say. Any moment, the instructor would drag him out. 

Culled.

Somewhere down the line, someone started singing. Sam could hardly hear it, his ears below the waterline. He sputtered and strained to lift his neck up just enough. And soon others started to join in, occasionally cut off as another wave broke overtop of them. But then there was a chorus. And Erik squeezed his arm with his own—

“Sam?” 

Your voice was full of sleep. He felt shame for how grateful he was that you’d woken up. 

“What are you doing? You could’ve asked me to help you, you know.”

He didn’t want to wake you, couldn’t bear to. He didn’t want you to know about this. 

“I know.”

And then your hands are on him, helping to support some of his weight. He’s put back on equal footing, able to use you like a crutch to get back to bed. 

You lean over him, eyes studying him, full of questions you won’t ask. 

“Did you need something?”

“What?” he mumbled, eyes falling shut as his thigh was freed of his weight.

“From the kitchen?”

“Nothing,” he sighed, brows furrowing.

“Are you sure?”

“Just,” he paused, breathing deeply before opening his eyes. “Can you just come back to bed?”

Your soft smile soothed the ache in his brain. There was a gentle touch to his cheek that quickly disappeared. The bed dipped, the covers lifted, and a hand made its way onto his chest. 

“You were at it for a lot longer tonight.”

He looked over at you, frowning. You weren’t supposed to know. Had he done that bad of a job hiding it? “What?”

You turned to look up at him, hand sliding up to rest at the side of his neck. “You really think I don’t notice you getting up every night?”

Heat fills his face. He should be angry, should be asking why you never said anything. But he doesn’t. Because he already knows why. 

To preserve what’s left of his ego, his confidence in himself. Because you know him.

You love him.

“It’s okay, you know. If you need to work through it.”

It was a quiet, calm reassurance. One that under normal circumstances he would’ve fought. But not tonight.

“I know, baby.” He pulled you into his chest, pressing his lips to the top of your head, letting his eyes close. “I didn’t know, I’ve been keeping you up all night, I’m sorry–”

“Sam, don’t.”

“That was the last thing I wanted–”

“Hey,” you interrupted, sitting up, leaning down over him. 

He stopped speaking as your hand pressed to his cheek, his distress arrested in his throat as he looked up into your eyes.

“If it bothered me, I would have said something.”

You raised your eyebrows as his mouth opened, a clear retort ready to be released. After a second or two, he closed it.

“I just don’t want you to be tired, like I am.” 

You scoffed. “It’s part of the deal. Isn’t that what you told me? When you tried to warn me off you?”

He sighed.

His memory of anything related to you was so vivid, it was impossible not to have the image of you filling his mind, all dressed up and cute for him, looking up at him with concern in your eyes.

The noise of cars passing, tires treading through rainwater puddles working hard to drown out the conversation. A gentle breeze whipping your hair into your face.

“You need to know what you’re getting yourself into. I’m a difficult bastard. I’m away all the time. And when I come back, it takes adjusting. I really don’t want to put you through all that. My job and me? We’re a package deal. I need you to truly understand what you’re asking for.”

He wasn’t sure why he was fighting this so hard. 

Maybe he didn’t want to risk you walking out on him when he’d gotten too comfortable having you around. Or when he might need you most.

“You’re not gonna scare me off that easily, Sam.”

Your smile soothed his anxieties, effortlessly.

And it was the same smile you wore now.

Understanding.

“Get some rest, Sam. We can talk in the morning, if you feel like it.”

You settled in beside him without waiting for an answer. He didn’t think he needed to provide it. 

Minutes passed. A comfortable silence settled in. He paid attention to the way your fingers curled around his side, along his ribs. 

Sleep began to pull him deep. And as he floated in the tide, you anchored him to the shore.

[getaapologist]

i've finally completed this work.

[getaapologist]

"I think you want to find all layers of a person. I mean, the attempts is to try and really understand a person and all their complexity. We wanted them to be dangerous and shocking, both in their villainy, but also in their desparation in their humanity. Yeah, I think it's very real to be both incredibly scared and also really threatening to other people. I think any person possesses both possibilities."

Fred Hechinger on Emperor Caracalla & Emperor Geta: meristation

[getaapologist]

Geta's therapy hour was delightful! I love that he will now have a line of prospective wives at the Palace. Lucky him. (And one prospective wife for Caracalla too. sdakghfg I can only imagine how he felt to read that one.)

Thanks for a lovely time!

<3333333

Thank you!

Yes, it is becoming a problem. As you can imagine, now that word has spread, any eligible lady has been visiting the palace gates, trying to seek an audience with the Emperors. It's a tiresome task, turning them away!

I feel I deserve a raise.

[getaapologist]

kinda wanna be his concubine in crime

[getaapologist]

Cece!! Can I please request some Michael fluff? 🫶 I can’t stop thinking about him rolling cigarettes, there is honestly something Wrong with me

(I can’t send asks from my sideblog for some reason and I’m so mad)

Amber Leaf

michael (hoard) x fem!reader

word count: 1.6k+

summary: michael teaches you how to roll a cigarette

warnings: none? cigarettes? idk don’t smoke; it’s kinda hot but it ain’t worth the death sentence.

notes: the loml has made his debut to my blog lmao— also i’m not from the UK bro, i tried my best. big thanks to @prettycalla @bumblebeeswrite and @keeryhours for reading this over! and big thank you to @peachyproserpina for editing this for me.

The late afternoon haze is something of your favorite time of day; quiet, sunshine bleeding lazy stripes across the bed, the rumble of a cheap box fan in the corner, and Michael spread out on the floor like he pays the rent for your shoebox with a toilet. He’s shirtless, hair a bit of a mess and still damp from his after shift shower, his socks are on but they’re mismatched, with a pouch of Amber Leaf tucked beside his right thigh, slightly crumpled rolling papers scattered right along beside it. 

You’re stretched out on your stomach, facing him as you watch him from the bed. Your head was pressed against a pillow you’d thrown down there hours ago. You’re doing absolutely nothing but kicking your feet and enjoying the view that’s been offered to you. He’s got that stupid little look of concentration on his face— tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth, jaw clenched just a bit, brow furrowed— like he’s solving a complicated equation instead of just rolling a cigarette like he does every day. It should not be this attractive.

“Y’know,” you mumble, raising up on your elbows, “if the bins thing doesn’t work out, you could charge for this.”

Michael looks up, eyebrows raised as he lets a chuckle fall from his lips, paper still halfway rolled. “For rollin’ cigarettes?”

“For letting people watch you roll cigarettes. It’s porn, basically.” You drop your eyes from his, suddenly very interested in the health of your nails and cuticles. 

A grin spreads across his face. You love when he smiles like that, because there was a time that he didn’t. There was a time where every small joke would wipe that smile right off his face and send him back to thoughts of his past relationships. Or when you’d be just a little too quiet for too long, and it’d set off a time bomb in his brain. So seeing him so calm, so in love, reminds you that he feels so safe and happy to just… let go. He shakes his head a little, focusing down on the paper in his hand. “Jesus. You’re worse than I am.”

“You’re the one spread out on the floor in your briefs. I’m merely just observing.” You laugh softly, letting your own sock clad feet lock at the ankle for a moment. Michael’s eyes are drifting upwards at that moment. He’s quiet as he lets them rake over the expanse of your long legs, calves and thighs on full display in the shorts you were wearing. Trailing his gaze further, your shirt was rucked up a bit, revealing a sliver of skin at your waist. His mind races for a moment, thinking of just last night when his hands would find themselves there. And finally he meets your eyes. Glinting in the sunlight, teasing him. Making him remember just how much he loves you. And as quick as you lock gazes, he’s diverting it down— finishing the roll and gently tucking it behind his ear. He doesn’t move for a second, he just keeps looking at you, that little grin toying at his lips again. He looks like he’s deciding what to say next.

“Think you’ve got a few screws loose upstairs, babe,” he says finally, clasping his hands together and stretching his arms out in front of him. You can’t help admire the way his skin pulls taught over his muscles, the way that tattoo shifts as he does. You indulge. Devour, take every second you can to memorize the swell of his shoulders, the strength in his arms, the broadness of his chest. A little breath may have caught in your throat before he clears his and begins to speak, “Can’t leave me alone five minutes without makin’ it weird.”

You roll your eyes, letting out a mock sigh as you wave your hand at him dismissively, “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just bored.”

“Yeah?” He gets to his feet in one messy, inelegant motion. Arms pressed against the floor to heave himself up, before he climbs onto the bed like a cat with absolutely no spatial awareness. “Lyin’ there makin’ heart eyes at me, sayin’ it’s boredom. Fuckin’ rude.” You don’t stop him when he rolls you over to your back and wedges himself half on top of you. His hips pinning yours to the bed, his hands bracketing your shoulders. It’s all sharp knees and elbows. The smell of tobacco clinging to him heavily. One of his hands slides underneath you, finding the small of your back— pressing against it like it lives there. Your stomach tight against his.

“I wasn’t making heart eyes,” you groan, eyes fluttering closed and your nose scrunching as he presses a kiss to your temple.

“You were.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were. It’s alright.” His lips move downward and he kisses the tip of your nose now, a playful glint in his eyes. “S’a bit pathetic, but sweet.”

You shove him off of you, a bit harder than you had intended. And he immediately falls off the bed. He rolls off the side in slow motion, fake gasping through a laugh the whole way down, and then he thuds onto the carpet and groans extra loudly.

“Christ,” he says. “You’re violent.”

“And you’re annoying. Guess it makes us even.”

He peeks back over the edge of the bed, slinging his forearm and elbow up against the mattress. His opposite hand behind him, against the floor, holding him in a sitting position. He’s grinning. Now he’s the one with heart eyes. “You love it.”

And you really do. God help you, you do. You love everything about him, and unfortunately for you that gives him the upper hand. You watch as he drags himself up and props his back up against the wall again. Stretching over to pull that little tobacco pouch back into his lap. He shakes it a little, rolls his neck and shoulders until you hear the distinct pop of his joints.

“Want me to roll you one?” he asks absently, next reaching for his papers.

You give him a confused look. “I don’t smoke, Michael.”

“I didn’t ask if you smoked, I asked if you wanted one.” He grins, sending a wink over your way as he bites down on the corner of a crumpled up paper. “Keeps your hands busy. Or makes you look cool. Or summat.” His eyes aren’t on you anymore, busy with the pouch in his lap instead. 

You hum thoughtfully and turn onto your side to face him better, propping yourself up on an arm. “Can you teach me?”

Michael’s motions stop, his eyes darting up from his lap to yours— and then he blinks. “Teach you what?”

“To roll one.”

He freezes like your words just set sparks flying in his brain. Like every wire in there crossed and started misfiring at the same time. Then he breaks into the biggest, brightest, stupidest grin you’ve ever seen. It’s like you’ve given him the greatest gift a person could offer. “Fuckin’ yes, I can teach you,” he says, already moving to the edge of the bed, dragging his supplies with him. “Come here. Sit up. You’ve gotta get your thumbs in the right position or it all goes to shit.”

You sit cross-legged on the bed while he kneels at the side in front of you, body practically shaking with how excited he was. He places the pouch of Amber Leaf in your lap and flicks his eyes up to you, tongue darting out to wet his lips before he begins to speak. “Alright, first things first,” he says. “You ever seen anyone do this before?”

“I’ve seen you do it,” you roll your eyes at the question, huffing out your answer. 

“Right, but did you pay attention? Or were you just eye-fucking me from across the room like usual?”

You sigh heavily, letting your eyes flutter closed for just a moment— biting back a smile, a bit of feigned annoyance in your tone. “Michael.”

“I’m just askin’!” He laughs and then begins to walk you through it step by step, correcting your clumsy fingers with gentle over-the-hand touches and a hell of a lot of swearing when you drop the paper or spill too much tobacco onto your linen bedspread. “Jesus Christ, do it gently, you’re not stuffing a fuckin’ turkey—” He’s grumbling under his breath, trying to scoop up the little bits of loose leaf threatening to coat your carpet. 

“Michael!” 

He laughs, dumping what he had gathered in his hand back into the pouch, “Alright, alright! You’re doin’ great, babe, really. Ten outta ten. No notes… Except everything you just did.”

But he’s patient with you, and his hands are so warm when they close over yours to show you again. You catch those pretty lips tugging up into a smile every time you giggle to yourself.

Eventually, you get one rolled. It’s lumpy and a little tragic, but it holds together. And Michael just beams at you like you’ve just painted the Mona Lisa. “Look at that! Fuckin’ beautiful. I’m so proud.”

You hand it to him, heat blooming out from the center of your chest and creeping up your neck. “Here. A gift for you, my love.” You grin, “Straight from my terrible hands to your very sexy mouth.”

Michael takes it, inspects it with a curt nod and then sticks it behind his other ear, he leans forward a bit more on the bed, reaching out to cup your face in those warm hands. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever found in a bed, d’you know that?” he says, chuckling softly, “now i’ve got ya makin rollies for me, you’re a dream.”

You laugh, a hand coming up to rest against his own cheek as he now fully pushes himself up onto your mattress, chasing the press of your lips. You’re giggling, back hitting the sheets, that pouch of Amber Leaf long forgotten. It’s just you, and Michael, and a badly rolled cigarette tucked behind his ear. 

tags ;; @prettycalla @getaapologist

[getaapologist]

Therapist Geta took me out! So good, A+, no notes

I’m dying THANK YOU so much 😭

[getaapologist]

Ngl the therapy shenanigans tonight have been a HIGHLIGHT of this fandom. I am Entertained. Thank you for this concept I'm slightly in love. AND I DID PRINT THE PROMO PIC THE OTHER NIGHT TOO but life has lifed entirely too much for me to do anything about it however it is beautiful. (also if you ever feel like doing this again and need to borrow a Caracalla, I have one, and a keyboard and access to Photoshop.)

I was joking around about doing Caracalla 😭 I fear I wouldn’t capture him super well but maybe someone else will! I will think about it 👀

Thank you so much, omg I’m not worthy. I had a lot of fun with these 🥰

I’m so glad you enjoyed it!

[getaapologist]

Oh my goodness gracious

POOKIE IS SO CUTE

I LOVED THIS SO MUCH! god he’s so adorable

Thank you so much for writing him. I don’t have adequate words.

Okay, okay, okay.

I am requesting our Petulant Prince Paul Petrovich!

I'm thinking "why are you looking at me like that?" but bratty. Any other details I leave to you!

If you feel up to it!

(you are a saint!)

YOU KNOW YOU LIKE IT | PRINCE PAUL PETROVICH

summary: once again, Prince Paul finds your attitude appalling.

cw: Mild language, suggestive themes, power dynamics (though mostly playful), Paul being his usual slightly clueless self.

Also Tara I’m so sorry I feel I fucked this one up so bad but I don’t have the heart to redo it.

The clatter of silverware against porcelain echoed in the cavernous dining hall, so much different to the tense silence that had settled between you and Prince Paul. You’d been seated across from him at the seemingly endless table for what felt like an eternity, forced into this uncomfortable proximity by his mother’s latest attempt at… well, you weren't entirely sure what exactly she was attempting. Socialization? Torture? It often felt like a blurry line.

You’d been pointedly ignoring him, more engrossed in meticulously arranging the peas on your plate than engaging in the polite, vapid conversation swirling around you. But you could feel his gaze. It was like a persistent fly buzzing just out of reach, irritating and impossible to swat away.

Finally, your carefully constructed wall of indifference crumbled. You snapped your head up, your eyes locking with his. His were wide, a curious furrow in his brow, and there was a hesitant sort of… something… flickering within them.

“Well?” you drawled, your voice cutting through the low murmur of the other diners. “Are you going to stare all day, or do you have something to say?” You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed, a deliberately challenging glint in your eyes. “Because if you’re waiting for me to suddenly become fascinating, you might be here a while.”

A flush crept up his neck, staining his pale cheeks a delicate pink. He blinked, seemingly startled by your directness. “I… I wasn’t staring,” he stammered, his gaze flicking away for a moment before returning to you, a touch more guarded this time.

You raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Oh really? Because my peripheral vision suggests otherwise. Unless there’s a particularly captivating breadcrumb behind me that I’ve somehow missed?”

A nervous cough escaped him. He fiddled with the stem of his wine glass, his large hands looking clumsy. “No, of course not. I just… I was… observing.”

“Observing?” you scoffed, a smirk playing on your lips. “How utterly thrilling for me. And what profound insights have your extensive observations yielded, your Highness?” You laced the title with a saccharine sweetness that clearly didn’t escape him.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I just… you seem… different.”

“Different from what?” you challenged, your tone sharp. “The gaggle of simpering ladies fawning over your every awkward utterance? Yes, I suppose I am.”

His eyes widened again, this time with a hint of hurt. “I didn’t mean…”

“Didn’t you?” you interrupted, not letting him off the hook. “Because it certainly sounded like you did. So, enlighten me, Prince Paul. What exactly is so different about me that warrants such intense scrutiny?”

He hesitated, his gaze darting around the room as if searching for an escape route. When he finally looked back at you, there was a flicker of something new in his eyes, a spark of… defiance? Or perhaps just desperation.

“You… you don’t try to please,” he said softly, almost to himself.

You blinked, momentarily thrown off by his unexpected honesty. “Well, isn’t that a tragedy?” you retorted, recovering quickly. “Should I start curtsying more deeply? Perhaps compose an ode to your surprisingly voluminous trousers?”

A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, but you caught it. Interesting.

“No,” he said, his voice a little stronger now. “No, don’t do that.”

“Then what do you want?” you asked, leaning forward slightly, intrigued despite yourself.

He seemed to consider this for a long moment, his gaze fixed on you, a strange intensity in his expression. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “But you… you say what you think. You don’t… you don’t hide.”

“And you find that… unsettling?”

“No,” he said quickly. “No, not unsettling. Just… unexpected.”

“Perhaps you should try it sometime,” you suggested, a playful edge creeping into your voice. “It’s rather liberating. Though I doubt your mother would approve of you telling her exactly what you think of her latest matchmaking schemes.”

The corner of his mouth twitched again. “No,” he agreed quietly. “She wouldn’t.”

A comfortable silence settled between you for a moment, the tension having eased slightly. You picked at your food again, but you could still feel his gaze on you, though it felt less like an interrogation now and more like… curiosity.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence, your tone less confrontational this time. “Now that your intense observation period is over, did you have anything else you wanted to ‘observe’?”

He hesitated, then met your gaze, a hint of a genuine smile finally gracing his lips. “Perhaps… perhaps I could observe you telling me about yourself. If you wouldn’t find that too… unthrilling.”

You considered this, a slow smile spreading across your own face. “Depends, Prince Paul. Are you prepared for what you might find?”

His smile widened a fraction. “I… I think so.”

The rest of the meal passed with a different kind of tension in the air, a charged undercurrent of something new and unexpected. You found yourself actually talking to him, your usual sharp edges softened slightly by his surprisingly earnest interest. He asked clumsy questions, but there was a genuine curiosity behind them, a refreshing change from the practiced politeness of the other courtiers.

Later that evening, you found yourself in the palace gardens, seeking a moment of solitude amidst the endless social obligations. The air was cool and fragrant with the scent of night-blooming jasmine. You were tracing the intricate patterns of a stone fountain when you heard a hesitant voice behind you.

“You’re… you’re out here alone.”

You turned to see Paul standing a few feet away, looking slightly lost in the vastness of the gardens.

“And you’re… following me?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He flushed again. “No! I mean… I just… I saw you leave the ballroom.”

“Couldn’t handle any more forced merriment?”

He nodded sheepishly. “It’s… a lot.”

“Tell me about it,” you muttered, turning back to the fountain.

A moment of silence stretched between you before he spoke again. “You… you didn’t answer my question earlier.”

“Which one was that?”

“About what I might find if I got to know you.”

You hesitated, a flicker of vulnerability surfacing beneath your usual bravado. “You might find I’m not as… different… as you think. Or you might find I’m far worse.”

He took a step closer. “I doubt you could be worse.”

You scoffed softly. “Oh, trust me, Prince Paul. You have no idea.”

He took another step, closing the distance between you. The moonlight cast long shadows, highlighting the awkward angles of his face. His gaze was earnest, searching.

“Then… show me,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Your breath caught in your throat. This was unexpected. This bumbling, slightly clueless prince was looking at you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

“Why?” you asked, your voice a little breathless. “Why would you want that?”

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before returning to yours. “Because… because I think… I think the ‘different’ parts of you… are the most interesting.”

You stared at him, surprised by his directness. It was a far cry from the stammering, uncertain prince from the dinner table.

“And what if those ‘interesting’ parts are sharp?” you warned. “What if they prick?”

He took another step closer, until he was standing just inches away. His gaze didn’t waver. “Then… I’ll be careful.”

The air crackled with a tension that was entirely different from the awkwardness of earlier. It was a pull, a magnetic force drawing you closer. You could feel his breath on your face, see the faint flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

“You’re looking at me like that again,” you murmured, your voice husky.

“Like what?” he breathed, his gaze dropping to your lips.

“Like you… like you want something.”

A slow smile spread across his face, a genuine, unguarded smile that transformed his features. “Maybe I do.”

He reached out a tentative hand, his fingers brushing against yours. The touch sent a shiver down your spine.

“And what if I want something too, Prince Paul?” you whispered, your eyes locked on his.

His thumb gently stroked the back of your hand. “Then… perhaps we can find out together.”

The silence stretched again, but this time it was thick with unspoken desires, with the promise of something new and unknown. The bratty challenge you’d thrown down at dinner had somehow led to this, to a quiet intimacy under the moonlight with a prince who was far more intriguing than you’d ever given him credit for. And as he leaned in closer, his gaze still fixed on yours, you couldn’t help but wonder where this unexpected turn of events might lead. Maybe, just maybe, being different wasn’t so bad after all. Especially when it caught the eye of a certain bewildered prince.

[getaapologist]

Most esteemed Emperor,

I do hope that this correspondence finds you well in these most inauspicious times.

I seek your guidance on matters of the heart. I have my foolish sights set on one in much loftier a position than my own, and yet I cannot stop myself from dreaming. I know that I will only drive myself to ruin if I continue in such a manner, but I have clearly fallen out of favour with the Gods, as Venus has cursed me with such vivid affections.

All of this to say, would you mind passing this along to your brother? I would be most grateful.

With humblest regards,

One of your many loyal subjects

My dear citizen, I am hurt. It is a shock that you do not admire me. 

No matter, I am kind, capable of generosity. I will consider your words and I… may pass this note along to my brother. If he should read it or not, that is his business. But I will put in a good word, I suppose. You do sound particularly desperate.

Do you like monkeys? You will have to share his attention with one. I promise there is no such thing as peace with that wretched creature screeching and grooming and jumping onto your shoulder unbidden–

Forgive me. You did ask a question, after all. Do not anticipate a response from him, he is dreadful at completing any correspondence we ask of him. Too wrapped up in being fitted for clothes, or trawling the markets for some new oddity to bring home. 

I do wonder if you should instead turn your ire towards Cupid, for his arrow surely has given you this affliction. It is not… fathomable, otherwise. I do feel a responsibility to warn you off him, but…

I wish to see him happy. I’m not sure he’s interested in a companionship, but I would not wish to be in the way of it if he is. He doesn’t talk to me of such things, nor I, him. But we are intended to rule together, and if I one day might find a wife, I suppose he should as well. 

Why don’t you come to the palace, as my guest, and I can try to introduce you. If he takes an interest, then I have done a good deed. If he does not, perhaps meeting him might tamp down those feelings you suffer from.

Good luck, citizen, you will need it.

Publius Septimius Geta

[getaapologist]

hello, my dear emperor

i’m just thinking, what can a girl do when she’s in love with her caesar?

Oh my, Sage, you sure know how to surprise your Emperor. I do hope you mean me. It would be a bit embarrassing if you meant Caracalla…

Well, to address your lovely note, what can you do? I don’t suppose you saw me at the arena? Or when passing through the city? During this latest Lupercalia, perhaps? Yes, that would have been quite a sight for you.

You can continue to send me letters, of course. I will not tell you how joyful I was upon hearing your words read aloud by my dutiful scribe.

Do you… pine? You think of your Emperor often? I must admit, it is quite flattering to consider such things. Like what reaction you might have upon receiving this response.

Do you think I am handsome? I would expect anyone to be thinking such things, but you… you say you are in love? Those are serious words.

I suppose you are aware by now of my interest in finding a wife. I do suspect based on the quality of the paper you’ve written your note on that you might not live too far from the Hill. I would like to extend an invitation. Join me, only me, for a dinner. 

I am quite curious if your strong affections will hold up once you actually meet me. I will try to temper my expectations, as I know I am… difficult.

And if you meant Caracalla… do not tell me. Just refuse the invitation and save us all the embarrassment.

Publius Septimius Geta

[getaapologist]

For the Geta hour!

Just want to say... I adore you and your maliciousness and your cunning mind, your majesty. No one that has ever gone anywhere in the world has done so by playing nice ;)

That is certainly an interesting response, I did not expect such… taste. I cannot take all of the credit, dear subject, but perhaps I can, just this once. 

It is not the Caracalla hour, after all.

You flatter me greatly. And you are indeed correct. It takes a great deal of ruthlessness to run an Empire, as you can imagine. 

There are always threats, outside challengers. Always someone who imagines they could be doing better, whatever form that takes.

And everyone always wants something. It’s exhausting. But you must remain on your toes at all times, or someone may see fit to come up behind you, and that’s it. It’s over. 

It is the one thing our father instilled in us that wasn’t entirely horrible. Be careful who you trust. And I plan to.

Thank you, citizen. You have given me things to think about.

Publius Septimius Geta

[getaapologist]

Dear Emperor Geta, I think I accidentally annoyed a person at work. What should I do?

Well, dear subject, I would ask you… why do you care?

Is it really such a problem? Surely if anyone gets upset, it’s their issue. Of course, I don’t have any idea of what occurred, but it can’t be that serious, can it? Just ignore them. Do not bother yourself with what they may think. 

As much as it bothers me to suggest it, perhaps you should be more like Caracalla when it comes to this? Believe me, you do not want his other attributes.

‘Calla annoys me frequently, and he just continues on as though nothing happened. The amount of times I am left fuming after something he’s done, or said… It’s intolerable. Sometimes all he has to do is laugh, and I can feel my anger rising. 

I fear if I get started I will never stop complaining, so I will end this here, citizen.

I do not let it fester. Because it would do no good, and he will never be sorry for it. Perhaps this person feels similarly.

Publius Septimius Geta

[getaapologist]

You are so deserving of love, no matter what the empire thinks.

Oh, sweet citizen, that is nice of you to say. But do not worry, they love me even if they cannot voice it properly. It is unconditional, because without Caracalla and I, there would be nothing. 

Our Empire is vast, and grows each day. We have so many subjects, it is daunting at times. 

But still we rise each morning and hear of the goings-on from the Senators. You are well-represented, though I am loath to admit it.

Now, if you are speaking to my lack of a wife, I must assure you, the search is on, I simply haven’t found her yet. 

I am in no rush, however. I have enough to deal with as it is, and I have my whole life to search. I would not settle for anything less than perfect.

It is what I deserve, don’t you agree?

Publius Septimius Geta

[getaapologist]

Hey Geta,

You wearin' anything under that pretty little dress? 😉

My, my, citizen, you cut right to the chase. And this interests you, why? You think of your Emperor in such a manner? 

And no name, what a shame. It is no matter, citizen. I may not be as… open as my brother is, but I am perfectly capable of discussing such things.

Have you ever been in Rome in the summer? Unfortunately for your wild imagination, I must shatter the illusion and tell you that during most months, there must be some sort of subligacula or you will chafe yourself to death.

It is a pain I would wish on my worst enemies.

That is not to say on more comfortable days, the breeze is not… tempting.

I will speak not of the winter, citizen. You must go back to using your lewd imagination.

Publius Septimius Geta

[getaapologist]

Dearest, Shiniest Emperor,

I really need to up my accessorizing game, but it's so confusing. How many rings is too many rings? Do I go cuffs or bangles? Do jade and ruby jewels clash? Please, help me!

My dear, dear citizen, you have come to the right place. Do not stress yourself over rules or expectations.

Do you like the piece? If the answer is yes, you wear it. 

I would not go with more than two necklaces at a time as that can get a bit precarious. I like to match my metal with the color of my clothes that day. Am I wearing gold, or silver? That influences the jewelry choices I make. Gold gets cuffs. Silver gets bangles. There’s a whole process, citizen. It can get complicated, I won’t lie to you.

Rings? On every finger. The color or size of the stones does not matter as you are wearing them to display your wealth, your power. 

My favorite of my rings is a big flat red stone that I match with Caracalla, we both have one. Do look out for it the next time you see me about.

You know what? You should come visit, bring your jewels. I will show you how they are meant to be worn. There are none that can say they were styled by me, your Emperor. Let you be the first.

Publius Septimius Geta

[getaapologist]

Dear Emperor Geta,

I've been having trouble sleeping at night. Any tips?

Ah, my citizen, I see that Somnus eludes you as well? I will tell you that my healers have offered all manner of solutions and tinctures to me, but they are not always effective. 

Usually, I am burdened by something that keeps me awake in the night. Perhaps you should attempt to unburden yourself. Sometimes I order a servant to sit at my bedside and listen to all my woes from the day. Perhaps you could also try this.

There are also times I cannot sleep because I am uncomfortable. Have you attempted to change your sleeping arrangements? Turn your bed a different way? Not you, of course, you can ask someone to do that for you. 

And if that fails you, there is another third thing, but I would not discuss it here…

Anyways, I do hope you get sleep soon, citizen.

Publius Septimius Geta