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pedroschka · 4 days ago

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𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒

Emperor Geta x fem!reader, minors dni!

summary: Emperor Geta was a selfish lover. He expected you to give him everything, every thread of your being, body, and soul. Yet he refused to do the same. Why would he? He was the Emperor and you were nothing but his concubine, not too long ago you were a common whore that he just happen to take a liking to, just a vessel for his satisfaction. So why was his mind suddenly screaming for him to kneel before you, to let your thighs straddle his face until he suffocates? warnings/tags: smut, mention of an orgy in the beginning, mention of exhibitionism, generally ancient Rome things, Emperor Geta tries to act unbothered but is smitten for his concubine, facesitting, oral (f! receiving), p in v, kind of rough, sub/dom dynamics (obviously), implied abuse, potentially out of character, not accurate to the Gladiator franchise...

a/n: This man is consuming my thoughts. This is me basically pushing my pussy drunk Geta agenda. I love the idea of Emperor Geta being arrogant and selfish but caving at the idea of hearing her scream and moan as loudly as that woman. 'Mae Columba' means my dove, 'Corculum' means sweetheart. Also, this is my first time writing this man

tags: @teechallas-blog @ladynoonwraith @quuinyoung @ghostinhours @slasherflickchick @marn13s-vilewhispers @munsongirl48 @getas-empress @hillarymurray4 @cleo-2345 @lookingformuses @meganfoxismywife @claa-01 @funsquadgoalzz-blog w/c: 3.3k English is not my first language. Sorry for any mistakes I make. I tried present tense for the first time.

── ୨ৎ

Your thin tunic provides you with little to no warmth, yet you weren't cold even on this chilly night.

Your Emperor's hand runs up and down your right side, his fingers keep grazing your nipple but he is too focused on conversing with Macrinus to notice the impact of his action.

Your eyes wander around the room, from the people who drank, smoked, and laughed, too gone to do anything other than that, to the numerous naked, sweaty bodies intertwined with each other in the most intimate way that was humanly possible.

Yet there was nothing intimate about what you observe. It was primal and carnal, most of them didn't even look like people anymore, the scene becoming too animalistic and raw.

These types of gatherings were rather common in the Palatine and you have gotten used to settings like this one. But this time you couldn't take your eyes off of two people. Two prostitutes amongst the crowd of moving bodies caught your attention.

A woman sitting on top of a man, on his face… The expression of pure bliss she had looks like it was taken out of a vulgar painting, a carefully crafted sculpture depicting the most euphoric moment of one's life. The man's tongue works meticulously on the woman’s cunt making her scream and moan like she was touched by the god's themselves.

The sight was enough for your breath to get caught in your throat.

That made Emperor Geta turn with a frown, some wine dripping from his full lips. You don’t notice that his eyes travel the path of your gaze, focusing on the same pair as you.

You snap back to reality when his hand gripped your thigh. If you weren't used to his rough touches you would yelp in pain.

When you meet his eyes, there's something behind them that makes you pause. Without a second glance, he turns back to his conversation, leaving you confused. But you don’t miss the way his hand slides further between your legs, almost teasingly.

It wasn't unusual for him to touch you in front of everyone, be it in these types of events or when the gladiator fights bored him to the point where he ordered you to get on your knees and ‘entertain’ him yourself.

But this time, his thumb merely grazes the thin fabric of your tunic between your legs as his hands grip your exposed thigh. Possessively.

Your mind started to race. Did you anger him? Was he upset?

You are in a room filled with naked bodies fucking each other like animals and it never angered him before when you watched. Sometimes you would even comment how ‘sloppy’ their technique was and he would chuckle. So what happened now?

You lean on his side, sliding your hand to his cheek, caressing it gently. He doesn’t react but he doesn’t push you away either. That feels like a win, an opening.

After being his concubine for so long you learned how to behave around him, how to slither your way out of trouble in case you had upset him.

A little touch here, a kiss there, a plea for forgiveness honeyed with praises about how good he is to you along with some dick sucking usually does the trick.

Geta was an emperor but he was also a man with a very big ego. You quickly understood that as much as it is a nuisance it could also become an advantage.

By the time you followed him to his chambers, it was well past midnight.

He had made it a habit to share a bed with you, not even the guards looked surprised anymore.

He walks inside the moment the guards open the heavy doors. He reaches for his golden belt with a heavy sigh but you quickly stop him. “Let me, my Emperor.” You speak, your voice soft. You quickly approach him and meet his stern gaze, waiting for his approval.

Geta lets go of the belt, letting his arms fall to his sides. He looks spent and tired from the long day but you could sense something else frustrating him.

Carefully, you undo his belt, feeling his shoulders relax at the loss of the heavy material. Your eyes travel up his body before finally meeting his gaze through your lashes but you are met with the same cold look from before.

You take a step back to settle the belt on the table. You aren’t sure if you should approach him again. You expected him to kiss you, to touch you while you were so close but he didn't do either. He just watched you with a raised brow and gritted teeth.

You avert your gaze, focusing on the detailed carvings of the table ignoring the fact that you had seen it a million times before.

You hear his sandals brush against the marble floor, making you shiver. You weren't sure what to expect, he hasn't looked this displeased with you in a long while.

“Mae Columba” ‘My dove’ he says, his voice barely above a whisper but it still held the authority of an Emperor. “Do you know why you wear such lavish cloths?” He asks, not expecting you to answer before continuing, his voice dropping “Why do you smell as good as you smell? Why do golden jewels hang from your ears and wrap around your wrists? Why you aren't passed around my soldiers like a common whore?”

He was right behind you now, his arms coming to cage you between him and the table.

His harsh words forced tears to collect on your lash line. You took a deep breath but your voice still quivered as you spoke. “Because you're the Emperor…”

“Because I'm the Emperor.” He repeats softly against your ear, yet there is no softness in his tone. “Then why do you wish for me to become someone else?”

“I don—”

“Lies!” He shouts, making you flinch away.

You don't dare to face him, remaining turned to him as his hands start to wander down your sides. “I saw how you looked at those filthy commoners…you were entranced, my dove”

“My Emperor I—”

“Have I not done enough for you?” He whispered, but his quiet tone gave you no comfort. His hands moved to your clothed chest, squeezing your breasts mercilessly.

A small whine escapes your lips, your back arching against him. “You gave me everything, my Emperor.” You manage to say through rugged breaths.

He hums pleased. “Clearly not enough since you wish to see me between your legs like a filthy whore.” He murmurs against your ear.

“No!” You yelp, grabbing his forearms after he squeezes your breasts particularly hard.

Your thighs meet in an attempt to soothe the aching between your legs. “I promise.”

“You promise?” He asks, his tone dripping with disbelief and mockery.

“Yes! I promise.” You reply quickly, desperation seeping out of your words.

“On the bed.” he commands lowly and you comply without words.

The bed was thrice the size of the bed you used to sleep in, soft with satin sheets and numerous pillows. A bed that an emperor deserved. You weren't sure if you deserved it, yet here you were, lying on the Emperor's sheets like you did many other times.

He looms over your lying figure eyes rolling down every curve of your body like a wolf eyeing a little lamb. His favorite little lamb.

The one that he never feasts upon but rather chases around until the poor thing is spent and exhausted and pliant for him to bite all he wants.

Geta’s hands find your ankles and he pulls you to him, earning a surprised yelp from you. He crawls to you, entrapping you between his arms once again.

He melts against your mouth, lips moving harshly against yours, refusing to give you a second to breathe. You cry loudly when his teeth sink into your bottom lip.

“My Emperor” you moan against his rough endeavors but he doesn’t stop, you aren’t sure if he even heard you. He was too busy squeezing your already bruising flesh, not even bothering to remove your tunic.

Red liquid escapes from the wound that Geta so eagerly opened. The metallic taste travels to your mouth but he doesn’t seem to mind, and as much as it scares you, neither do you. Instead, you claw at his back breathlessly repeating your words “My Emperor…Let me show you my devotion.”

Geta studies you, his big eyes making him look almost innocent under the dim candlelight.

His lips open to speak his mind, your spit and blood coating them but instead of speaking, he gently caresses your bottom lip with his thumb, smearing the blood.

What are these thoughts? These foolish ideas that plague his mind? His gaze couldn’t deter from your tearful eyes as he let his thumb run down your chin, the faint color of the blood following along.

You were so easy to break, to tear apart and carve as you pleased. He always did just that.

Yet you always came back.

You didn’t have a choice, he wasn’t foolish enough to forget that. But still, you looked at him with a particular dedication that Gate couldn’t quite comprehend.

Basically, involuntarily he whispers, letting his palm rest on the side of your face “You’ve proven your devotion, corculum. You’ve been so good…” Geta leans closer, his nose pressing your cheek. He breathes in your scent, fighting the urge to squeeze your face with his fingers.

Your breath hitches when he pushes his thumb past your inviting lips and he feels a moan threaten to spill when you sucked on his digit immediately. He couldn’t uncover any thoughts behind your eyes, only lust. Lust for him. Just like he lusted you.

Why is his breath coming out so short, why is his heart threatening to jump from his chest and into your arms? He isn’t even inside you yet and he feels like he can’t think properly.

You weren’t quiet during your shared activities but Geta was always too focused on his own selfish pleasure, rarely caring about yours.

But right now he feels the inexplicable urge to make you scream his name, to make everyone in the palace know, everyone in Rome, the urge to get on his knees and worship you just to get the blessing of your sounds in return.

Oh, you were sent by Venus herself, there was no doubt. There was no other explanation for his crazed thoughts.

The whine that he brings from you when he pulls his hand away burns something deep in his chest. He quickly yanks at his clothes, uncovering his naked, toned body.

Your eyes don’t dare to travel down but you find yourself on your fours, crawling to him. You press your lips to his stomach, tracing his toned body with your lips and tongue softly, teasingly.

A low growl leaves Geta from deep within his throat as he runs his hand through your hair, nearly gently before he grips your locks. He pulls your head back forcing your eyes to meet his, the sudden harshness causing you to freeze.

“You are an enchantress, aren’t you? You have turned me into a madman.” He mutters softly, his tone almost despairing as his blunt nails massage your scalp.

Looking up at him through your lashes you blink, unsure of what to say. Was this an indictment? It sounded more like a statement.

“I wouldn’t do such a thing, my Emperor.” You say softly.

He hums quietly, eyes falling to your legs and he has to swallow hard.

He has seen you like this so many times, and yet you left him speechless every time. From the first time he had bed you, you had left him speechless. Put a spell on him the moment he pushed his cock inside your warm, dripping cunt.

His mind told him to pound you against the mattress as hard as he could, so that every time your core throbbed tomorrow you would remember how vile it was for you to imagine him, your Emperor, between your thighs.

But his body betrayed him. He leans in, his bottom lip grazing your inner thigh.

“I don’t think you realize what you’re doing to me, mae columba” He whispers, so quietly that you could miss it if your senses weren’t so heightened.

He released a quivering breath before pressing his lips on your skin. You gasp at the action, gripping the smooth sheets. The feeling of your flushed skin against his lips was exhilarating, it was the beginning of something that he wasn’t sure he could control.

Without a second thought, his mouth starts to bruise your thighs fervently, his teeth plunging into your flesh like you were his last meal before the guillotine.

Your moans and cries fill the room and Geta’s heart as he continues to mark your thighs, his intensity matching a starved wolf.

He wanted more. He was insatiable, he was always insatiable.

With a swift movement, he flips the both of you. You yelp in surprise, as you land on his chest, your legs spread apart.

His head finds the soft mattress but he wouldn’t care even if it was the hard floor. All he could focus on was your clothed core, inches away from his face.

“My Emperor!” You begin. You weren’t sure what to say, how are you even supposed to react to such a scene?

Rome’s Emperor gazing at you between your thighs, looking as famished as ever.

“Quiet.” He growls, his arms coming to wrap around your thighs. His hands slowly travel up your body, dragging your tunic with his fingers revealing more of your skin.

Your naked cunt was inches away from his face, his breath hitting your soaked folds sending a shiver down your spine.

His eyes couldn’t leave your core, mouth watering at the sight. Impatient, you peel off the dress, revealing your naked body.

It was a pattern whenever you were around him. But this time it didn’t make your cheeks burn about being so vulnerable before his ravenous gaze. On the contrary, it made your chest flutter with satisfaction as you lay on top of one of Rome’s brutal Emperors.

No warning was given to you before he harshly pulled you down to him. His tongue lays flat against your pussy, emitting a desperate sound from you. Soon enough he was lost in the feeling of your wetness. There was no point in fighting your spell anymore, he was already hypnotized.

Your eyes can’t leave his face. The way he loses himself so eagerly forces your breath to become shallow and desparate.

His tongue laps on your cunt sloppily, and your juices run down his chin though he never wavers, not even for a second. His mouth worked against your folds like he wanted to consume you whole, to drain you of your essence.

“Gods!” You moan loudly, throwing your head back. “My Emperor!” You cry out.

He whimpers against your pussy, he fucking whimpers. You aren’t sure if you can hold on much longer after that. It seems like any fear or shame you had abandoned your body because you start to rock your hips against his face, his nose brushing against clit with every move.

“I can’t take it anymore, my Emperor—” you gasp, your body trembling uncontrollably.

He grabs your waist, his nails digging into your skin possesively. He pulls you even closer to him, if that is even possible, his tongue running over your folds callously.

Your climax came to you like a violent wave, your body shakes violently after your release. Geta doesn’t stop though, his tongue collecting your fluids even if you jolted and whined.

He only stopped when he had nothing else to take. Like always.

You fall to the side, your mouth agape as you pant frenziedly. Geta isn’t looking any better, his slick-covered lips are parted slightly and his chest rises and falls rapidly.

“Gods…” You breathe out.

Geta finally finds his strength again, moving to position himself above you. His burning body pressed against your side, his lips brushing your temple. “Where the gods between your legs, corculum?”

“That’s what it felt like” You whisper and he fought the urge to smirk.

“Turn around.” He orders lowly, the playfulness draining from his voice.

With all the strength left in you, you comply, turning around to lie on your chest. You gasp when the Emperor effortlessly lifts your thighs off the mattress.

You whine at the feeling of his hard cock brushing against your dripping cunt.

With one forceful push he’s inside your tight walls and you scream. Your nails rake at the satin sheets as he grunts at the warmness that envelops his cock. “You always feel so good, my dove. Like you were made for me” He groans, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

“P-perhaps I was” You moan, the sound muffled by the sheets, your eyes nearly rolling back.

He sneers lowly. “Always know just what to say. How to bewitch me with your words…”

You yelp when you feel his hand clutch your jaw and pull you backward. Your back slams against his hard chest. He draws his hips back making you whine at the feeling of his dick slipping away before slamming it back inside. He did it again and again until you were crying and clawing at his hand.

“My Emperor!” You cry out and if it wasn’t for his strong hands you would’ve fallen forward.

His cock hits you so deep, so good you can’t help the tears that run down your flushed cheeks and the lewd cries that fall from your lips still they aren’t nearly as lewd as the wet, sloppy sounds that follow after every intense thrust.

His own grunts are so loud against your ear that you swear you can come from the sounds he’s making alone. It was never this intimate with Geta, so close. He usually pushes your head against the pillows and fucks you into the mattress like an animal. You rarely see his face or hear his sounds other than the harsh words he spews at you.

Your back arches at the harshness of his thrusts, and your head falls on his shoulder. His hand slides down to your core. You feel his smirk against your ear when he flicks your clit and you flinch.

“Geta!” You scream his name as you come for a second time for the night, your voice hoarse from all the screaming.

If your brain wasn't mushed from pleasure you would slap a hand over your mouth, bracing yourself for his palm landing on your cheek.

He grabs your face and turns your head to face him. The moment your eyes meet you know there won’t be any repercussions for your defiance. His pupils are so blown to the point where you couldn’t locate the light brown of his iris. He pulls you for a heated kiss and with one last, mind-numbing thurst he spills his seed deep inside you.

He falls forward and pulls you with him. You fall on all your fours, his chest falling flush on your back. You whimper when his cock moves inside your overstimulated pussy with the movement.

Geta’s breath was hot against your shoulder and his hands squeezed your waist occasionally, seemingly without noticing.

“My Emperor,” You breathed out. “Forgiv—”

“Quiet.” He rasped, silencing you immediately.

He threw the both of you to the side, pulling you closer to him by the waist.

That day Geta, with his dick deep inside you, realized two things. That you have probably enchanted him and that he didn’t care one bit.

Because if being bewitched meant that he would spend his living days between your legs, getting drunk on you, then he would gladly do it.

#holy fuuuuuck #this was so hot wtf #😮‍💨🔥#fic rec

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pedroschka · 4 days ago

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Fallen Empires - Chapter 6

Pairing: Geta x OFC

Summary: Having done the unthinkable to secure his throne, Emperor Geta rules with ruthlessness and paranoia. Now, after escaping an assassination attempt, a badly injured Geta is saved by Daphne, a young widow, who takes him back to her remote village without knowing his true identity. As Daphne nurses the former emperor back to health, attraction blooms between them, and Geta discovers a soft side he didn't know he possessed. But can their love survive his thirst for revenge and his desire to reclaim power?

Chapter warnings: none (just a brief mention of arousal... things are heating up between Daphne and Geta!)

Chapter word count: 3.6k

Prologue + Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

Chapter 6

It was almost the ides of June. The weather grew unbearably hot. Geta had toured extensively in the Eastern provinces, but it had always been in the comfort of an imperial convoy, with litters and tents for stops along the way and marble palaces to rest in once he reached his destination. Even when marching with the army, he'd never had to deal with such blistering heat. The elevation of the hill did little to help. The sun beat down so relentlessly that the rocky ground became quite literally baked and remained warm even long after the sun had set.

Due to the heat, Daphne now did all her work at dawn and in the evening, when the heat was more tolerable. During the day, she retreated inside the hut, where the mud-brick walls provided some relief. This meant she was a constant presence around Geta these days, and he was rather uneasy about it. Why he should feel uneasy about her, he didn't know. He no longer suspected her of duplicity and betrayal. If anything, he'd grown to trust her. Yet her presence put him on edge, and he found himself watching her while she moved about the hut, working on her potions and poultices or practicing her lettering. She had made some labels for the garden by scratching plant names on thin, flat pieces of pine board, and was now working on the labels for her medicine by stitching letters onto long ribbons to be wrapped around the jars.

When he offered to teach her to read and write, he'd only wanted something to occupy his mind, something to divert him from the tiring thought of retribution and punishment. To his surprise, he had rather enjoyed it, perhaps because it was the only time he could tell her what to do. He had enjoyed teaching her to play draughts as well, even though she was annoyingly good at it. In the army, the soldiers would sometimes challenge each other or place bets on games of draughts, to make them more exciting. Daphne could've cleaned out any of them.

He told himself he enjoyed her company simply because it was the only company to be had for miles around, other than the goats and the donkey. It was true that she was nothing special. She was only a peasant woman, with simple thoughts and simple feelings. And she wasn't even attractive. Her chin was too pointy, her nose too long, her mouth too large. Her figure—what he could see of it, swathed in layers of voluminous linen to combat against the sun—was too thin, all sharp bones and hard muscles developed from her trek up and down the hill, with none of the soft curves Roman women often boasted about. Only those green eyes promised some beauty, but they were so frank, so displeasing in their open stare that Geta sometimes had to turn away from them, afraid they could see to his very core and lay bare all the lies and the guilt, wriggling there like maggots.

The only time her eyes had looked at him with some softness was after the encounter with that odious father of hers, and even then it had only been briefly.

Perhaps that was why he enjoyed teaching her. She wasn't looking at him then. Instead, he could watch her frowning in concentration under the lamplight, her long lashes lowering as she bent over the wax tablet. He didn't have to worry about catching her eyes.

Damnation. For someone who didn't like her eyes, he certainly spent a lot of time thinking about them.

But what else was there to think about? Thinking about his would-be assassin and the conspirators got him nowhere, and thinking about Rome and the constant grumbling of the Senate only exhausted him. Even the possibility of conquering Parthia no longer held much appeal. He might have managed to sack Arbela, but the Parthians had proved to be formidable adversaries, and in his current state, he could never face them. He'd never realized before how tiring and tired it all was, this constant warring and conquest and ruling. So he turned away from them and thought of something else, something more pleasant.

One morning, he was up before his usual time. He went outside, intending to make the best of the cooler air by putting in some hours of sparring at the pine grove, when he spied movements in the garden. It was very early—only a border of pale pink snaked along the horizon, while the sky and the rest of the world were still covered in a bluish-gray veil, and some remnant of the night air was still lingering amongst the stones, not yet melted away under the sun—too early for anyone else to be about. His hand immediately went to the hilt of the dagger that had never left his side, a reminder of how close he'd come to death. He crept around the side of the hut to come up to the garden from the back, so whoever was there would not see him.

It was a woman, dressed in a short saffron tunic. She was moving between the garden rows, shaking the branches of the olive trees above them. Dewdrops fell from the branches, glittering around her like diamonds, splashing on the plants below. At the end of a row, she turned around and saw him.

"Kalimera," she said, using the usual Greek morning greeting. "You're up early."'

It was Daphne. She must have gotten up before him, and he hadn't noticed her empty cot in the front room when he went out.

For a moment, he stood transfixed. It was Daphne and yet not Daphne. Without her usual stole and mantle, she was no longer the dour woman always hurrying from one place to another, worry permanently etched on her brow. Standing before him was a fresh-faced girl, skin rosy and eyes sparkling in the light of the breaking dawn, disarmingly, magically smiling.

"So are you," he said, once he'd found his voice again. "What are you doing?"

"Watering the garden. Out here we have to make use of every bit of moisture we can get." She shook another olive tree as she spoke, and ducked away from the ensuing sprinkle.

"Why don't you just let the dew fall on its own?"

"No, it'll disappear when the sun rises. You must catch it at the right time, when the air is warm enough for the dewdrops to form, but not too warm that they melt away." She glanced at him. "Want to help?"

Geta was no gardener, but he had to admit this was rather sensible. He shrugged, put the dagger back into its sheath, and joined Daphne. Grabbing hold of one of the olive trees, he gave it a vigorous shake, bringing down a shower of not just dewdrops but old leaves and dead branches as well. Daphne laughed.

"Not so hard," she admonished. "Stay away from the branch, or all of the dew will fall on you and none on the garden. And shake it gently, like shaking ripe fruits from a tree." She gave the tree a firm but quick shake. Geta, who had never shaken ripe fruits from any tree, followed suit. "That's the way."

Nodding in approval, Daphne plucked the leaves out of his curls and brushed the dew from his forehead, her gesture natural as if she wasn't even thinking about it. Only when her fingers grazed his skin and their eyes met that she seemed to realize what she was doing. She dropped her hand and turned away, coloring slightly.

As they went down the garden path side by side, working together in silence, Geta kept glancing at Daphne. Something about her was different. It wasn't just because she had left off her usual covering and was showing a body that was unexpectedly lithe and elegant, with long, slender limbs and rounded shoulders. It wasn't just because her hair had caught on a branch and come loose from its usual tight knot, and was now framing her face like a soft cloud. It wasn't just because she, too, was stealing glances at him, her eyes no longer staring and critical, but with a curiosity that matched his own, and a gentleness that made him think of peaceful green hills and calming rivers again. It wasn't just because the rising sun was making her skin glow, reminding him of the rosy-fingered Aurora in her robe of saffron, hastening from the streams of Okeanos to bring light to mortals and immortals, just like Homer had written.

Confound the woman. Why did she always turn him into a bloody poet?

It wasn't because of any of those things, or perhaps it was because of all of them. He'd thought her just a simple peasant woman, but perhaps there was something confounding in her after all. She was like these rocky hills where she grew up, harsh and forbidding at first glance, but soft and nurturing to those who knew what to search for and where to look.

He didn't get any sparring done that morning, but he didn't mind.

The heat continued relentlessly and showed no sign of letting up. One evening, Geta could take it no more and went into the garden, intending to have a swim in the cistern.

"Where are you going?" Daphne asked, looking up from the wax tablet.

He told her. She looked appalled.

"You can't!" she exclaimed. "We must save the water for cooking and drinking. Not to mention that your lungs cannot stand being in such cold, they may get inflamed again—"

"Fine, fine," he said impatiently. He'd learned that when Daphne put her healer's voice on, it was best not to argue with her. "I only want a bath, is that too much to ask?" Daphne had never given him more than a basin of water, which sufficed for washing but not enough to cool him down in this infernal heat. He didn't know how Daphne could stand it. Even in her layers and layers of linen, she always appeared cool and fresh.

Now she got to her feet. "All right, I suppose you can have a bath. But inside, mind."

She dragged into the hut a wooden washtub, just large enough for a grown man to sit in, and set it by the fire, where the embers were still glowing weakly after cooking their supper. Geta expected her to fill the tub and was greatly disappointed when she only set down two buckets.

"That's all?" he said glumly.

"You have to get used to it. We're on the edge of a desert, you know," said Daphne sternly, as she set a pot of water on the fire and added a handful of dried herb to it. The water boiled, and the herb gave off a pleasant scent, so clean and fresh that it seemed to chase the heat away despite the boiling pot. With a start, Geta recognized it as the scent he'd always smelled on Daphne.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Soapwort," said Daphne, pouring the fragrant concoction into one of the buckets, and the water immediately started to froth. "We have no bath oils here, so this is what we use for washing." She put down a washcloth and a towel on a stool next to the tub. "Right. That's everything you need. I'll just be outside if you want anything." She picked up her wax tablet and a lamp and went out, tactfully closing the door behind her.

Geta had bathed this way while on active campaign with the army, so despite his grumbling, he managed to acquit himself quite well. Sitting in the tub, he used a dipper to pour the soapwort water over his body then scrubbed himself with the washcloth as best he could. There wasn't nearly as much water as he'd like, but it felt good to get thoroughly clean for the first time in months. As he lifted his arm to reach behind his back, however, a groan escaped him. The wound on his shoulder was still sore, the skin and muscles stiffened despite his exercising, and he couldn't reach far enough behind him to scrub his own back.

After a few tries and grumbles of frustration, he gave up and called out for Daphne.

She came in at once. "What do you need?"

"My back—I can't reach—" he mumbled, awkwardly covering himself with the towel. It was ridiculous. He'd never had any qualms about appearing naked in front of others—indeed, in his youth in Rome, he had attended many feasts and orgies where nudity was the accepted uniform—so why was he suddenly uncomfortable about being unclothed in front of this woman?

Daphne seemed to have noticed his discomfort. "Don't worry," she said, chuckling. "It's nothing that I haven't seen. Who do you think washed you while you were delirious with fever?" Her lighthearted tone did nothing to set him at ease.

She took the washcloth he put on the edge of the tub and started scrubbing his back in vigorous, practiced movements. No maidenly blushing, no modest lowering of the eye. At such a complete lack of bashfulness, Geta's own embarrassment subsided.

"You're probably used to a more civilized form of bathing than this, I imagine," she said.

Geta thought of the bathhouses of Rome with their many rooms and pools of various temperatures, with their masseuses and strigil-wielding slaves. One of those had been built in his name just shortly before he left for the East. They had their uses, but like most things in Rome, they were also temples to hedonism and excesses, where people came to do much more than just bathing. He wouldn't exactly call them civilized.

"I'm in the army," now he said with a shrug. "We're lucky if we get to bathe at all."

"Where were you before Parthia?" Daphne asked. Then she quickly added, "I didn't mean to pry. You don't have to tell me."

"It's all right." He was sick of keeping secrets. "I was in Germania. And Caledonia before that."

The washcloth stopped moving on his back. "You were in Caledonia?" Daphne asked, her voice hushed.

He cursed under his breath. She probably had an acquaintance in the army. A brother, a sweetheart, or a husband? But if she did, it would have been—what, eight, ten years ago? Her acquaintance would likely have been in the auxiliaries, one of the troops offered up by King Abgar VIII to prove his loyalty to Rome, back when Osroene still had some form of independence and was not yet a province.

To confirm his suspicion, Daphne continued, "Do you know anyone from the auxiliary forces there at all?"

"No, not really," replied Geta. It was the truth. His father had dragged him and his brother to Caledonia to take them away from the decadence of Rome, in the hope of mending their dissolute ways and teaching them how to rule. It hadn't worked. Even when Geta became sole Emperor, though he tried to mingle with the troops and marched and ate and fought with them, he could never be one of them. The soldiers always viewed him with a certain suspicion, more fear than respect. He didn't mind, as long as they didn't question his authority. And that was with the legions. The provincial auxiliaries were essentially strangers to him.

"Why do you ask?" now he said to Daphne.

"My husband," she replied in an expressionless voice.

Her husband? Geta thought of the tunics he'd been wearing, of her strange behavior the day he first got out of bed. That explained it. He found himself wondering what the man had been like. Must have been a good one, since Daphne obviously still mourned him.

The thought of mourning reminded Geta of his predicament. Who would mourn him? Had they given him up for dead and mourned already? Had he been replaced? No, he couldn't believe that. At least his mother would never, not until she saw his body with her own eyes. Unless the army informed her of his disappearance, she may believe that he was still Edessa. He hoped it was true. Knowing his mother, she would've torn the Earth apart searching for him if she'd known. Macrinus must be keeping the truth from her. He felt the old anger flaring up again. What in Hades was Macrinus doing, sitting about twiddling his thumbs? Why hadn't they found him by now?

"He was killed in Caledonia, eight years ago," Daphne continued in that same flat tone, though he thought he could detect a trembling touch in it, like she was trying not to cry. "Or so I was told."

"We lost a lot of men in Caledonia," he said, as if that could be any comfort. The Caledonian campaign had been a success at first, but then the barbarian tribes, with their primitive but devastating tactics, had driven the Roman force behind Hadrian's Walls. Then his father had died in Eboracum, and Geta had no longer seen a point in pursuing the tribes. He'd had more pressing matters, such as his brother's presence and growing ambition like a thorn in his side. He'd hurried back to Rome to secure his power, leaving the Caledonians to their cold and misty land, thinking nothing about the lives that had been wasted in a campaign that led nowhere.

"I never find out what happened to him," Daphne said. She began scrubbing again, so hard it almost hurt him, but he made no sound. "Just a message saying he was killed. I don't even know when he was killed, or how long that message took to reach me. That's why I asked. I was hoping you could tell me something. Anything."

He didn't turn around, but he could hear the grief, despair, and resignation in her voice, and feel a strange little twinge in his heart. When his father decided to lift the ban on marriage for soldiers, Geta had gone along with it, believing it would raise morale and make them more popular with the army. But now, listening to Daphne, he was no longer so certain. Let the men have their fun with the camp followers and the local women of the garrison towns, but allow them to marry and leave behind wives to grieve and wonder for the rest of their lives like this? It was cruel.

Daphne dropped her hand on the edge of the tub. It looked small, vulnerable, like the wing of a wounded bird, so unlike the strong, capable hands he was used to. Without thinking, he reached out and placed his hand on top, his fingers fitting perfectly in the dips between hers.

She took in a small, sharp breath. Her hand flexed gently under his, as if she was trying to feel its grasp more thoroughly. Before he could stop himself, he was caressing her hand, running his fingertips over her knuckles. Something smooth—her forehead, or perhaps her cheek—came to rest on his bare back, and a slow, shuddering breath, like a quiet, choked-back sob, escaped her lips, blowing hot against his skin.

His heart thumped. She had never sat so close to him, had never touched him in any way other than medically; yet here she was, practically embracing him, her hand in his, her face pressed into his back, her hair tickling his shoulder blades, and that earthy, enchanting fragrant was everywhere, until he didn't know if it was coming from him or her or the very air around them.

One thing he did know: he was becoming aroused. And it wasn't the purely physical type of arousal he usually got upon waking up in the morning. He was aroused by her.

Even though she was behind and could not see him, he froze, not daring to move a muscle lest the traitorous towel chose that moment to shift and reveal his condition to her.

Hades. What was the matter with him? He, who used to think nothing about pulling a serving girl out of a banquet and having his way with her in the anteroom before sauntering back in time for the second course, he who had had camp followers fighting for a place in his tent at night while on campaign, was now blushing and squirming in the presence of a woman, like a boy still wearing a bulla around his neck!

Daphne seemed to have noticed his tension, for she lifted her head from his back—much to his regret—and leaned down. "Is everything all right?" she asked with professional concern. "The water's not too cold for you, is it?"

Her mouth was right by his ear, close enough to touch. Hades. This was more than a man could endure.

"Everything's fine," he said, snatching the washcloth from her. "I can manage now."

She sat back, clearly put out by his brusque tone, but when he started scrubbing his chest with rather too much force than necessary, she only said, "Careful, or you may tear your wounds open again," in the same wry tone she often used with him, and went out again, taking along the pot of leftover soapwort.

A bulla is an amulet worn by Ancient Roman boys before they came of age.

Soldiers in Ancient Rome were forbidden to marry while on active duty (though this didn't apply to centurions and higher-ups), but Severus Septimius did lift that ban in 197.

Taglist: @sheneedsrocknroll92, @justnobodynothingmore, @barcelonaloverf1life, @myotakureprieve, @flawssy-227, @itsrainingbisexualfrogs (if you want to be tagged or removed, let me know!)

#ahhh it's happening!!#😍😍#fic rec

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