#German surrender | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

velaenam · 7 days ago

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𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭

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𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 — non!mc. a princess from a powerful merchant kingdom is thrust into a political marriage with rome’s most feared military emperor—only to catch the eye of a rival sovereign who believes her freedom is worth starting a war. 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 — set during the early imperial period of rome, the story unfolds at the height of political intrigue and military dominance, where empires clash, alliances shift. story will take place between 1st century bce – 2nd century ce, give or take. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 — swearing, nsfw language, political manipulation, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, toxic relationships, war and violence, sexual themes, misogyny/patriarchal culture, classism and elitism, culture tensions, xenophobia, racism, non consensual stuff at times.. uhh.. romantic love triangle, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — hey sexies hope ur well. lets get this bread. 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — 1 of ? | previous chapter / next chapter / playlist — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! if you'd like to read the xavier x reader sequel my good friend @rcvcgers has a story! it's amazing, please check it out!

the northern frontier, outskirts of vindobona, the hills burned with the color of dying fire—deep orange bleeding into bruised purple. smoke still rose in fine trails from blackened trees, and the scent of damp earth, blood, and charred wood hung thick over the landscape. what remained of the last germanic stronghold lay behind them in silence, smoldering into surrender.

the roman banners stirred in the wind—red and gold frayed at the edges, streaked with ash. marching in clean formation behind them, the legions trudged through the cold mud, their armor dulled by days of combat and frost. horses snorted, restless but obedient, hooves sinking with every step.

at the head of the column rode caesar caleb and behind him was the praetoria xiv, his elite guards, headed by prefect praetorio gideon, his close friend and right hand man (but was in rome currently)

caleb looked like a war god carved into motion—his lorica musculata dulled by soot, etched with old dents and new blood, the bronze eagle on his chest tarnished but still proud. his imperial cloak, if it had once been worn, was long since discarded. he bore no laurels. no polished ornament. only steel and weight and silence.

the reins in his gloved hands were wrapped twice around his fingers. he rode without fanfare, but no soldier dared ride ahead of him.

to his left, general septus adjusted in his saddle, old joints aching beneath his plated armor. he had fought in a dozen campaigns, but something about this one had settled deeper in his bones. he glanced toward the emperor, the man who had not stood behind lines—but at the front, through every freezing skirmish, every blood-drenched push.

caleb’s eyes were fixed forward.

“how many?” he asked.

septus cleared his throat. “ninety-three dead. fifteen more expected to fall by nightfall. one hundred and two wounded.” a pause, “and the tribe?”

“their chieftain surrendered when we reached the inner ring. before we even breached the palisade.” a beat. “laid down his own sword. didn’t beg.”

caleb didn’t speak. his jaw flexed once. the leather of his gloves creaked softly. “he was smart,” he said at last. they continued in silence for several strides, the cadence of hooves and boots filling the space between words. crows flapped overhead, circling what little remained of the fires.

“most emperors,” septus said after a moment, “don’t lead charges anymore.” caleb’s gaze didn’t waver. “most emperors,” he said quietly, “have someone left to bury them.” it wasn’t said with bitterness. just truth. cold and clean. septus tilted his head in faint amusement, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

behind them, the legion shifted formation as they approached the stone bridge that would carry them south. the wind picked up—sharp, dry, biting through the fabric of exposed cloaks.

“rumor says you’ll be married by spring,” septus said, half-casual, eyes fixed ahead. caleb didn’t answer right away. then, “the senate confirmed it during the campaign,” he replied. “the offer was made. nabira accepted.”

“a trade agreement with silk and rings.” septus snorted. “practical.”

“they’re always practical until someone bleeds.” septus looked over at him, arching a brow. “is she that sharp?” caleb’s jaw tensed, but his voice remained steady. “so are most blades.”

“you don’t seem thrilled.” – “do i ever?”

“no,” the general said, smiling faintly. “that’s how we know it’s real.”

they rode on, past the tree line, where the grass grew yellow and sparse. the scent of pine gave way to dust.

“will you rule her?” septus asked, his tone quieter now. caleb didn’t answer immediately. his eyes scanned the road, the horizon beyond—miles of land still marked with war. “i don’t know if she can be ruled,” he said finally. “and i haven’t decided if that’s a strength or a threat.”

septus nodded, like a man who understood more than he was willing to say aloud. “you’ll decide,” he murmured. “you always do.”

caleb didn’t reply. he simply kept riding, the fading sun casting long shadows across the earth. soldiers behind him followed in silence—battle-weary, blood-worn, but whole. they did not cheer. they did not call his name. but when he passed, they bowed their heads. not because of the laurels, the throne, but because he bled beside them. because he walked through fire and never once looked back.

the wind is dry but sweet, drifting through the lattice work with the scent of myrrh and honeyed citrus. you sit beneath the acacia tree in the inner garden, tracing idle shapes into the rim of your tea dish. the petals of fallen blossoms scatter across the stone floor like gold dust.

you hear the soft jingle of his jewelry before you see him. “you’re late,” you say without looking up. “you’re sulking,” your brother replies, stepping into the light with his usual casual grace. “so we’re both playing to form.”

you glance up, and despite yourself, despite everything, you feel the tightness in your chest ease. he looks the same: sun-touched skin, robes the color of pomegranate wine, a merchant’s calm in his eyes and a diplomat’s weight on his shoulders. you could only hope you become something of sophistication.

“i brought you saffron,” he says, sitting beside you. “the good kind. and pistachios roasted in salt, not spice annnnd—i remembered this time.” he holds up a bag of the finest pomegranates.

“trying to bribe me with food?” you murmur, taking the pouch from his hand. “always,” he grins. for a while, there’s only the soft hum of bees in the flowering trees. a drowsy peace. a stillness before something inevitable. he exhales. “they told me you’ve been quiet,” he says. “that you’re not sleeping.”

you shrug. “you shouldn’t listen to the staff.” – “i listen to everyone. it’s part of my curse.”

you don’t answer. your hands are still. your heart is not. he watches you for a moment longer, then says, gently, “you’ll be leaving soon.”

the words hang in the air like smoke. you nod “and you’ve met him?” – “briefly,” he says then he goes quiet, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. his rings catch the sun.

“rome is not nabira,” he says quietly. “you know this. but i’ll say it again. you cannot speak as freely there. you cannot carry yourself like you do here. their walls listen. their women are watched.”

you lift your chin slightly. “i know how to move in a cage.” he sighs. “i don’t want you in a cage at all.” you look at him. the man who taught you how to negotiate in three languages before you could hold a blade. the boy who once stole oranges for you from the temple courtyard just to make you laugh.

“what do you know of him?” you ask.

“emperor caleb?” he says, straightening. “he’s cold. brilliant. a man who wears restraint like a second skin. and a man the world would rather kneel for than fight.” you nod, absorbing it all. you’re quiet for a long moment, then: “do you trust him?” his eyes flicker.

“no,” he says. “but that doesn’t mean you’re not strong enough to handle him.”

you glance at the garden walls, at the vines curling along the marble. at the city you are about to leave behind. “i hate this,” you say. “so do i,” he replies. “but sometimes hate is the price of survival.”

he reaches over and presses a small bundle into your hand—another charm, another promise. something sweet to keep close when the walls in rome close too tightly. “i’ll write,” he says.

“you always do,” you murmur. he smiles. and you smile too but only a little. because this is still nabira. and for one more day, you’re still hers.

domina (latin for mistress/lady)

you wake up crying.

not loudly. just tears slipping out before your thoughts can catch up—before the weight of where you are reminds your body to stay still. the silks beneath you are stiff, foreign. the light is wrong. it cuts through thick roman drapery, sharp and pale, not golden and soft like home.

your throat is tight. everything smells like stone. rosewater and crushed fig drift up faintly, and you realize you’re not alone. gentle fingers brush your cheek. a quiet voice follows.

“you’re awake, domina.”

your maids stand nearby. one holds the silver basin. the other holds your favorite gold comb from nabira. both keep their eyes respectfully lowered. you don’t answer. you just sit up, slowly, letting the veil slip from your shoulder. your heart still feels too full. like it doesn’t know where to put all the grief. you were torn away from home—maybe not forever, but long enough for it to feel like exile. rome is not your kingdom. it never will be. and yet here you are.

“would you like your usual perfume, my lady?” the younger maid asks, lifting a small crystal vial.

you pause. then nod once. “yes,” you whisper. “that one.”

the scent is warm. spiced with saffron, cardamom, and something citrus. your mother once said it made you smell like the sun itself. today, it just smells like longing.you close your eyes as they begin the ritual. hair unbound and rebraided. you let them dress you like a statue—silent, polished, distant. “domina you are beautiful.” one of your servants tug your dress down to flatten it, careful not to ruin the intricacies that lie beneath.

“the depart begins soon” the elder maid says quietly.

you say nothing for a moment. then you open your eyes. the silence that follows is thick with understanding.

the gates of rome stood open like the jaws of some ancient, sleeping god—tall and unyielding, carved in triumph and shadow. the sun beat down on white stone and bronze shields, catching every surface until the whole city shimmered with light.

they had been waiting for hours.

crowds pressed in from every street, shoulder to shoulder along the main thoroughfare, stretching all the way to the forum. flower petals littered the cobblestones. laurel branches were tied to banners. children perched on their fathers’ shoulders. even the priests had left their temples to watch.

and when they saw him, the roar started. from the people they hail their great caesar. the victorious one.

“imperator!”

“hail caesar!”

“roma invicta!”

they shouted his name until the air shook with it.

emperor caleb rode beneath the arch on horseback, draped now in imperial blue and orange, the sun catching the gold trim along his shoulders. a newly polished cuirass gleamed across his chest, but it did not hide the scuffs along his arms or the fresh scar at his jawline.

he wore his crown of laurel with the stillness of a statue and the exhaustion of a soldier. and he did not smile. he didn’t need to.

the people loved him not for pageantry, but for presence. for being the emperor who led from the front. who bled in foreign snow and came back standing.

behind him, the standard bearers marched, holding the flags of conquered provinces. his legions followed in perfect formation, but it was him the crowd watched. him they reached for. they called blessings, threw olive branches, wept at the sight of him.

he gave a single nod as he passed through the gates.

inside the city, nobles and senators waited on the steps of the curia, clothed in silk and gold, faces carefully arranged into admiration. among them stood his right hand– gideon, watching from beneath his helmet, saying nothing, but seeing everything.

a voice somewhere near the front cried, “ave, caesar! glory to the great emperor of rome!”

another shouted, “the gods walk with you, imperator!”

and still caleb did not wave. still he did not raise his hand. he looked at his city like a man returning to something heavier than war.

because war was simple. victory was clean. politics was neither.

he dismounted only at the foot of the steps, boots hitting stone with a deep, deliberate sound, and as he ascended toward the curia, flanked by marble and thunder, the crowd quieted just enough to let the weight of him pass.

rome welcomed its son with firelight and silence. and the city remembered why it bowed.

the cheering had faded. the petals were swept. the gates had closed.

now, the marble halls of the imperial residence were quiet—cool with shadow, heavy with gold-trimmed silence. caleb moved without guards. he didn’t need them here. every corridor, every arch, bent to him.

gideon was already waiting in the side chamber when he arrived—standing by the window, arms folded behind his back, his armor still dusted from parade formation. he didn’t bow. he never did.

“you look like hell,” gideon said without turning.

“i just conquered a northern rebellion,” caleb replied, voice full of amusement. “being handsome, is far from my mind right now.”

gideon glanced over his shoulder. “should i tell the sculptors to capture the scar or smooth it over for the statues?”

“leave it,” caleb said. “let them remember i was there.”

he stepped inside, rolling his shoulder until the muscles cracked. his body was beginning to feel the weight of the war—too many nights in tents, too many winters on horseback. the fire pit had been lit. a basin of wine waited.

gideon handed him a scroll. caleb grabs and opens it, before

“senate tried to vote on a grain tariff while you were gone,” he said. “i buried it.” – “good.”

“they also tried to promote senator lucan to ‘imperial advisor on foreign affairs.’ i buried that too.” caleb raised a brow. “how?”

gideon smirked. “i mentioned his taste for married noblewomen and his personal debt to nabiran gold merchants.” a pause. caleb let out a soft exhale—half tired, half impressed.

“i missed you,” he muttered. gideon stifled a laugh as he nods, “i know.”

there was a comfortable silence. one only earned after years of shared blood and silence in the dirt. gideon pulled off his gloves and leaned against the far table, crossing one boot over the other.

“they’re whispering about the marriage,” he said, “i assumed.”

“the princess hasn’t arrived yet, but the court’s already full of opinions. they say she’s clever. stubborn. nabira wrapped in veils and steel.”

caleb nodded once. “sounds accurate.” – “you planning to fall in love with this one?” gideon asked, dry.

caleb gave him a look, “you know i don’t have the luxury of love.”

“no,” gideon said. “but you’ve been known to do stupid things for women before.” caleb didn’t answer. gideon’s expression softened just slightly. “she’s not the same as the last one, is she?”

“no,” caleb said after a long pause. “she’s not.”

they didn’t speak for a while. the fire cracked. outside, the city still rustled—the buzz of rome never truly stopped.

“get some rest,” gideon said eventually, pushing off the table. “tomorrow they’ll be lining up with scrolls and tribute. senators love to circle after blood’s been spilled.”

caleb gave a faint nod. gideon started to walk off, then paused at the door. he glanced over his shoulder.

“for what it’s worth,” he said, quieter now. “i’m glad you came back.” caleb looked at him.

“don’t i always?”

gideon shrugged. “one day you won’t. and we both know it.” and then he was gone. the door closed, and caleb stood alone. just for a moment. just long enough to feel it.

the doors close behind gideon, and caleb stands alone with the quiet. he doesn’t move for a while. the fire crackles. outside, the sky is softening into blue-grey. he loosens the ties of his cloak with one hand, shrugs it from his shoulders, and lets it fall where it lands. the basin of water nearby has gone tepid but he doesn’t care.

he’s halfway through pulling off his gloves when he hears her, his mistress.

the door doesn’t creak. it never does when she enters. he doesn’t look at her—not at first. but he feels it, that shift in the air. her presence presses differently than anyone else’s. not heavy, but familiar. like a hand at his back.

“you came back,” she says softly.

he finally turns.

she looks the same, but a bit more refined. more shadow around the eyes. her gown clings like memory. deep plum silk, loose at the shoulders, gold at the throat. her hair pinned high, but barely. like it didn’t want to stay up.

“barely,” he says, voice low.

she crosses the room in three slow steps and stops just in front of him. doesn’t touch him. not yet.

“i missed you,” she says.

he looks at her for a long moment. then reaches up and brushes his fingers along the side of her face. her cheek is warm. always is.

“did you,” he murmurs. she nods. “enough to hate you for it.” he huffs a breath. something like a laugh. and then he kisses her– not gently.

his hand slips into her hair, fingers tangling in the pins. her mouth meets his with something between hunger and heat—neither of them soft, not anymore. the weeks apart burned too long. they kiss like punishment. like prayer. like people who’ve had to go too long pretending they’re just flesh and not history.

she pulls him by the front of his armor, and he lets her. he always lets her. they move through the room in slow collisions. wine spills. a shoulder hits the edge of the marble table. her bracelets scatter across the floor like coins.

he presses her back against the column. breathes her in. her hands slip under the edge of his cuirass, find the skin just above his waist. he lets out a sound low in his throat.

“caleb,” she whispers.

his name sounds different when she says it. like it belongs to someone before the crown.

he kisses her again. slower this time. more ache than heat. he hasn’t touched anyone since he left.

the room is warm now. not with fire, but with breath. with the kind of quiet that only comes after.

his armor lies discarded beside the bed. her dress is somewhere near the foot of it, silk pooled like spilled wine across the stone. the curtains shift gently in the wind.

he lies on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he’s trying to remember where he is. his hair is still damp at the temples. his jawline shadowed with exhaustion.

she’s curled beside him, thigh draped over his, her fingers tracing the scar at his rib—one she hadn’t seen before.

“this one’s new,” she murmurs. “a spear,” he says quietly. “got too close.”

she doesn’t ask why. she knows he never tells the story unless someone dies from it. instead, she presses a soft kiss over the scar and rests her head against his chest.

“they cheered for you today,” she says after a while, her voice barely above a whisper. “like you were a god.”

he doesn’t respond. “you hate it,” she adds. he nods once. “they forget i bleed,” he says. she traces a slow line along his collarbone. “i don’t.” he turns to look at her then. just for a moment. the candlelight flickers across her bare shoulder, across the curve of her spine. there is a quiet in her gaze that unnerves him more than war ever could.

“you’re tired,” she whispers – “always.” she shifts closer. kisses his throat. not for want, not for hunger—just to remind him he’s still a man beneath the weight.

“rest,” she tells him. “rome will still be here when you wake.” he doesn’t answer. but his hand finds hers under the linen. and he doesn’t let go.

the sun hasn’t risen yet. but the city is already awake.

servants move like ghosts through the palace halls. trunks are being tied to camels. farewell gifts packed into velvet-lined chests. figs, saffron, carved bone combs. nothing too heavy. nothing too sentimental.

your handmaid wraps your wrists in gold thread while another pins your veil into place. everything smells like home and yet nothing feels like it.

your brother stands outside the gate, arms folded. he won’t follow you past this point.

“i had another horse chosen for you,” he says. “the black one you like.”

you nod. “thank you.” he hesitates as his jaw tightens. “rome isn’t kind,” he says. “you don’t have to be either.”

you look at him then, and your eyes say everything your mouth cannot. you are his sister.. you were not meant for cages, but you’ve learned how to walk in them anyway.

when you ride through the gates of nabira, the streets are lined with quiet. there are no crowds. no petals. just silence. your veil catches in the wind. your fingers curl slightly around the edge of your seat.

you do not look back. not even once.

the journey to rome was slow and less than ideal, even in a raeda as lavish as the one they had prepared for you. the spacious wagon was draped with silk sheets and embroidered cushions, the faint scent of rose oil clinging to the fabric, but no amount of finery could soften the ache of so many endless miles. you were not afforded the luxury of true rest; the caravan moved almost without stopping, escorts trading shifts like clockwork, their faces changing each time you pulled the curtain aside. most nights you stayed awake, stretched out among the silks with a shuttered lantern beside you, ink staining your fingers as you wrote in your diary. you watched the world crawl by—crumbling villas swallowed by fields, the broken ribs of aqueducts against the horizon, olive trees twisting like old bones along the ridges. every turn of the wheels carried you further from home and deeper into the mouth of a city you had only ever heard whispered about. and somewhere deep in your chest, you could already feel rome reaching for you.

“domina, we are here.”

one of your guards mutters through silken drapes. your eyes snap open as you shuffle upwards. the city rose before you like a dream drawn in marble and gold. even through the thick curtains of your raeda, you could see it—white stone blazing under the sun, banners rippling in every color you had ever known and a few you hadn't. the gates yawned open, wide enough to swallow a kingdom whole, and your caravan slipped through them like a bead through a thread. for a long moment, you forgot to breathe. fountains danced at every square, spilling crystal water into shallow basins where children and merchants crowded alike. villas clung to the hills in proud terraces, draped in flowers and silk awnings that snapped in the high breeze. the streets shimmered with dust and rose petals crushed into the cobblestones, filling the air with the scent of life—ripe figs, burning incense, spiced wine. laughter and music rose and fell in waves between the towering columns. you had imagined rome as cold, carved, ruthless. and it was. but it was also alive—so terribly, vividly alive it ached to look at. you pressed your hand against the silk at your side, steadying yourself against the rush of color and sound. you had arrived. and the empire was already pulling you into its pulse.

marble pillars soar around the central forum like white sentinels, casting long shadows across the gathered assembly. sounds of glorious trumpet plays as a line of men and women drape the building like a red carpet. rome has spared no expense to welcome you– the princess of nabira, the city crowned in sun, veined with gold.

the raeda slowed as it pulled into the inner courtyard, wheels grinding softly against smooth stone. sunlight spilled over everything—blinding on the white marble, gilding the steps where rows of senators and noblewomen waited, clothed in silks so fine they seemed to shimmer like water. a fountain splashed somewhere close by. you could hear the murmurs already—the shift of sandals, the rustle of robes—as your arrival rippled through the crowd like a dropped stone in a still pool.

a handmaiden unlatched the door and stepped back, bowing low.

you step beneath a silver archway carved with laurels and depictions of battles in their full and autonomous glory. your blue-ivory stola flows like river silk, the color catching sunlight in watery ripples. your veil is thin, pinned with mother-of-pearl. but it's the jewelry– dozens of rings on your slim fingers, bracelets stacked in glimmering rows, gold and lapis earrings dancing at your ears that announces your arrival before your name is ever spoken.

you lifted your chin. you were not here to be appraised. you were here to be remembered.

at the foot of the steps, a man in deep purple robes approached—his face lined with power and the dust of too many years in senate halls.

“princess of nabira,” he said, bowing low with a flourish that was almost mocking in its grandeur. “on behalf of the senate and the people of rome, welcome to the eternal city.”

you inclined your head just slightly. gracious, but unbending.

other nobles followed—introductions you barely heard, names flowing over you like a river you had no wish to swim. you answered when required, smiled when demanded, but your eyes kept lifting past the crush of gold and laurel—

searching. because you could feel it. the space he left open at the top of the stairs. the place where he would stand.

and then—

you saw him.

emperor caleb.

he stood beneath the great arch of the curia, draped in a deep imperial blue that caught the sunlight and set him ablaze with a kind of terrible beauty. his breastplate gleamed, etched with the eagle of rome, but it was his purple gaze that arrested you—sharp, calculating, unreadable even across the span of the courtyard.

he didn’t move he just watched you cross the distance between what you were and what you would now become. your breath caught once—only once. then you began to walk: toward the man who would shape your fate, whether by his hand—or your own.

the courtyard fell into a hush as you crossed the flagstones. the senators parted like cloth before you, the rustle of their robes barely a whisper against the stone. every step you took echoed faintly in the high, golden air.

he waited at the top of the shallow stairs, the imperial standard behind him, rippling bright as fire. caleb did not step forward to meet you. he let you come to him.

you stopped a measured distance away—close enough to show respect, far enough to show pride—and bowed your head, slow, deliberate, letting the sun catch on the jewelry threaded through your hair. when you lifted your gaze again, his eyes were already on you, unblinking.

you opened your mouth to speak first.

"hail, emperor caleb." your voice was calm, low, steady. "i come on behalf of nabira, with respect in my step and iron in my spine."

a murmur rippled through the gathered nobles at your boldness. caleb’s expression did not change. but something in the line of his mouth seemed to tighten, almost imperceptibly.

he answered without hesitation, voice rich and carrying easily across the courtyard.

"hail, princess of nabira," he said, the words formal, but weighted. "daughter of golden kings. steel of the east. rome welcomes you."

you felt the weight of it—not a greeting. a claim.

the senators bowed at his cue. a wave of movement around you, but you stayed still, feeling his gaze pin you in place. he descended the last step toward you, his caligae striking the stone with slow deliberation. when he towered before you, only a breath away, he extended his hand—palm up, not to command, but to offer.

the air between you was thick with expectation. you placed your hand lightly into his. a pulse passed between your skin and his. his fingers closed around yours, firm, but not bruising.

for a heartbeat, the entire city seemed to still.

then he turned, still holding your hand, presenting you to the forum, to the senate, to rome itself.

the crowd roared.

he led you through the arched colonnade, the murmur of the crowd fading behind you like the tide pulling away from shore. the stone beneath your sandals was warm from the afternoon sun, each step echoing softly between the towering marble pillars. servants bowed low as you passed, pressing themselves against the walls to make way, but caleb walked as if he didn’t notice.

you stole a glance at him as you matched your pace to his.

he was taller up close than you remembered from the courtyard, broad through the shoulders, the imperial cloak falling heavy against the sculpted lines of his armor. the crown of laurel sat low against his brow, casting shadows across his sharp features. even in the heat, even after what must have been a grueling march home, he looked composed—untouchable. dangerous. the kind of man carved not by soft court life, but by fire and long winters and the weight of command.

it was unfair, you thought absently, how a man could look like that and still walk as if he carried no burden heavier than a sword. it made your mouth a little too dry. made your heart beat just a little too fast under the thin silk draped against your ribs.

“was the journey long?” his voice broke the quiet, low and rich, filling the space between you with almost casual gravity.

you blinked once, pulling your mind back from the way the sunlight caught against the gold trim of his cuirass.

“longer than it needed to be,” you answered, keeping your tone light, diplomatic. “your roads are fine enough..”

for the first time, you saw it—the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. not a full smile. but something close. something real.

“rome’s roads outlast kings and conquerors ” he said.

you let out a soft, genuine laugh before you could stop yourself. he glanced sideways at you, as if memorizing the sound.

“we’ll see to it that you are afforded more comfort now that you are here,” he added, voice smoothing back into something more formal, but not unkind.

you nodded, lifting your chin just slightly, fighting the ridiculous urge to trip over your own sandals under the weight of his attention.

“i ask for little,” you said.

he paused at the base of a marble staircase, turning fully toward you. the sunlight caught against the polished planes of his armor, blinding for a moment, and for a heartbeat you thought—no, knew—that whatever promises this man made, he would keep. even if it burned the world to do so.

his gaze held yours.

“princess of nabira,” he said quietly, almost like a vow. “you will not have to ask.”

and then he turned, leading you upward into the palace, leaving you to follow with your heart pounding traitorously against your ribs.

he led you through a narrower corridor now, quieter than the grand halls, the servants peeling away with each turn until it was only the two of you and the soft echo of your steps against polished stone. torchlight flickered against the gold-inlaid mosaics on the walls—scenes of heroes, gods, and conquests, all watching silently as you passed.

the doors he stopped before were carved from dark cedar, bound in bronze. two guards posted at either side bowed low as he approached, then turned their faces away, giving you privacy without needing a word.

he pushed the doors open himself.

you stepped inside—and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

the suite was vast, more a wing than a chamber. vaulted ceilings painted in deep lapis and gold arched overhead. silk-draped couches lined the walls, and in the center, a massive bed waited—its frame carved from dark wood, draped in layers of ivory and deep blue, matching the colors of rome and the desert both. thick rugs cushioned the marble beneath your sandals. a fountain flowed softly from a corner alcove, sweetening the air with the scent of roses and crushed mint.

it was a room fit for a queen. a room meant to impress you. to claim you. your fingers brushed the edge of one of the silken couches without thinking, grounding yourself against the overwhelming opulence.

behind you, you felt him move.

caleb walked past you, slow, deliberate, as if he owned not just the palace, but the air you breathed. he approached the bed, the heavy folds of his imperial cloak trailing behind him and he sat. the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly what power looked like when it chose to relax.

his arms rested loosely on his thighs, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you and he looked.

he let his gaze trace the length of you—lingering where the silk of your stola clung against the curve of your waist, where the fall of your veil left the slope of your neck bare. there was nothing hurried or shy in the way he took you in. just slow, heavy acknowledgment, like he was memorizing you before a battle he already knew he meant to win.

your throat tightened. the air between you grew heavier, woven with something thicker than perfume and sweeter than roses.

he sat there, unmoving, one hand resting loosely over his knee, his thumb absently brushing the fabric of his cloak. the silence stretched between you—long, velvet-thick, like the moments before a storm breaks.

**non-consensual scene**

then, his voice, low and unhurried:

"take off your stola."

the words landed like a stone dropped into still water. your breath caught in your throat. you stared at him, half expecting him to smirk, to let it hang there as a jest. but his face was unflinching—serious, intent, his gaze never wavering from yours.

you shifted slightly, the silk whispering against your skin as you crossed your arms tightly over your chest. confusion flickered across your features before you found your voice.

"i... i don’t understand," you said, trying for strength, but it wavered in the air between you. "why would you—" he leaned forward slightly, the chain at his throat catching the firelight, throwing a golden gleam across his breastplate.

"again," he said, softer this time, but no less commanding. "take it off."

your heart hammered against your ribs. you felt rooted to the spot—burning with shame, fear, something else you dared not name. every instinct screamed at you to run, to argue, to defy.

and yet…. your hands moved.

slow, trembling, you reached for the pin at your shoulder. the mother-of-pearl catch slipped free beneath your fingers, and the stola loosened, sliding down your arms in a whisper of silk. it pooled at your feet, leaving you bare, a shift barely meant for public eyes. the cool air kissed your bare skin, and you shivered—not from the chill, but from the unbearable weight of his gaze.

he simply looked. as if you were some sacred thing laid bare at an altar he had no intention of desecrating.

"beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself. "so beautiful."

you stood there, cheeks burning, arms crossed tightly over your chest, unable to meet his eyes.

he rose from the bed and walked. when he reached you, he didn't touch. he only tilted your chin up with two fingers, so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. his other hand gripping your crossed arms, gently— but with the same commanding tone— pulls your arm to your side, so your chest reveals itself to him.

"do not be shy of your body," he said, voice low and devastatingly tender. "the gods made you from fire and light. there is no shame in being seen."

your breath trembled in your throat. you didn't know if you wanted to cry or kiss him. maybe both.

he released your chin gently, his hand falling back to his side.

for a moment, neither of you moved.

the fire crackled low in the hearth, the silk of your discarded stola puddled at your feet like the shed skin of some softer, braver creature. his words still hung in the air—beautiful, worthy, seen—and you could feel them sinking into your skin, deeper than any wound.

you swallowed hard.

your hands moved instinctively, reaching down to gather the loose folds of your stola back into your arms. the silk felt different now—heavier, almost unfamiliar against your fingers, like a second skin you weren’t sure you wanted to wear again.

you kept your eyes lowered as you wrapped the fabric around your shoulders, hiding your bare arms, your trembling hands. pretending you could still be the girl who first stepped into this palace without knowing how quickly it would strip you bare.

he said nothing and he didn’t try to stop you. he only watched, silent as a blade sheathed just before the killing blow, the heat of his gaze never wavering even as you covered yourself again. you adjusted the drape of the stola with trembling fingers, willing your heart to slow, willing your knees not to give out under the sheer weight of what had just passed between you.

you felt his gaze slide over you once more—slow, reverent—and for a moment you hated how much you wanted him to look at you that way again.

how much you wanted to believe the things he said.

"rest," he said at last, his voice lower now, like the dying embers of a fire. "you’ll need it for what’s to come."

then, without another word, he turned and left, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft, decisive thud.

**end of scene**

the fire had burned low by the time you found yourself seated at the small writing table near the window, a wick dipped in tallow situated in the bronze base. the stola hung loose around your shoulders now, your hair undone, your skin still prickling from the memory of him standing so close. you grip the calamus as you take a deep breath, a hand that barely steadied itself, the familiar weight of the diary settling before you like an old, secret friend.

you stared at the blank page for a long time.

the sounds of the city floated faintly from beyond the balcony—distant laughter, the clatter of hooves against stone, the ever-present hum of life that never seemed to sleep here. you closed your eyes for a moment, breathing it in, grounding yourself in the strangeness of it all.

then, slowly, you began to write.

he looked at me like i was made of something holy. not silk. not gold. not treaties or thrones. just… me. i have never been seen like that before. and gods help me, it terrified me more than war ever could.

you paused, ink dripping once onto the corner of the page. you wiped it absently with your thumb, smearing it into a blackened bruise.

he asked me to bare myself. not just my body. my pride. my fear. my armor. and i did. and he did not strike.

you set the quill down gently, folding your hands in your lap as you stared at the words, as if they belonged to someone else.

you weren’t sure if it was love blooming beneath your ribs or the slow, soft beginning of your own undoing.

maybe both.

after you put your diary away you clear your throat, and stand up, adjusting any misplaced pins, and disheveledness, before you set out of your room— to tour yourself.

the morning light flooded the palace halls with a soft, golden haze, catching against the mosaics beneath your sandals and painting the marble columns in pale fire. caleb had left early for the senate, his cloak snapping behind him like a banner as he disappeared down the long corridor lined with statues of forgotten gods. you had been left to your own devices—an invisible suggestion from the chamberlain, a bow too deep to be anything but a dismissal—and so you wandered.

the corridors of the imperial residence stretched endlessly, grander than anything you had seen even in the temples of nabira. domed ceilings soared above you, frescoed with scenes of rome’s triumphs: legions crossing frozen rivers, emperors crowned by winged victories, prisoners kneeling in chains of gold. the walls themselves were art—veined marble from every corner of the empire, gilded friezes depicting battles you had only ever read of in dusty scrolls.

you drifted through them like a shadow.

past courtyards spilling over with citrus trees, the scent of lemon blossoms carried on every breeze. past open galleries where senators and noblemen clustered in whispered knots, robes brushing the floor like the tails of lazy hunting cats. the air smelled of oil and parchment and sun-warmed stone. every surface seemed alive—etched, woven, painted, built not just for function but for legacy, for memory, for fear.

in one chamber, you paused to admire a towering statue of mars—the god of war—his stone eyes forever locked in silent challenge. wreaths of laurel crowned his brow, and offerings of coin and wine pooled at his feet. you wondered briefly if caleb had knelt there once, as a boy, swearing himself to victories not yet earned.

the sound of fountains followed you from hall to hall, low and steady, a heartbeat threaded through the bones of the palace itself. servants moved quietly around you, their eyes averted, their faces carefully blank. even here, in the belly of power, no one spoke freely. you could feel it—the tension humming in the marble, the weight of unseen wars fought in glances and sealed letters.

you crossed a high balcony overlooking the forum and stopped, breath catching.

below, rome unfurled like a living tapestry: streets teeming with merchants shouting their wares, couriers dashing between columns, temples gleaming like crowns on the hillsides. everything moved. everything shone. it was too much, and yet not enough to fill the hollowness blooming quietly inside your chest.

you rested your hands lightly on the railing, feeling the sun warm your skin, watching the empire breathe beneath your fingertips.

you turned a corner near the peristyle garden, the scent of rosemary and crushed thyme thick in the air, when you nearly collided with her.

she was draped in scarlet silk, scandalously cut for the propriety of the palace—shoulders bare, golden chains glinting across her collarbone. dark hair coiled perfectly atop her head, earrings swinging as she tilted her face toward you with a slow, measuring look.

you knew who she was before she spoke.

the mistress.

the one they didn’t dare name at court, but whose presence clung to the halls like expensive perfume.

"princess," she said, voice curling around the title like a snake around a branch. she offered a slow, mocking curtsy—too low to be proper, too languid to be respectful. "i hope rome hasn’t proven too overwhelming for you. it can be… intense for those unaccustomed to civilization."

you lifted your chin, letting your gaze sweep over her—necklace, rings, the cut of her robe. beautiful, yes. polished. but everything about her was just a little too sharpened, too desperate to be seen… like a blade dulled from overuse.

"on the contrary," you said, voice soft but slicing clean as glass, "rome feels very much like the desert. beautiful from a distance. filled with things that bite when you walk too close."

her smile tightened, a flicker of irritation passing through her eyes. she stepped closer, the garden breeze catching the hem of her robe. "careful," she murmured. "the wind carries words here. even queens are not above the weight of a whisper."

you tilted your head slightly, studying her. poor thing. she thought herself as a queen.

"whispers–" you said, folding your hands neatly at your waist, " – do not dethrone those born to rule. they only gnaw at the feet of thrones, until they wear themselves to dust."

you watched the meaning sink into her—the slow, heavy realization that no matter how many nights she spent curled in the emperor’s bed, no matter how many secret smiles she stole, she would always be a shadow. a kept woman in a golden cage.

nothing more.

you inclined your head, gracious in a way that was somehow more cutting than any insult.

"good day," you said, voice like silk dipped in steel, then you turned, your sandals silent against the polished stone, leaving her standing alone among the rosemary, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

you walked away from the garden without looking back, the sting of lavender and crushed rosemary trailing behind you like the ghost of a battle you hadn't needed to draw blood to win. the stone corridor opened into a shaded courtyard, the breeze cooler here, the noise of the palace softened into distant murmurs.

and there, leaning casually against one of the marble columns, arms folded, watching with the faintest glint of amusement in his sharp eyes—

you hadn’t heard him approach. you hadn't seen him among the senators or the guards.

but he had seen you. he straightened slightly as you passed, falling into step beside you without being invited.

"that," he said under his breath, tone dry as the desert winds back home, "was brutal."

you glanced sideways at him, refusing to show the flicker of satisfaction warming your chest.

"i was polite," you said, prim as a temple maiden.

gideon’s mouth twitched.

"polite," he repeated, "if that was polite, i should pray never to see you lose your temper."

you said nothing.

“apologies, your highness, i am gideon. the praetorian prefect of emperor caleb.” his right hand.

you nod, introducing yourself and he gave a low chuckle—brief, rare—and for a moment, you realized something startling: maybe if you play your cards right, the right people will come to you.

he nods towards the front of you, and you follow quietly.

gideon led you through a quieter wing of the palace, the wide halls soft with filtered light where the scent of lemon oil and old stone clung to the air. the noise of the central courts faded behind you, replaced by the low murmur of fountains hidden somewhere beyond the walls. it was almost peaceful here—almost.

you walked a few steps apart, not quite companions yet, but not strangers either.

"it’s quieter here," he said after a long moment, his voice low, almost casual. "the senators don’t bother to climb the north wing unless there’s an audience to impress."

you glanced up at the high vaulted ceiling, frescoed with curling vines and myths you only half-recognized—gods chasing lovers across painted skies, heroes frozen in endless, reaching battles.

"it's beautiful," you said, softer than you meant.

gideon gave a small grunt— a thoughtful one at that.

"beautiful," he echoed. "annnd full of ghosts."

you looked over at him, curious despite yourself. he caught the glance and shrugged lightly, arms loose at his sides.

"this palace," he said, nodding toward the golden-lit walls, "was built on the backs of men who thought they would be remembered. most of them aren't. only the stones remember. only the stones ever last."

there was something in the way he said it—no bitterness. just the resigned wisdom of someone who had seen too much to bother with illusions.

you slowed your steps a little, letting the hush between you stretch comfortably. after a moment, you asked, "how long have you served him?" gideon glanced sideways at you, the corners of his mouth tilting up just slightly—more a twitch than a smile.

"since before he knew how to carry a sword properly," he said. "before he was emperor. before he was anything but a boy with fire in his eyes and too much weight on his back."

you let that sink in. there was no embellishment in his words. no polished court flattery. just simple, quiet loyalty etched into every syllable.

"he must trust you greatly," you said. gideon let out a low sound, somewhere between a breath and a laugh. "he doesn't trust easily," he said. "and he shouldn't. not here."

you turned your gaze back toward the mosaics as you walked, the images blurring softly at the edges of your vision.

"and do you trust him?" you asked, not expecting an answer, not really.

gideon was silent for a long moment.

then— "i trust him more than i trust this city," he said. "more than i trust the men who call themselves his friends."

you glanced at him again and he didn’t look at you. but there was something solid in his voice, something that settled in your chest like a stone dropped into a clear pool. trust wasn’t given lightly here. not by men like him and not to men like caleb.

you walked on together in the golden quiet, the first threads of an unlikely understanding weaving themselves between you—stronger than politics, quieter than loyalty.

something closer to respect.

you walked a few more steps in easy silence, the golden mosaics blurring past, the sounds of the city fading behind thick walls. it felt strangely like breathing freely for the first time since you arrived—no court games, no prying eyes. just the low hum of fountains and the quiet company of a man who owed you nothing, and yet did not seem to despise you for existing.

gideon slowed slightly, glancing toward a smaller archway where a column of ivy had begun to overtake the stone. the palace was ancient, after all. even marble bowed to time eventually.

"you should be careful," he said. you arched a brow, the edges of your veil catching the light.

"careful of what?" you asked. he gave a low grunt, folding his arms again loosely across his chest, gaze flickering over the courtyard as if taking its measure, and yours.

"the palace has teeth," he said "and some of them smile when they bite.." you considered him for a moment—the blunt honesty, the way he spoke not to frighten you, but to prepare you. he owed you no loyalty. not yet. and still…

you offered a small smile, the first genuine one you had worn since crossing the gates of rome. "i know how to deal with beasts." you said. gideon’s mouth twitched, that almost-smile ghosting back across his face, "good," he said. "but even wolves have to sleep sometime." he let the warning hang there a moment longer, then pushed lightly off the column, his armor creaking faintly.

"if you need a guide," he looked over his shoulder as he began to walk away, "find me. not all of us here are waiting to see you fall."

you watched him disappear down the corridor, the heavy hush closing around you again.

the last light of day bled across the marble floor of the curia, the senators’ shadows stretching long and thin against the columns as they murmured and bowed their way out. caleb sat still a moment longer after the hall emptied, the weight of the empire heavy across his shoulders, heavier than the gold stitched into his cloak. the business of governance was never clean; even victory tasted like ash when it was bartered over with words instead of swords.

he rose finally, the sound of his sandals sharp against the stone as he made his way back through the palace corridors, the halls quieter now, dipped in the thick velvet of approaching night. torchlight flickered low in the sconces, casting long ribbons of shadow across the walls. the guards posted along the path bowed but did not speak; they knew better.

his hand pressed to the heavy bronze door of his private quarters, pushing it open with a slow, familiar creak.

she was already there.

his mistress lounged across the low couch near the fire, clad in deep red silk, a cup of wine resting loosely in her hand. she didn’t rise at his entrance—only tilted her head to watch him, a small, knowing smile playing at her painted mouth. the firelight caught against the gold threaded into her hair, the rings heavy on her fingers, the faint scent of spiced oil clinging to the warm air.

waiting..expecting.

he closed the door behind him without a word, the tiredness sinking deeper into his bones with every step across the cool stone floor.

she swirled the wine lazily in her cup, the firelight catching the deep crimson liquid as she watched him shed the weight of his cloak, tossing it across the marble bench with a careless flick of his hand. he was massive, to say the least. like a sculpture from the gods. rippling pectorals, abs that could make mars jealous. he didn’t look at her. not yet. but that never stopped her from talking.

"your desert flower has thorns," she said lightly, voice threading through the room like smoke. "i met her today."

he said nothing, only unbuckled the straps of his armor with slow, methodical precision, the soft scrape of leather filling the heavy silence.

"very proud," she continued, smiling over the rim of her cup. "very sharp-tongued. you would think she already ruled this palace, the way she carries herself."

caleb set the breastplate aside with a soft thud, the muscles of his back rippling as he moved. still silent.

"pretty, i suppose," she added, voice dipping into something sweeter, stickier. "if you like a girl who glares at the world as if daring it to disappoint her."

he turned then, slow and deliberate, leveling her with a look that made the words wither on her tongue.

"i do," he said.

just two words, but they landed heavy between them, cracking the careful artifice she wore like a second skin. she shifted slightly on the couch, the smile tightening, the cup lowering.

"you can dress a merchant’s daughter in silk and jewels," she said, voice tilting harder now, "but it won't make her an empress."

he moved closer, each step measured, like he was deciding if he wanted to waste breath at all.

"she was born to rule long before she crossed my gates," caleb said quietly, the edge of command slipping back into his voice, colder than the marble underfoot. "nabira shaped her. blood shaped her. not rome. not me."

he stopped a few paces away, arms folding loosely across his chest, gaze cutting through the firelight.

"remember your place," he added, voice low, unflinching. "i will not hear another word against her."

for a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire, the distant murmur of rome breathing beyond the palace walls. she looked away first, fingers tightening slightly around the stem of the cup.

he didn’t smile— he didn’t gloat. he simply turned from her, dismissing the conversation as easily as a general dismissing a soldier unfit for the next battle.

the knock was barely more than a brush of knuckles against wood—soft enough you almost thought you imagined it. you were seated near the low table by the window, playing your fingers into your hair.

before you could answer, the door eased open.

caleb stepped inside, the torchlight catching across bare skin, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.

he wore only his dark linen trousers, the fabric hanging low across the sharp lines of his hips, secured by a simple leather girdle. his feet were still sandaled, dust from the courtyard clinging faintly to the worn straps. the bronze glint of his signet ring caught the light as he closed the door behind him with a soft click, sealing the two of you into a silence too thick to be casual.

he was stripped of the crown, the cloak, the trappings of empire. no armor now. no laurel leaves. just a man built from war and sun and the slow brutality of expectation.

his skin was tanned gold from years spent under open skies, marred here and there by scars—some pale with age, others still red at the edges. across his chest, the muscles flexed easily with every breath he took, the remnants of long campaigns and harder victories written into the planes of his body. his personal favorite— the scar running down his abs. (kinda proud of this paragraph.. WOOF WOOF)

he didn’t speak at first.

he only looked at you, standing just inside the door, the firelight throwing long shadows across his jaw, his throat, the taut line of his abdomen. his hair was mussed, still damp from a rushed wash, the scent of cedar and smoke clinging faintly to him.

"am i interrupting?" he asked, voice low, rough at the edges like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

you shook your head before you could think better of it. then he crossed the room slowly. he stopped a few feet away, close enough that the heat of him brushed against your skin, prickling up your arms.

he stayed close, but not so close you felt cornered. he simply shifted his weight, sandals whispering against the cool stone as he settled his arms loosely at his sides, the last of the firelight gilding the sharp lines of his collarbone.

for a moment, neither of you spoke, then, almost tentatively, he broke the silence.

"tell me about nabira," he said, voice low, but earnest in a way that didn’t quite fit the armor he usually wore around himself. "i’ve read the reports. the scrolls. heard the merchants brag about your jewels, your caravans."

his gaze lifted, catching yours, and without missing a beat,"but i want to hear it from you." you blinked, startled not by the question, but by the softness of it. by the way he asked—not as an emperor gathering intelligence, but as a man reaching for something real.

you eased down onto the cushioned bench by the window, gathering your stola tighter around your shoulders, grounding yourself against the rush of memory.

"nabira," you said slowly, as if tasting the word anew, "is a grand kingdom.."

he tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering across his face, "the desert gives nothing freely," you continued. "every orchard, every fountain, every drop of water….it’s fought for. coaxed from the bones of the earth with patience and prayer. we build with what will not break. we worship the sun because we have learned not to fear it."

you paused, fingers brushing lightly across the embroidery at your sleeve before continuing,"it is a hard place," you said softly, "but it is a beautiful one. the kind of beauty you have to bleed for."

he listened without interrupting, without looking away, as if each word you offered was something rare, something to be stored and guarded.

"i would like to see it," he said finally, voice roughened at the edges by something you couldn’t name. "someday." you smiled small, but real.

"nabira does not bend easily to outsiders," you said, "even emperors." he gave a low, genuine laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest, softening something sharp inside you.

"good," he murmured. "neither do you." the compliment hung between you, heavier than any jewel he could have draped across your throat.

you looked away first, not because you were afraid—but because you could feel yourself beginning to slip, beginning to soften under the weight of something far more dangerous than politics.

he lingered near the window now, resting one hand lightly on the carved frame, his body half-turned toward you. outside, the last colors of sunset had faded into deep blue, the first stars pricking the sky like cautious promises.

for a few heartbeats, he said nothing, only traced the line of a distant constellation with his eyes.

then, quieter: "what was it like… before all this?" you looked up from the slow knot you were twisting into the edge of your sleeve, caught slightly off guard by the question.

"before treaties. before politics. before you had to sit in rooms full of old men weighing your worth in silk and alliances."

you blinked, unsure for a moment what to even say. it felt like another life already.

but something in the way he asked—low, not demanding, not prying—made you answer.

"it was simpler," you said carefully. "i rode across the desert at sunrise. i learned the trade routes by the time i could walk without falling. my brother taught me how to haggle with caravans and how to spot a liar in a court full of gold-tongued men."

you let the smallest smile ghost across your mouth. "i wasn’t always tucked behind veils."

he watched you with an intensity that might have unnerved you if it came from anyone else. but with him, it just pressed heavier against your ribs, making your next breath slower to take.

he opened his mouth again, as if to ask something deeper. but you leaned forward slightly, tilting your head, your voice soft but sharp enough to cut silk.

"why do you want to know these things, caleb?" the way you said his name—without titles, without fanfare—made something flicker across his face. not anger. something closer to being caught off-guard. for a long moment, he said nothing.

then he pushed off the window frame and crossed to you, the space between you narrowing until you could smell the faint traces of cedar and smoke lingering on his skin.

he stopped just short of touching you. his voice was low when he answered, rough with something too raw to be polished into courtier’s words.

"because i need to know," he said. "not just who i’m marrying. but who stands beside me. who might one day stand against me."

you held his gaze, steady as a blade between ribs. you tilted your head just slightly, letting the dim firelight catch against the gold threads embroidered along your stola. you didn’t retreat from him. didn’t stiffen like a frightened court girl desperate to please.

instead, you smiled your face just barely colliding.

"so you wish to map me like a new province," you said, voice soft and amused, like you were indulging the curiosity of a child. "draw my rivers, measure my walls, learn where the ground turns soft beneath your boots."

he didn’t move. he only watched you, every muscle in his body wound tight beneath the surface, as if unsure whether to laugh—or to lunge.

you rose from the bench slowly, the silk of your stola sliding down your frame like water over stone, and stepped closer until you could feel the warmth of him bleeding into your skin.

your fingers lifted—not to touch him, but to hover just over the line of his jaw, tracing the air between you with a feather-light flirtation that never quite made contact.

"you would find me difficult to conquer, emperor," you murmured. "i do not yield to swords."

the ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the first true crack in that perfect imperial mask, "no," he said, voice low, roughened. "you wouldn’t." your smile deepened, sharp as the glint of a knife beneath a silk veil.

"and would it not be sweeter," you said, tilting your face up so that your breath stirred the space between you, "to have something that chose to stand beside you, rather than something beaten into submission?"

his breath hitched—so subtle most men would have missed it, but you saw, and for a moment, standing there between the dying fire and the cold pull of duty.

you let the space hum between you a moment longer, savoring the tension that coiled in the air like a drawn bow.

then, before he could answer, you dropped a graceful curtsy—a bow both elegant and mocking—and turned from him, a satisfaction placed on your facade as you walked out of the room.

when you were out of sight your eyes widen. staring at your palms you noticed how sweaty it was. you were gasped for air, as you swallowed hard. it took some gracious strength not to cave in front of him, but you sighed— thanking the gods for being able to survive that.

you beelined it outside.

the air outside was sharper, cooler. the courtyard stretched wide beneath the bruised sky, the last hues of twilight sinking into the marble. a low hum of voices floated up from the gates—noblemen, senators, dignitaries stepping down from their raedas, their servants scattering like flies to carry trunks and herald banners.

you lingered in the shadow of a colonnade, drawing a steadying breath, letting the hush of the evening slip against your skin.

and then—you saw him.

tall. robed in deep black that swallowed the light, the embroidery at the edges catching only the faintest glint of silver. a diadem rested low across his forehead, a thin, elegant circlet that gleamed like a sliver of moon. his hair was white, disheveled carelessness that no roman noble would dare wear in public. he moved through the gathered men like a blade slipping between.

your eyes caught his, just for a moment and you froze.

his gaze was a shock—red as coals banked under ash, gleaming with something sharp and knowing. he smirked when he saw you—amused— intrigued?

your heart gave a single hard beat against your ribs. you looked away first, heat prickling up the back of your neck, and turned, gathering your stola tighter around your shoulders as you slipped back into the palace’s shadowed halls.

you did not glance back.

but you felt his gaze linger long after you disappeared.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @rcvcgers, @collarteraldamage, @wind-canoe, @unstablemiss, @zaynesdesimc, @r0ckb1n, @pirana10, @miuangel, @cherrywinetuscany, @yourhornysister,

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rogue-durin-16 · 9 days ago

Text

HEAD-TO-HEAD (part XVIII/?)

Summary: Joe thought she was pretty. Had he just said that, things might have been different for them. Maybe they wouldn't have gone head-to-head at each other for three years like it was a contest.

Pairing: Joseph Liebgott x Reader

Genre: angst splattered with fluff/rivals to lovers

Tags:

Head-to-head: @derersketnoget @ladystardustfromarss @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @sxalbatf @jetjuliette @luvrottt @fromjupitertocentauri @ecompstolemysoul @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @bitter-post-millennial @gotxpenny

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Warnings: language, smoking, warfare, gore

A/N: I might or might not be MILDLY dtunk while finishing this part which is SUPER FUNNY considering the amount of time jumping we're about to go through in this chapter. Enjoy <3

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The choir's soft harmonies filled the room with a kind of warmth we weren't used to. French lyrics carried a bittersweet weight that settled over what remained of Easy like a fragile truce. The candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting shadows no one would want to stare at for too long.

Y/n sat one row before me, one knee brought up to her chest like she was still bracing for something. She absentmindedly hummed along, begging the music to tether her to reality.

We had lost so much to the Ardennes, and I couldn't help the awful feeling that we had lost her too—that she had left her soul buried in Muck and Penkala's foxhole.

I leaned forward on my forearms over the pews' backrest, right by her figure. She didn't notice. "You know the song?" I whispered, trying to start the conversation somewhere.

"Hm?" She looked to the side to meet my profile.

"The song."

"Oh." She shook her head no, pulling at her sleeves. "Just picked up on the melody."

I nodded, eyes casted down, giving up on the smalltalk faster than I had resolved on attempting it in the first place. Who was I kidding, really? It would've been easier to throw myself in front of a grenade.

"Penny for your thoughts?" She tried, dulled by the gory, deadly winter in a way that made my heart break.

"You did good yesterday." She spoke, as if she had read my mind.

A scoff. Barely there. "You'd need more than a penny."

The corner of her lips twitched into a grimace of discomfort. It wasn't even close to pity, I knew she would never do that to me, but it felt equally uncomfortable.

"Doesn't feel like I did."

"Doesn't matter how it feels." The woman insisted with the little resolve she had left. "You did."

"Yeah, well," I exhaled through my nose, shoving down the memory as soon as I felt it creep up, rotting in my chest. "Tell that to Hale."

Noville, One Day Earlier

The barn creaked under the weight of an ominous silence. We had six of them. Hands up, hollow-eyed, SS uniforms stiff with cold. One of them couldn't have grown a beard if he tried. They had surrendered easy the moment Hale and I ducked into the place for cover with nothing but adrenaline running through our veins.

"Watch 'em." Earl muttered, losing no time before stepping forward to pat them down, my M1 steadily aimed at the POWs, eyes bouncing from one pair of blank, sunken faces to the next.

The Sergeant didn't make it past the third man when it hit. An explosion. Close. Violent. The barn shook—beams above us shuddering, hay scattering. Dirt spat from the ground. Shrapnel digging through wood and flesh. Hale's flesh.

Movement ensued before I could clock it.

One of the prisoners slammed into the paratrooper with a flash of metal. The blur of a blade, soon stained with crimson; the same crimson seeping down Hale's neck.

"Fuck-" I moved before I thought.

Bang!

The German officer's skull snapped sideways, blood painting the straw.

Another Kraut reached for something—belt, boot, didn't matter, I couldn't afford finding out.

Bang. Bang. Bang—

I didn't stop until they were all down. Bodies jerking before going limp. The ringing in my ears faded just enough to hear —wet, gasping, Earl choking on his own blood. He clutched his neck, eyes wide.

"Shit—hold on, you hear me? hold on—MEDIC!" I dropped to my knees, hands clamping over the wound, pressure useless. Blood gushed, hot and slick, slipping between my fingers. "MEDIC! GODDAMNIT—ROE!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"He'll live." Y/n reminded me quietly, toying with the rusted buckle of one of her straps. She didn't get a reply from me, but I doubted she expected one in the first place.

We let the choir fill the silence for a little while, no words spoken between us for a change. She tried once, parting her lips in vain just to shut them again, drawing both knees to her chest instead, the muddy boots dirtying the pews.

The back of my index finger brushed the side of her shoulder, bringing her startled glance first to the gesture, then to me. "Still hurts?"

She rolled her shoulder subconsciously. "No, not really."

"Yeah?"

She seemed to reconsider her answer, scrunching up her nose before correcting herself. "It's bearable."

Foy, Three Days Earlier

READER'S P. O. V.

"I've been working on the railroad,"

"All the live long day!"

Someone had started singing for the damn camera rolling before us. The rest followed, like a group of idiots too high on relief to care how off-key we sounded, perched on top of some farmer's wagon like the war hadn't chewed us down to the bone.

"I've been working on the railroad," an arm draped over my shoulders, bringing me closer to the men I sang along with. "Just to pass the time aw—"

A bullet cut through the joy, straight into the chest of the man beside me. Then another one, not even a breath after, knocking down another soldier off the wagon.

"SNIPER!!"

Another shot.

"TAKE COVER!"

My boots, dangling, kicked Alley's back to make him duck. The next bullet grazed my cheek; a reminder that I was running out of time. I instinctively threw myself back and down to the hard ground. White-hot pain lanced through my shoulder as it wrenched back, the joint popping with a sickening crack. I rolled, teeth bared in a strangled gasp while the chaos wrapped us all in tragedy once again.

More shots. Ours, theirs. An arm hooked under my good one, dragging me off the frozen dirt and into the cover of a half-demolished shed.

Rushed, incautious hands patted my face, my arms, my torso, checking for something that wasn't there before I even realized who they belonged to.

"You got hit?!" Joe questioned without ceasing his task, both of our hearts pounding like war drums.

"It's the shoulder—"

"Where?!" Joe pulled at my coat, triggering a wince out of me. "Can't see—"

"Not shot." I denied with my head, clutching the limp arm to my chest "Shit- it's out."

At the statement, Joe's frantic movements slowed down, and so seemed to do the mayhem surrounding us. He breathed in, brows drawn and palms hovering as he assessed the situation.

"We gotta put it back."

"Do it." I didn't miss a beat, biting the inside of my cheek to stop my determination from faltering when he took a firm hold of the dislocated articulation.

"On three."

I nodded.

He didn't count, just pushed—sharp, quick, brutal. I bit back a scream, jolting forward ever so slightly when my shoulder popped back in, the rush of pain giving way to a slight tremor, making my upper body quiver against the cracked wall.

"You're fine." He assured, letting his touch linger a bit longer than necessary. I didn't call him out on it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You should've gone to the aid station." Joe kept his eyes on the choir, as if he wasn't really talking to me and he had just voiced an afterthought.

"I will."

"It's been three days, Y/n."

I sighed, staring past him when he decided to try and meet my eyes with that exhausted, nonsense look he had these days. "I'll go tomorrow. They're pulling us back anyway."

He didn't argue.

The song faded out, leaving only soft whispers of gratitude and the faint crackle of candlelight to fill the space as the nuns distributed whatever they could gather up to feed us—bread, some cheese, water; more than we had expected.

Joe waited until one of the Sisters handed us the improvised foodstuffs to speak again, tentative, pretending to take interest in something across from him.

"We should talk."

Right.

"I really don't feel like it." I muttered, picking at the piece of stale bread.

"You promised."

"I know," I felt his piercing eyes digging into my slouched figure. "Just— not now."

There was a beat of quiet; a pause.

I knew that pause. He was winding up, gathering breath, sharpening words like knives out of frustration or pique. Before he could let them fly, though, Ramirez shifted behind me.

"Let's go for a smoke." he pushed off the pew and patted Joe's arm. A cautionary gesture for his friend not to start anything in a damn church. "C'mon, Lieb."

He hesitated, just for an instant, considering whether or not having to explain whatever this was to Speirs out of everyone would be worth it.

He decided against it, following Ramirez outside, hissing something under his breath; unintelligible words I was glad not to catch.

JOE'S P. O. V.

The night was unsurprisingly colder outside, but I welcomed it. It made for a good excuse to why my hands were shaking. Ramirez lit my cigarette before lighting his own and leaned against the convent's stone wall, shoulder to shoulder with mine, letting the smoke sit in silence between us.

"Could sleep for a week." He muttered, his left thumb distractedly brushing a burn hole in his glove.

"No kidding." I answered, my eyes trained on the cobblestone path and my mind too far away from reality to notice the door creaking open again.

"Oh, shit." Ramirez cursed, tired, pushing himself off the wall.

The air seem to recoil when my gaze landed on Chuck. I could feel it tighten in my chest, in my jaw, in the grip I had on my cigarette.

"Fuckin'— Really?" I turned half-away, shifting my weight, not able to tell if I was about to bolt or pull something that would get us both court-martialled.

Ramirez glanced at both of us once, then wordlessly tossed his cigarette, grinding it out under his boot. "You two need a damn priest." He announced dryly and, without waiting for a response, rushed back in.

I didn't have time to go after him.

"Can we talk?"

Grant stood a few feet away, hands jammed in his jacket pockets, like he was testing the ground before each step. I couldn't help but notice his nose was now slightly crooked, nor the faintest shadow of what had been a bad bruise still adorning his jaw.

"Doesn't look like I got a fuckin' choice."

He hesitated, then took a step closer, leaving enough space for me not to feel caged— to stop me from recoiling and lashing out like a wounded animal.

"You been dodging me." He laid it out for me flat and simple, making it impossible for me to even entertain the option of deflecting.

"Good catch." I took a drag, clenching and unclenching my free fist to get rid of the restlessness. "Always knew you were sharp."

"I'm sorry," he started, not willing to relent despite my hostility. "for what happened."

I scoffed, lacking any trace of humor. "That all?"

"Look, I should've said something sooner—"

"Yeah," I cut in, trying to speed up a conversation I wasn't ready for just yet, but that was happening nevertheless. "You should've said something, 'cause you're supposed to be my fucking friend."

Something about what I said —or how I said it—, ticked him, and I watched in real time how Chuck pondered if I deserved patience in the first place.

"I keep something to myself and you try to knock my teeth out?"

I pulled a moue with a shrug. "Maybe I should've aimed better."

"Are you shitting me?"

"You know what's fucked? That you" I snapped, pointing the half smoked cigarette at him. "knew. That we went through this shit already. And you clearly didn't give a damn."

He took another step closer, trying to bridge the distance I was putting between us. "That's not fair. I do give—"

"Fuck you."

Fort Benning, Two Years Earlier

"You're gonna keep pretending I don't exist, or…?" Grant's voice drifted over like he'd been standing there a while.

My boots on the step below, elbows to my knees, cigarette burning low in my fingers—I stared at the gravel, jaw tight, chest tighter.

"Joe, c'mon, it's been a week."

Cigarette smoke floated in lazy spirals above the bleachers outside the barracks. A couple guys tossed a football around before us. I wasn't looking at them, and I surely wasn't looking at the man standing at my left either.

I felt him sit down beside me, not too close. "Can you at least look at me?"

I took a slow drag and blew it out through my nose, silently shutting down his request. Grant rubbed the back of his neck.

"I don't get why you're so worked up about me kissing—"

"Because I wanted to, alright?" I finally turned to face him, a bit bitter, a bit hurt. "I was going to. Maybe. Try to, at least." I exhaled through my nose, searching for something to focus on other than the funny feeling twisting my guts. "Doesn't matter anyway, 'cause you beat me to it. Didn't have to try too hard either."

The silence that followed was deafening. Chuck didn't say anything for a second. He took the time to turn the words over in his head like they couldn't possibly mean what they sounded like.

"You never said anything."

"Didn't fucking feel like I needed to." I flicked the ashes off cigarette.

Chuck shifted beside me, the wood creaking beneath his weight. "I didn't know."

I scoffed. "That's bullshit." My voice wasn't loud, but it didn't need to be in order to cut like a blade. "So don't act like I'm pissed off for fun, okay? You know what you did. Everyone in that room knew what you did. At least own up to it."

Chuck froze, caught between blinking and breathing. I tossed the cigarette to the ground and stood up. I could have said more, but it seemed uncalled for, so I simply walked off to someplace else— anywhere but sitting with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chuck didn't say anything right away. He just stood there, shoulders drawn up like he thought I might take a swing again.

I took a step back for safe measure, staring off at the town engulfed in darkness and ruin.

"I didn't mean for it to go that way," he tried, repentance plastered all over his nuanced apology. "You know that."

I didn't answer.

"I wasn't trying to… I don't know," he pulled his coat tighter around him while he dug for the right words. "steal something from you."

Not the right words.

I almost flinched at his sentence. Steal. As if she was mine to begin with. "That what you think this is?"

He scratched at his temple, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I crossed a line, I get that."

"Good to know."

Chuck sighed, nearing desperation at my blasé attitude. "It's not like I'm in love with her, Joe."

In love. I squinted my eyes at my friend feeling the knot in my throat tighten, the slightest feeling of uneasiness installing itself in my chest. "Who said shit about love?"

"I did." He doubled down, softer than I was comfortable with.

"You feel something for her?" I blurted out before I could stop myself. I barely had time to brace for his reply.

"Not like you do."

That landed harder than I'd ever admit out loud. I breathed out, trying to placate the nausea I was beginning to feel.

"You think she feels something for you?" I was thinking out loud, too in my head to process the door I had just opened, too scared to know the answer.

Silence followed. Vacillation. I furrowed at Grant. By the time he did open his mouth, I had made up my mind.

"Forget it."

"Joe—"

"Doesn't matter." I cut him off, flicking the rest of my cigarette to the snow-covered ground. "Got bigger shit to worry about." I crushed the stub beneath my boot, harsher than necessary and left him standing there, blinking like he'd just watched something slip further than he meant it to.

Maybe he had. Maybe we all had.

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