#Slow moving Senate

[thebearer]

nothing in the world belongs to me |carmen berzatto x reader|

prompt: still new in your relationship, you show up to the bear for dinner unexpectedly, surprising carmen and the others.

based off this prompt from the other day :)

contains: fluff lol. really, it's just fluff. established-ish relationship (the others don't know). carmen being a little nervous and possessive but mainly cute <3 language.

“Alright, listen up,” Richie stood next to Sydney, flicking through the piles of tickets that were ringing through by the second. It was normal now, an expected task in their routine. “We need to walk the focaccia to table seven, please.” 

“Yes, Chef!” A chorus of nearly robotic voices rose from the sizzling hiss of the lamb searing in Carmen’s pan, lifting the spatula to tip the meat over, before giving it back to the chef on the line. 

“And for table nine, we’ve got a shellfish allergy, alright? So let’s triple check the cross contamination on that. T, can you handle that one?” Richie moved from his leather bound book of notes back to the ticket. 

“Yes, Chef!” Tina chimed, pulling a freshly washed pan, filling it with the veal stock. 

“Table nine, is that- that’s the senator?” Carmen turned to Richie, tasting the roux bubbling on Victoria’s station, giving her a curt nod of approval. 

“No, that’s table eleven.” Richie hummed, looking back at his notebook. “Nine, is… a birthday. Booked online.” Carmen had already begun to drone him out, mind racing with a million other things as Richie listed the guests name. Until he got to one. 

The name Carmen was sure he was hallucinating. The name no one knew- How would they know? How could they possibly know your name? 

You and Carmen had been seeing each other for a little while. A few weeks that were slowly turning into months. A casual thing that was slowly turning more serious. Dates and meetups are becoming more frequent. You’d even invited him over to your place a few times, he’d spent the night last week. 

Still, Carmen hadn’t managed to tell anyone. Selfishly, he liked that you were all his for now. Privacy was not guaranteed in the Berzatto house, in Carmen’s life still. He knew they meant well, they always did- he knew it wasn’t purposeful, the intrusion that almost always led to a demise. Carmen wasn’t ready for it, not yet, he still wanted you all to himself. 

“Carmen?” Sydney’s voice pulled him out of his panicked trance. “Chef, are you- are you good?” Her voice lilted with that familiar suspicious quip, the one always accompanied with her lifted brows. 

“What?” Carmen blinked, hands buzzing, heart thumping. He could see the window, Richie’s frame blocking most of it. “Sorry, yeah- yeah, I’m good, Chef.” 

Sydney watched him carefully, a slow nod before she continued calling out orders. Carmen could feel Richie’s eyes on him, narrowed with curiosity. Carmen tried to be nonchalant, crossing the kitchen back towards Tina, his eyes cutting carefully, looking out the window. 

There you were. 

Sitting pretty at the middle table, surrounded by friends, some Carmen recognized from your Instagram. He’d actually logged in to the app, looked you up after the first date, consumed every photo of yours in the dark of his room. Cheeks burning with excited heat, stomach fluttering in a way he hadn’t felt since junior high. 

“Alright, walk five salads to nine.” Sydney called out. “Where’s our runners? God, Richie, can you run-” 

“-I got it.” Carmen called, the urgency in his tone making Tina jump behind him. Carmen took the tray before Gary could, his hands shaking as he lifted it. 

“Cousin, I can get it.” Richie frowned. 

“No, I-I got it.” Carmen nodded, swallowing down his fluttering nerves. His eyes cut to your table through the window, heart skipping when he saw you. “I got it. I’ll be- I’ll just be a second.” 

“I don’t- I can’t even handle that one right now.” Sydney sighed in exasperation. “Alright, Chefs. Let’s get back on track.” She announced, shaking her head. Richie frowned, pulling out his phone. 

Sugar’s cell buzzed against the hostess stand, excusing herself to check it. 

From: Richie 

‘Look at table nine.’ 

Sugar huffed. 

To: Richie 

‘Why? Is there something wrong?’ 

She stepped back, casually turning to scan the room, eyes landing on the table. A small group of girls, younger, and amongst them- Carmen? 

To: Richie 

‘Is something wrong with the food? Do I need to comp it?’ 

From: Richie 

‘No. Cousin wanted to go out there.’ 

Sugar frowned, angling her body behind the large plant near the front as casually as she could. She watched through the leaves as Carmen passed out the salads, each girl grinning widely, but their eyes always cut to one on the end. 

Carmen saved your salad for last, hoping the lowlights of the restaurant would hide his boyish blush, setting the bowl in front of you carefully. “Hey,” 

“Hi,” You smiled sheepishly, looking to meet his gaze. “Everything looks so good.” 

“Yeah? Thanks.” Carmen nodded. “I-I didn’t know you were comin’ tonight.” 

“I’m sorry.” You cringed softly, embarrassed heat flooding through your veins. You knew better, knew you shouldn’t have done this- showed up at his restaurant unannounced. 

“I, uh, it’s my friend’s birthday.” You nodded towards Alicia at the end of the table. “And I was telling them about that pasta you made me, and they really wanted to come try it.” Your nerves bubbled, rambling in nervous peals that seemed to pour out before you could stop them.  

“Yeah, no, that’s really nice. Thank you.” Carmen nodded, giving a half smile to your friends, hoping they didn’t see the way he wiped his clammy hands on his apron. “Why didn’t- Why didn’t you just call me? Tell me you were comin’ in.” 

“I didn’t want to bother you.” You muttered softly. “I honestly didn’t think you’d even see us here, I swear. I didn’t mean to bother you or anything-” 

“-You’re not bothering me.” Carmen’s voice dropped to a coo, accompanied with a soft smile that had your head spinning. “Never a bother, but, uh, next time? Bother me, ok? Wanna make sure you get the best seat in the house.” 

Your cheeks flushed with heat, your friends excited giggles only intensifying the rushing heat blanketing over your body. Carmen’s own cheeks heated, tongue rolling on the inside of his cheek to hide his grin. 

“Alright?” Carmen added, and in a complete act of shocking boldness, his hand squeezed your shoulder affectionately. A small gesture on the outside, but for Carmen, it was huge. 

“Alright.” You grinned, leaning into his touch, your hands sliding over his. 

“How’s everything so far?” Carmen turned to the table, nodding at the excited gushes of compliments, not missing the way your friends cut their eyes to you with animated glee. 

“Just let me know if you need anything, ok?” Carmen turned to you.

“I will.” You nodded, starry eyed with love sick affection. 

“Good. I’ll see you before you leave, alright?” Carmen muttered, ducking down towards you. His lips brushed over your cheek, your perfume clouding his senses. “You’re not botherin’ me. ‘M glad you’re here.” 

Your cheek pressed to his, a gentle, affectionate rub before Carmen parted. Both of your features painted with shy delight. 

Carmen could feel everyone’s eyes, through flickering gazes and lifted brows. Sydney’s gaze lingering over him skeptically, still counting tickets. Fak’s wide grin from the corner, loading trays to take out. 

“Hey, uh, Marcus.” Carmen ignored Richie’s raised brows, a teasing, questioning remark on the tip of his tongue. 

“Yes, Chef?” Marcus muttered, looking up from the cannolis he was garnishing. 

“Table nine has a birthday. I was thinkin’ maybe the chocolate ganache, punch it with the little circle to make it look like a cake. Add a candle?” Carmen muttered, hand rubbing across his face. 

“Yeah, Chef, I can do that.” Marcus nodded. 

“Thank you.” Carmen nodded. “And Chef? Let me know when it’s ready before you walk it.” 

Marcus frowned. “No, it’s not- I just wanna walk it, ok?” Carmen shook his head. 

“Alright.” Marcus nodded slowly. “Heard, Chef.” 

Richie smirked, leaning against the stainless steel table. “So,” Richie hummed. “There a complaint or somethin’? Need me to go talk to ‘em-” 

“-No,” Carmen snapped, the possessiveness in his tone startling the both of them. “Sorry, it’s- No, I-I don’t need you to do that, Chef. Everything’s good.” 

Richie nodded slowly, passing the dishes to Gary with a nod. “You gonna tell me what that was about?” 

“No, Chef.” Carmen clipped, an edge to his tone that was teetering on annoyed. “But, uh, there’s not gonna be a check on table nine.” 

“What?” Richie frowned. “Did you mess somethin’ up? Seriously, Cousin, if something's wrong it’s my job to know-” 

“-No, it’s not-.” Carmen huffed, eyes pinching closed, running a hand over his face in frustration. “Look, that’s… The girl on the end? I-I’ve been kinda seein’ her, ya know?” He muttered. 

Richie gawked, blinking in disbelief. “No shit.” He grinned. “No shit? You-You’re serious?” He turned to look out the window. 

“Don’t fuckin’ look.” Carmen hissed. “Look, it-it’s not a big deal, alright? Just don’t-don’t say anything o-or do anything.” 

Richie swallowed back a teasing remark, a reactive reaction from years of being with Mikey. How the two of them used to tease Carmen endlessly, until they were fighting on the front lawn, Mikey howling with laughter while Carmen was red faced with mortified anger. 

This time, Richie held back. He wasn’t sure why, call it divine intervention, a gut feeling maybe, but it felt different this time. 

“Alright.” Richie nodded slowly. “No ticket for nine. Heard.” 

Carmen’s foot tapped anxiously. “I mean, right? Th-That’s what I should do right?” Carmen looked over his shoulder out the window. “That would be shitty to give her a check? Be a complete jagoff move to charge her?” 

“Yeah,” Richie scoffed lightly. “Jagoff of the fuckin’ year. Makin’ your girl pay to come to your place.” 

Carmen’s heart swelled at the term- your girl. His girl. You were his girl. 

“Walk four Pappardelle to nine. Walk one Pappardelle vegetarian style to nine.” Sydney called. 

Carmen dipped the spoon in the glaze, garnishing the plate before sliding it towards Sydney. “So, you gonna take these out?” He muttered. 

“No,” Carmen huffed. “Gonna wait until the cake.” 

“Yeah, good idea, Cousin.” Richie nodded with a proud smile. “That when you’re gonna tell them no check tonight?” 

“No,” Carmen shook his head. “I don’t- It would feel weird comin’ from me.” He looked up at Richie. “I was gonna let you do it.” 

“Yeah, I can handle that.” Richie smirked. “And I won’t say anything, Cousin.” He stopped Carmen before he could say it. “I got you, Cousin. I won’t fuck it up, alright?” 

Carmen nodded slowly, a strangled thank you on the tip of his tongue. The door swung open behind Richie, and for a second, Carmen caught a glimpse of you. Smiling and laughing, leaned in over the table, no doubt giggling with your friends about him. Carmen’s heart squeezed, but this time, without fear. No, there was no dooming fear that you were mocking him, making fun of him. This time, he felt the content rush of adrenaline filled love. A change in his routine, yes. Unexpected, sure, but he was glad for it. Glad that you were there- here, with him.

[radawaycunt]

Imperator

Also on AO3

Pairing: Lucius Verus Aurelius x Fem!Reader

WC: 6.7k words

Summary: Once, you only had the memory of the curious barbarian poet, entertaining guests at a party with both violence and verse. But it's not until you see him again, now as emperor, that you get to know the man underneath the titles.

Warnings: Minors DNI this fic is 18+, power imbalance (emperor/servant to freedwoman), mutual pining, slow-ish burn, sort of forbidden love?, lots and lots of fluff good lord, some jealousy, some angst, lovey dovey smut, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), maybe some historical inaccuracies lol (I care a lot okay), and iii think that's it but lmk if anything else!

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"Love will enter cloaked in friendship's name."

– Ovid.

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“The gates of hell are open night and day. Smooth the descent, and easy is the way. But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labor lies.”

That was the first time you had ever heard him speak, the deep timbre of his voice riddled with contempt. Moments before, he had killed another gladiator, his blood spattered on him like a gruesome adornment. But there was no savagery in his fierce eyes, no mere bloodthirst in the sneer directed at Emperor Geta, your Dominus. His glare was even, like a cold, blue flame that promised not just violence, but retribution as well.

You’d recognized the poem immediately, just as taken aback as everyone else. Nobody moved, the room’s collective breath held in anticipation of the inevitable repercussions of such an offense. Emperor Geta made the slightest move to raise his sword and you gripped the decanter of wine tighter, but your face remained impassive.

“Virgil,” supplied Macrinus, trying to placate him with a broad smile. “He was taught poetry just to amuse you, Imperators.”

There was another momentary pause in which neither twin was sure if they should believe him. But then, Caracalla snorted, standing up to clap the taller man’s shoulder.

“A poet,” He said, laughing. “That’s genius, Macrinus.”

“Yes, certainly very amusing,” Geta said begrudgingly, his jaw clenched. 

He and the gladiator had not stopped staring at each other for one moment, like two vipers poised to strike. 

“Good, I thought you’d like that,” Macrinus said, approaching his fighter to grasp his shoulder, perhaps in warning. “We live to serve you both.”

“Well, I look forward to seeing your poet at the upcoming games in the Colosseum,” he spits out, throwing the sword aside with a loud clatter. “Let’s see how his verses work for him then.”

Macrinus nodded at his steward to take the gladiator away. He was smiling, seemingly amused, as the steward approached him. As he was being shoved back to the atrium, his eyes took one last baleful look around the room. For the briefest second, you thought his eyes met yours, striking you like a piercing arrow, but then he was gone. 

You had no time to dwell on it though, as Emperor Geta returned to his seat and raised his glass to be refilled. But that didn’t mean you would forget so easily, even if your paths might never cross again. All you could do was offer a prayer to the Gods for him. 

—--------------------------

The next time you saw him, he was no longer a barbarian gladiator hailed from a distant land, but the new – and rightful – Emperor of Rome. His name was not Hanno, but Lucius Verus Aurelius, and he was the son of the recently passed Queen Lucilla, whom Rome still mourned. 

He was not cruel like the twins had been, rarely raising his voice, much less his hand. His demeanor was usually calm, but sometimes he stalked the halls restlessly, as if unsure what he should be doing. He still rose with the sun and trained for a couple of hours in the morning, already used to the routine he’d had as a gladiator, but after that, it was all politics. Endless scrolls of parchment to pore over, meetings to hold with the senate, and lending a patient ear to the populace’s needs. The weight of an empire was on his shoulders, and yet he didn’t bow under it. 

During the day, you served his wine and silently hovered around for anything else he might need. At night, you drew his baths, kept his torches lit, and prepared his bed. You would have helped him disrobe too, already used to it from your days of serving Geta, but he chose to do so himself. He was not quite used to his every need being attended to, self-sufficiency deeply ingrained in his being. Mostly, he waved away other servants, leaving you instead to care for him personally. 

There were times when you caught him looking at you as if you seemed vaguely familiar, a furrow in his brow when he couldn’t place you. You couldn’t fault him for not remembering you from Senator Thraex’s party, but there was a certain thrill at having piqued his curiosity regardless. Still, you kept your head down and offered no hints, as was your place. 

Until one night, while he watched you add aromatic oils and test the bath’s temperature, he finally asked the question that had been on his mind for days.

“What is your name?”

You were startled at first, not having expected him to address you at all. You told him your given Roman name, Domicia, and bowed your head respectfully. He pushed himself off the doorway and stepped into the bathroom, humming thoughtfully.

“Of the home,” he said, referring to the name’s meaning. “Are you Roman? Is that your real name?”

You shook your head in answer to both questions. “I have been in Rome for many years now, though.”

“I have not,” he said, a note of melancholy in his voice. “Yet I grew up here, in these very halls…”

He trailed off, looking around absently, lost in his memories. You could not begin to imagine what he had been through, what he had seen. You had heard of his being sent away as a child, with absolutely no choice in the matter, and could empathize with him. 

All you had ever known was a humble life in your native country, until you were stripped of your freedom and brought to the capital of Rome. Neither place felt like home, just the past and the present, and perhaps he was viewing things the same way. You could imagine, even understand, the bittersweetness of returning to a place one thought they might never see again. 

“We are honored and grateful to have you back, Dominus,” you said. “I hope things have been to your satisfaction.”

“I have no complaints,” he said, yet he sighed. “Though becoming accustomed to being here, in my current position, is going to take some more time.”

“If there is anything I can do to make it easier for you, please let me know.”

He inclined his head gratefully, your eyes meeting for a moment. “Thank you, Domicia.”

He had the barest of smiles on his handsome face, but you could tell it was genuine. You felt one corner of your lips tugging upwards, but you looked away out of propriety. Even if you were in the same room, you were leagues apart, and it would do you no good to try to imagine otherwise.

You stood up, grabbing the decanter from a nearby table to have it refilled. “Your bath is ready now. Would you like refreshments other than wine?”

He nodded and you bowed, making your way out. By the time you returned with more wine and a platter of olives, bread, and cheese, he was already in the bathtub, leaning back with his eyes closed. Your feet padded softly on the mosaic floor to avoid  disturbing him, and you left his refreshments on the table near the tub.

You settled at one side of the room just in case he might need anything, staring off into the middle distance and letting your mind drift. He glanced at you sidelong, his curiosity having only grown after your brief conversation. He still had that nagging feeling that he had seen you somewhere before, but he didn’t want to ask outright.

You felt his gaze on you but pretended not to, keeping your eyes averted. You thought again of the poem he’d recited, how different his demeanor had been then. You wondered what other verses he’d been taught, and if you might ever hear him recite anything again. He had a voice for poetry, somehow turning the words into a sort of enchantment, keeping one entranced.

“Doesn’t it feel… strange sometimes?” he said suddenly, staring up at the ceiling. “When things settle and you realize how far you have come? How much you’ve had to sacrifice for it?”

You hummed in agreement, waiting for him to say more. 

“Sometimes, I even wonder if it was all worth it.”

Still lost in a haze of verses, you spoke before you could even think it through.

“Fortunate is he whose mind has the power to probe the causes of things and trample underfoot all terrors and inexorable fate.”

He sat up, surprised. “You know Virgil.” Recognition finally dawned on him. “You were at that party, weren’t you?”

You nodded. “Your words then were just as sharp as your blade.”

He huffed, leaning against the edge of the tub as he remembered his barely contained hatred. “Were you taught poetry to amuse, as well?”

“No, I used to read it with my mother when I was younger.”

“Who else have you read?”

“Ovid, Sappho, Horace…” You became a little flustered as he raised his eyebrows. “My mother was a bit of a romantic.”

“And you?”

It was your turn to huff with amusement, looking down at your hands. “I don’t believe I inherited that trait, no.”

The truth was that in a place such as Rome, love was quite hard to come by. You didn’t actively search for it, its ephemeral nature making you less inclined to, but you were no complete stranger to it. You’d never let it take root, though, for it was not something you could afford to have. 

“What about you, Dominus?”

“Me?” he said. “I suppose… I’m not entirely sure anymore. I used to be, at one point.”

His haunted expression told you not to press him for details, so you just nodded sympathetically. The two of you lapsed into silence, the weight of tragedy hanging between you. You’d had a lot more time to become numb to your circumstances, but it was clear the pain he was experiencing was still fresh. 

“I will be forced to remarry eventually.” He sighed heavily. “Produce heirs to carry out the lineage, show Rome a unified front.”

“Well, whoever you marry shall be the most fortunate woman in the empire.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle, looking over at you. “You really believe so? You’re not just flattering me?”

“Of course,” you said, giving him a cryptic smile that made him laugh again. “I’m perfectly serious.”

“Oh, I am sure you are.”

After some time, he rose with a small splash, prompting you to immediately approach with an outstretched towel. His nudity barely registered in your mind, having already glimpsed him a few times. You wouldn’t dare to look at him directly, even if you were more than a little curious. You tensed as his fingers barely brushed yours in the exchange, but you quickly stepped back to give him more room.

He wrapped the towel around his waist, water dripping down his sculpted arms and chest. You went to start tidying up, studiously keeping your eyes on your task. He watched as you picked up the refreshments to take to the main chamber, a part of him wishing you would look at him instead. 

“One more thing,” he said and you immediately turned around. “Please, I want you to call me Lucius.”

Your face heated up at the mere thought of it. “I could never be so bold…”

“I insist,” he said, holding up a hand as you began to stammer again. “Perhaps only when it is just the two of us, if you’d prefer.”

“I will certainly try my best,” you said with an awkward grin, trying to keep your composure.

He chuckled. “Good enough for me.”

—-----------------

Weeks passed, and while Lucius still hadn’t managed to get you to call him by name, he had certainly gotten you to open up more. In the evenings, the two of you swapped more poetry, often sharing your own interpretations of the verses. At some point, he even had scrolls fetched from the library for you to read to him. He enjoyed the mellifluous sound of your voice, so at odds with your serious expression when you were concentrating. To have him as your sole audience was already titillating,  but the fact that he paid close attention was even more of a rush.

During the day, you anxiously looked forward to those handful of hours in which everything else disappeared. No speak of Rome, politics, or bitter memories, content with being each other’s brief escape. You still held yourself at a certain distance, though, always aware of the chasm between you. Yet he never made you feel inferior, often encouraging you to share your thoughts and opinions with him despite your reticence. You would even dare to say he cared, or at least that’s what you wanted to believe.

You wouldn’t necessarily say you were getting attached, for that would be too unrealistic of a fantasy, but you could not deny the butterflies in your stomach that often appeared while around him. His easy, handsome smile, the kindness in his eyes, his patient indulgence when listening to you, and the effort he put into making you laugh…

But the spell was abruptly broken the day he received a visit from his friend Ravi, who had brought someone for him to meet – a respectable Roman lady. A widow, as it happened, just like Lucius. Her hair was perfectly styled, falling in ringlets that framed her lovely face. She wore a lavender-colored dress with a matching veil, much fancier than anything you’d ever owned, and was adorned with golden jewelry. More importantly, she was freeborn, and thus a perfectly good candidate for marriage.

You swallowed hard, otherwise keeping your expression neutral. You hadn’t thought he would start meeting potential brides so soon, and you certainly hadn’t expected how it would make you feel. At least, Lucius also seemed surprised, not expecting his friend to try to set him up without consulting him first. Still, he assumed the role of gracious host and welcomed them warmly, leading them out to the gardens. He glanced over his shoulder at you as you silently trailed behind them, but you didn’t meet his gaze.

The three of them reclined on the couches of the outdoor dining area, shaded by a wooden pergola. It was a beautiful sunny day, the birds singing accompanied by the gurgle of the large fountain at the center of the garden. A gentle breeze stirred the foliage, carrying the faint, sweet smell of a dozen different flowers. 

You served them wine and hovered close by as another servant brought them food to snack on. Lucius had deliberately sat across from where you stood just so he could keep an eye on you. You’d withdrawn into yourself, trying your hardest to remain indifferent instead of worrying about whether the meeting went well or not. If it did, then you had to be happy for him, but if it didn’t… Well, at least that would buy you a little more time, if nothing else.

“Such a lovely garden,” the lady, Ilaria, said as she looked around. “One could never tire of such a view.”

Lucius nodded absently but said nothing, as if he hadn’t heard her.

“I could see you fitting in perfectly with all the other flowers here,” Ravi cut in, smiling with as much charm as he could muster to make up for it.

Ilaria inclined her head, modestly waving off the compliment. “Oh, you flatter me, Ravi.”

He gave Lucius a subtle, pointed look to encourage him to follow his lead. Lucius sat up and cleared his throat, only just focusing on the conversation. He had been trying to get your attention as subtly as possible, but he hadn’t been successful. 

“Er, yes, it’s always a treat to spend time out here. Certainly helps to clear the mind.”

Ravi shook his head a little and tried not to snort with amusement, thinking he was a lost case. Ilaria smiled, unbothered, taking a handful of grapes from a platter and popping one into her mouth. 

“I’d wager there is much on your plate, Imperator,” she said. “And having to manage the household staff on top of everything else… Must be a little overwhelming for you, no?”

“Well, I am a very busy man, yes, but it hasn’t been all that bad,” Lucius said. “I’ve certainly had a great deal of support to see me through.”

His words managed to reach you, softening you up infinitesimally. This time, when he glanced at you, you finally looked back. The ghost of a smile was on your face, but you quickly looked away before it could actually manifest.

“I see. Well, I’m very glad to hear that,” Ilaria said, sharing a curious glance with Ravi, who looked slightly apologetic. “Though perhaps you have considered that having someone run the house for you would take a big burden off your shoulders. I would be more than happy to lend a hand if you’d consider it.”

His eyebrows raised slightly at her boldness, not missing the eagerness in her gaze, poorly concealed behind her innocently helpful demeanor. He certainly did not want to get her hopes up, but he smiled graciously to soften the blow.

“Ah, perhaps in the future, when I have more time to worry about such things,” he said, politely noncommittal. “But I appreciate the offer.”

Her smile wavered and then froze, not wanting to seem too disappointed. “Of course, Imperator.”

For the remainder of their visit, Lucius let them do most of the talking, any remarks he made were studiously polite and yet still a little aloof. Finally, after a few hours, he excused himself, needing to return to his duties. Ravi seemed hesitant, like he wanted to stay behind and speak to him privately, but he would have to wait for another day. He escorted them both out, thanking them for visiting, but he did not exactly invite Ilaria to return to the palace. Her disappointment was more palpable then, but she hid it with as much grace as she could muster.

When they were gone, he turned to you with a shake of his head and a sigh, grinning with bewilderment.

“I do not enjoy being ambushed,” he said as if he felt the need to explain himself. “Decent enough as she seemed.”

You bowed your head in agreement, more relieved than you would like to admit. You had no real reason to have been upset earlier, given that there was nothing between you except for a certain kinship. Even so, it was clear he had not wanted you to be hurt, and you were very thankful for that. You offered him a small smile and some tension seemed to leave his shoulders.

He inclined his head towards the eastern hallway leading to his study. “Come, I would like you to read some documents to me. I can get work done faster that way.”

The tablinum was spacious but cozy, with a door to one side that led to a smaller patio. Before, the twin emperors had never used the room, but now it seemed well lived in. There was a mess of scrolls and wax tablets all over his desk that he still hadn’t let you organize. On the wall behind, there was a recently completed fresco of a gladiator riding a chariot pulled by two horses. For another wall, he had commissioned a portrait of Vesta, goddess of the home and the hearth, but it was still a work in progress. He was particularly proud of that one, an unspoken gift for you, his muse.

You lit the oil lamps in their alcoves, bathing the room in warm light. Lucius sat at his desk with a heavy exhale and scanned his notes to remember where he had left off the previous day. You sat on a stool beside him, unfurling the scroll he handed you and resting it on your knees. The texts you read didn’t always make sense to you, but you understood their importance. The fact that he was entrusting you with such work was an honor you did not take for granted.

“Start in that middle section. There is some stuff I would like to revisit,” he said, taking up his stylus. 

You nodded, finding what he was referring to and starting right away. You read to him for the next couple of hours, only stopping if he needed you to repeat something or in case he needed more time to make his notes. A few times during the latter, you glanced up to take in the focused furrow of his brow, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he pondered. You wondered what he might be thinking about, wishing he would impart some more knowledge on you. 

Outside, the sun was beginning to set, shadows deepening in the corners of the room. Another servant brought him dinner, but he didn’t seem too hungry yet. He handed you his cup of water when he heard you clear your throat a few times, insisting when you were reluctant to take it. 

When he was done for the day, he stretched his arms over his head with a groan and slumped in his seat. You neatly rolled the parchment back up and stood so you could stretch your legs. 

“I hope I haven’t tired you too much,” he said, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back. “You can take the rest of the evening off from reading if you’d like, but I would still appreciate some company.”

“Well, I still need to draw your bath and…”

“Somebody else can take care of it,” he cut in with a shrug, not preoccupied.

You hesitated. “What would you have me do instead, then?”

“Just sit back down, relax for a moment,” he said, getting up. “Here, you can have my chair. Much more comfortable.”

You were about to protest, but he gave you a look that said it was not up for discussion. You pursed your lips, uncomfortable at the idea of being idle, especially while taking up his seat. Still, you obeyed and sat down, hands folded on your lap. Feeling a little bold, you looked at him as if to say ‘satisfied?’ and he huffed in amusement.

“Wait, stay still,” he murmured suddenly, leaning down.

You froze as his face hovered mere inches away from yours, his breath fanning over your cupid’s bow. Delicately, he removed a stray eyelash that had been resting on your cheekbone, and he pulled back a little so you could see it on the pad of his finger.

“Make a wish,” he said.

All you could do was stare at him for another breathless moment that seemed to stretch on infinitely. You licked your lips nervously, drawing his eyes there before they returned to hold your gaze. Your heart was like a nervous bird fluttering wildly in your ribcage. Your mind was mostly blank, but the one thought that popped up was ‘I wish he would close the distance right now.’

You gently blew the eyelash away, your wish scattering into the air alongside it. The Gods must have decided to grant it immediately, for he did not pull away, instead slowly leaning in. His lips brushed yours tentatively and you closed your eyes, rejoicing for the barest second before you forced your face to turn away.

“We shouldn’t…” you murmured, the words hard to utter when a desperate want clung to your throat like honey.

“Why not?” He whispered.

“It’s not– I’m not…” You vaguely gestured towards yourself, unsure of what the right words were. 

He pulled back to look at you better. “Was I too presumptuous?”

You shook your head. “Not at all.”

“Then what is it?” He pressed.

“Dominus, please.”

“Lucius,” he pleaded, loathing the title. “Say it, please.”

“Lucius,” you said finally, though your eyes still spelled defiance when you glanced at him. “Is it not obvious? We both know it’s impossible.” Your lower lip trembled slightly. “I have a heart, too, you know? I don’t want it to be broken.”

“I know that, of course I know that!” He said, placing his hands on your shoulders and crouching in front of you. “I have no intention of breaking your heart.”

“Surely you understand where I am coming from, though.” You sniffed, keeping tears at bay. “I am not wife material, like the lady Ilaria. I have nothing to offer, no dowry, no family name, or even an inkling of Patrician blood. ”

“I do not care for such things. I would never demand them of you. Even if we cannot marry, I will not marry anyone else that isn’t you,” he said with a firm, determined shake of his head. “But I can still give you my name, along with your freedom. That’s all that matters to me.”

You gasped, the shock of his words akin to a bucket of ice water being dumped over you. Now you let the tears spill over, like a dam had finally burst. He kissed them away, his hands cupping your face gently.

“I have been thinking of nothing else since I met you. I’ve already made the arrangements… I suppose I just didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“You honor me,” you said, smiling despite the tears. “You always have.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” He asked. “You have given me more than you think. You brought me the peace I have been so desperately seeking for a long time.”

“I-I don’t even know how to thank you.” You placed a hand over his. “If you desire to give me your name, then I shall give you mine in return.”

You told him your name, the real one, which you had been hiding ever since your Roman name was given to you. He had never asked you for it, knowing that one’s name was the only thing one could truly own in this world. And now for you to give it freely… He repeated it, testing its shape on his tongue, and smiled radiantly.

“Pairs rather well with Lucia Veria, if I do say so myself,” he said with a proud chuckle, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “If you’ll have it, that is.”

You knew by the disarming earnestness in his eyes he wasn’t just offering the name, but himself, as well. His whole heart in the palm of your hand, should you choose to care for it. You felt as if you had already made that choice a while ago, when you first recited Virgil back to him.

“I will,” you said with an elated chuckle. “Of course I will.”

He took your hands in his, kissing both of them. “Then first thing tomorrow, we will make it official.”

More tears flowed as a result of an overwhelming rush of both gratitude and love. You had tried to ignore your feelings, not uprooting them but instead silently letting them grow unacknowledged. For once, it had seemed worth the risk of heartbreak. After all, the love hadn’t stemmed from something as fleeting as lust, but a mutual understanding and respect. It was more than you could ever ask for, and yet everything you desired.

You leaned your forehead against his, your noses brushing as he tilted his head back. This time, it was you who brought your lips to his with a tentative sort of tenderness, propriety still at the back of your mind. He responded in kind, letting you set the pace so as not to scare you off. If you weren’t shaking so much, you might have noticed he was shaking, too. 

In that kiss, there was the promise of mutual devotion, sweet and sincere. You were still holding each other’s hands, as if afraid you might drift apart if you let go. You understood then why odes were written about this feeling, as all-consuming as the churning waves of the sea. All those verses had never resonated with you more. 

Perhaps you had inherited the romanticism, after all. 

—------------------

The air smelled of night-blooming jasmine, the fresh sweetness of it bringing you a sense of tranquility. You leaned against the windowsill, looking up at the stars and trying to piece together constellations. The world seemed drastically different now that you had your freedom, so vivid, so open, so alive. You even noticed it in your posture and the lightness with which you walked, as if you were floating. Lucius had said you were radiant with it.

He’d insisted on taking care of you the same way you’d cared for him, eager to show you his gratitude. You had been hesitant at first, but at his unwavering conviction, you relented, curious how it might feel to be spoiled. All that day, he had served you reverently, taking time off from his duties to focus solely on you.

You couldn’t help getting flustered at all the attention, his ardent gaze like a caress every time it met yours. His touch had so far been entirely chaste, but even the smallest, most innocuous contact was heightened with anticipation. The brush of his fingers over yours when he handed you something, a guiding hand on your lower back, even a touch on your shoulder to make you aware of his presence.

There were a few sneaked kisses in both the garden and the tablinum, each one of them leaving an undercurrent of warmth under your skin that promised more. It was like a slow, drawn-out game of chase, neither of you in a rush to reach its conclusion. If anything, it only made you want each other more. 

After the sun had set, when the two of you drifted along as if in a drunken stupor, Lucius went to prepare a bath for you in his chambers. You were nervous and exhilarated, every moment spent waiting for him to be done an exquisite agony. Until finally, he poked his head around the bathroom door.

“It’s ready now,” he said, beckoning you with a smile.

You followed him into the bathroom, hands wringing anxiously. Flower petals were scattered on the mosaic floor, leading towards the steaming tub. Flickering candles bathed the room in a warm glow, making your shadows dance on the wall. You looked at each other, both knowing what the next step was but hesitant to initiate it. He averted his gaze first, gesturing towards the door.

“Would you like me to give you some privacy?”

You shook your head, desire making you a little more brave. “I… I would love some help undressing, though.”

His spine straightened, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “With pleasure.”

He crouched to slowly pull the hem of your long tunic upwards, rising with it. You lifted your arms so he could get it over your head, the fabric falling to the floor unceremoniously. Your eyes were fixed on his face, drinking in his expression as he took a step back to get a better look at you. The bare expanse of your skin robbed him of breath, his eyes roaming over every curve and plane of your figure. He wanted to sink to his knees again and lay his forehead at your feet in worship, but he stood still, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“The evening star is the most beautiful of all stars,”  he said in a low voice, quoting Sappho.

Warmth spread from your chest to your face, and you smiled coyly as another verse came to mind. “Come to me once more, and abate my torment…”

You offered him your hand, which he took, and he led you to the tub. You daintily stepped in, sighing contentedly as you sank into the water’s enveloping warmth. He knelt next to the tub, leaning against it with one arm propped on the edge. 

“Have I told you enough times that you are beautiful?” He said. “I don’t think it has been enough.”

You huffed with amusement, looking down as you fought a geeky grin. “Well, about a hundred times with just your eyes. A few times out loud, though.”

He chuckled. “I suppose I’ll have to show you in other ways, too… If I may.”

You nodded, silently granting him permission. He leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on your lips before standing up. He took it upon himself to bathe you, starting out by scrubbing your scalp. You leaned into his touch, eyes closing in bliss. He smiled at your soft, pleasured hum, and vowed to elicit as many more as he could. 

Things took on an almost ritualistic quality, with him focused entirely on his task. You were loose limbed, letting him move you about as he used a cloth to scrub your skin. He didn’t try anything that might be deemed unsavory, though you let his tender, reverential touch reach places no one had touched in a very, very long time. But he didn’t linger, to your slight frustration, not wanting to jump into things too quickly. The flames of your desire were stoked slowly, warmth running through you like sweet wine. 

When he was done, he helped you step out of the tub and immediately got to drying you off with a towel. You caught his eye for a moment, his pupils blown wide with equally fervent desire. You stopped yourself from clutching his arm, wanting to anchor yourself to him, but he could still tell you were growing restless. He kissed your shoulder, tapping the tip of your nose playfully with his finger.

“Not done quite yet,” he murmured, not missing the way you involuntarily pressed your thighs together. “You’ve always been very patient.”

“For the first time, I fear it might be running thin…” you said, to which he smiled. 

He grabbed a small glass bottle of rose oil and lathered some in his hands. He anointed your body with it, the heady scent of one of Venus’s favorite flowers permeating the air. As he reached your chest, you took hold of his wrist and brought his palm to rest over your heart. He felt it beating rapidly, your chest rising and falling with each panting breath.

His eyes fell to your lips, slightly parted with want. He grasped your chin with his free hand, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

“I have been thinking about this for a long time,” he said, leaning in to brush his nose against yours. “But I hadn’t wanted to touch you until now, when you actually felt like you had a choice in the matter.”

You clutched his wrist tighter, his thoughtfulness only making you want him more. All those hours he must have spent yearning, unaware that you were stuck thinking of him too. As emperor, he had the right to take whatever he wanted, but having previously been a gladiator, he understood the monumental importance of bodily autonomy. Very few people in Rome had such a privilege and he couldn’t bear the thought of being the one to rob you of it. 

You kissed him in response, much fiercer, hungrier, than all the other kisses you had shared so far. A desperate sound escaped his throat and he clasped you against him tightly. Swiftly, he scooped you up into his strong arms and carried you out to the bedchamber as he would a bride.

Gently, he set you down on the bed and pulled away to remove his tunic. This time, you were not meek about his nakedness. You brazenly stared at him, eyes mapping out the lines of his muscles, the pink, raised skin of his scars, and the soft trail of hair on his abdomen that seemed to suggestively point downwards. 

His shoulders were squared with pride at your ogling, a sly smile on his face. He’d had an inkling before of your attraction, but to see it on full display was narcotic, and he felt himself pulse with an aching need.

“Come closer,” you said softly.

He did, climbing over you, his warmth immediately enveloping you. You hid your face on the junction between his neck and shoulder, embarrassed at all the thoughts rushing through your mind.

“What is it?” He asked, raising an eyebrow with amusement.

“Nothing,” you said, voice muffled against his skin. “I just… I do not think you realize how badly I wanted this, too. I-I don’t want to ever stop.”

He chuckled indulgently, nudging your head so you’d look at him. “Neither do I.”

He kissed you again, and again, and again. You were so close to him that the lines of your bodies became indivisible, but it still didn’t seem like enough. Your knees hiked up to his hips in a silent plea, but he did not give in quite yet, wanting to prolong things for as long as he could.

Still, unable to resist a little bit of mutual torment, he slid upwards until his hips were aligned with yours. You gasped as you felt the velvety underside of his erection against your slick folds, each small movement making you tremble. Your brows furrowed and your lips parted in a wanton expression, your eyes shiny and half lidded as you looked at him.

“Lucius,” you whimpered. 

“I know,” he murmured soothingly, kissing your neck. “I know.”

Neither of you were willing to break apart from your embrace, so there wasn’t actually much of a preamble. Feverish, he sank into you slowly, your nails digging into his biceps as he stretched you open. That first round was frantic, almost animalistic, all the pent up longing finally being released. His body rolled over yours with the power of the sea’s waves, leaving you awash in ecstasy.

Neither of you lasted very long, but it didn’t matter, as you were nowhere near spent. Lucius, still in the afterglow of his orgasm, lazily began to kiss you all over, wanting to discover every mole and freckle, every tender spot that made you squirm, and every other little detail that made you you. 

He settled between your thighs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive bundle of nerves. You tried to prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, but he wrapped his arms around your thighs and pulled you closer. 

“What are you– Oh,” you gasped at the first flick of his tongue, the entirely new sensation disarming you. 

He tasted his essence mixed with yours, a groan rumbling in his chest. You tightly grasped the sheets under you, arching against his face. You bit your lip to stop yourself from making the most undignified sounds, but it was hard to focus, especially as his fingers were added into the mix. Your body burned brighter than any brazier, his arms pinning you down as he conquered you with his mouth. You shattered once more, crying out as he helped you ride it all the way through. 

After, you lied side by side, facing each other. You’d still not had your fill of him, but you needed to gather your strength for the long night ahead. You shared a breathy chuckle, as if still in disbelief it had finally happened, and he kissed your sweat-slick forehead.

“Now that was poetry,” you said jokingly, making him laugh again. 

“You put every verse to shame, my love,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You kissed his palm, adoring, and tangled your legs with his. A swell of emotion unlike anything you had ever felt rose within you. It was as if he had awakened a new part of you that you hadn’t known was dormant, bringing you back from an existence that consisted solely of drifting through days that blended into one another.

He was just as grateful to have found you, his peace, his solace, the woman who would always guard his heart. He murmured your name reverently, a reminder that you were his, and he was yours. You drew closer to him, like a moth to flame, and pushed him onto his back, straddling him. His hands came to rest on your hips and your eyes were full of mirth as you held his gaze.

“As it happens, I find myself compelled to compose some more with you.” You grinned playfully, hands sliding up his chest. 

He mirrored your grin, not minding the idea one bit. “Relentless, just like the great muse Calliope.”

“Well, when inspiration strikes… It can’t be helped, can it?”

“No,” he said. “Not when it comes to you.”

------

[velaenam]

𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭

                                                                         ◦ ♡

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 — please note that this is a civilization thousands and thousands of years ago, so they probably aren't as socially accepting.. you are also of arabian and hellenistic heritage. normally i am ambiguous of how i describe the protagonist of my stories, but i'll be a bit more focused on my details in this story. I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH, IF YOU HAVE ANY OF THESE TRIGGERS PLEASE BE MINDFUL. i will also put a DISCLAIMER of any non consensual stuff or any triggering events that may end up happening PRIOR to the actual scene. (obviously it will not be frequent thing) — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — PROLOGUE | next chapter

this will be a bit short. its the prologue— so its going to just go over a little tid bit of how everyone is going to be and you can see how the atmosphere is.

the morning is soft with silence.

sunlight filters through the sheer drapes like it’s hesitant to enter, golden dust suspended in the hush. your room smells faintly of rose oil and crushed figs, of silk warmed by the sun. servants move quietly around you—gentle hands braiding your hair, smoothing the folds of your linen dress, adjusting the golden clasp at your shoulder. you don’t speak. neither do they. it’s an old, practiced ritual. the preparation of a daughter for something unspoken.

you watch yourself in the polished bronze mirror. not a girl anymore, not quite a queen. something in between. something uncertain. how were you feeling? you felt dreadful. to be a pawn was never a good thing. a knock at the door. soft, like you can hear misery through a pounding. then a murmur. “his majesty is waiting.”

your sandals smack softly against the stone as you walk, heart quiet but heavy. the hallway stretch long, filled with mosaics that tell stories of your ancestors—men who conquered, the women who waited. you walk past them like a ghost. your father is standing near the open colonnade, among the atrium, staring out at the city below. his toga catch in the breeze like banners. he does not turn when you enter.

“you sent for me,” you say above a whisper, as the chamber echoed your voice. he nods once. his voice is as it always is— stoic. weathered by experience.

“rome has made an offer. emperor caleb xia would like your hand in marriage”

you say nothing. the wind picks up. it carries the scent of figs and pomegranates— your favorites. you stand, stiffened. is this from the emperor himself, or his senate? 

“you’ve always understood the weight of your position,” he continues, still not looking at you. “this isn’t punishment. it’s legacy.” you wonder if he’s speaking to himself.

“and the emperor?” you ask softly. “do you trust him?” he couldn’t even lie if he tried. your father turns, finally, eyes sharp and tired all at once. “no. but alliances are not built on trust. they are built on necessity.” he steps closer, and for a moment, he is not a king, but your father. his hand rests on your shoulder, not heavy, but firm. “you will do what must be done,” he says. “as we all have.” you nod. because what else is there to say? no? what the hells would even happen if you said that? with an even heavier heart, and a tight lip, you bow slightly, before turning heels and walking back to your chamber. 

later, when you return to your chambers, you unpin your hair with trembling fingers and stare at the mirror again, and when you look up to the mirror, your tears fall. you realize this may be the very last time you could have your peace to yourself— at least for a while. you weren’t a woman basking in the sunlight anymore. laying near the ravine with your closest friends. you were a pawn. 

the air inside the tent tastes of iron and dust.

outside, the murmurs of the camp never sleep—shields being oiled, blades checked again and again, men speaking low in the hush of an almost-won war. the sky beyond the canvas is the color of smoke, the kind that clings to your skin long after the fires are gone.

caleb stands alone over the war table, eyes fixed on the parchment map that bears the scars of too many campaigns. lines drawn and redrawn. cities conquered. rivers crossed. this battle will end tomorrow, and with it, resistance in the east.

he doesn’t smile. he never does. victory is expected of him. and expectations are chains dressed as crowns. a soldier enters, bows low. news of the enemy’s retreat. talk of surrender. a whisper, almost offhanded, like it doesn’t matter:

“a formal alliance is being discussed in the senate—nabira’s hand in marriage. her daughter.”

caleb says nothing at first. he does not lift his head. just another treaty. just another crown to bind with rome. how many women were given to him for this reason? he couldn’t count the amount of attempted alliance and leverage thrown at him. a mere woman’s soul is the price of not being taken and pulled apart? no. no, this would be different.  

“what’s her name?” he asks, not because he cares.. just to know what name history will one day try to stitch beside his.  the soldier hesitates. then: “they don’t speak it aloud, not yet. only that she is.. magical…shadowed... her father guards her like a secret.”

caleb’s gaze lingers on the edge of the map, where nabira is inked in faint gold. a kingdom on the edge of empires. he says nothing else, and neither does the soldier, and after a couple beats skip, the soldier leaves.

caleb stays there a while longer, the quiet pressing in as he glides his fingers across the map, calculating to himself. he knows better than to believe in fate. but still—he wonders what kind of woman is hidden behind a crown, guarded like a blade, spoken of only in quiet corners of powerful rooms. was she formidable? he wonders. his heart races at the slightest at the thought of you. 

and he wonders what kind of man he will need to be to win your loyalty. surely not with war? with silken drapes, and golden gifts. will he need to throw lavish expenses to win such an even more lavish heart? he was thinking too hard— he doesn’t even know a god damn thing, and this was distracting him. 

shahanshah - king of kings / emperor (persian. pronounced sha-han-sha)

the night air in parthia was cool, the scent of myrrh drifting through the royal palace gardens. shahanshah  sylus stood alone beneath the towering date palms, his thoughts far from the usual state matters. the sky stretched dark above him, the stars twinkling like scattered diamonds, but there was little peace in his mind tonight. the soft footsteps of an approaching figure broke the silence. the emissary bowed deeply as he came closer, careful not to disrupt the stillness. “shahanshah,” the emissary spoke, voice low and respectful. “we’ve received word from the princess' brother. the decision has been made.” sylus didn’t turn right away, his gaze fixed on the horizon. his voice, when it came, was quiet but sharp.

“what decision?”

“the marriage… it’s been arranged. the princess of nabira will marry emperor caleb of rome.”

sylus paused, his fingers tightening on the edge of the stone column beside him. he hadn’t expected this development, not so soon. but your father had always been pragmatic, and in these times of shifting alliances, a marriage to rome made sense—at least politically. still, the news stung.  

“and the princess?” sylus asked, his voice colder than it had been moments before. “was she consulted?” it was a quick quiet, the emissary hesitated. “she… was informed. the decision was her father’s. from what i understand, she did not take it well. there were tears, and anger.”

sylus absorbed the information quietly, his gaze never leaving the view before him. he knew this was coming. the union of rome and nabira had been hinted at for months, but hearing it was another matter entirely. he didn’t think that your father really had the balls to actually pull through. 

“her brother– the diplomat, he must have known this was coming,” sylus said, a small frown pulling at his lips. “why send the message to me now?”

the emissary nodded. “her brother… he has long worked with you, shahanshah. he is a trusted ally in trade, and he wanted to ensure you heard it from him directly. he also believes this marriage could open doors for more favorable dealings between parthia and nabira.”

sylus turned now, finally facing the emissary. his red eyes were hard, calculating. unreadable. the emissary shifted his posture.

“so this marriage is as much about trade as it is about politics?” sylus asked, voice laced with an edge. “but what of the princess? does she have no say in the matter?”

“her father has made the decision. the princess is caught in the web of diplomacy. her brother… i believe he tried to shield her from the worst of it, but ultimately, the decision rests with the king.”

sylus’ jaw clenched, and his mind raced. the political situation was delicate, but this… this felt different. he feels as if he’s seeing a life slip from its freedom.

“what does her brother say?” sylus pressed. “is he pleased with this marriage?”

the emissary hesitated again. “he does what is best for nabira. but it is clear he does not want to see her in the hands of rome. he worries for her.”

sylus’ lips tightened in thought. he had always known your brother had his eyes set on securing an advantageous position for nabira, but this marriage would change everything. the alliance with rome would tilt the scales of power in ways that were difficult to predict. an insurmountable amount of money would be handed over to the most powerful empire in the world. the silk road would bloom into something more. 

he straightened, his voice firm as he turned back toward the emissary, “tell her brother that i expect an update—soon. and i will not forget what this means for parthia. if rome wants nabira so badly, they will have to deal with us.”

the emissary nodded and bowed deeply before taking his leave. as sylus watched him depart, his thoughts lingered on you. you were bound by duty, but he knew that the chains of politics could break, and alliances could shift.

“she may not have a say now,” sylus murmured to himself, staring into the night. “but nothing is final until i decide it is. and i will make sure that, in the end, she has her freedom.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @rcvcgers

[multific]

The Sweet Empress

Emperor Geta x Reader

Summary: The Emperor known for his ruthless and dark heart so in love with his sweet, gentle wife.

The palace was grand, its marble floors gleaming beneath the golden light of the torches. 

Servants moved quickly, their heads bowed as they passed by the Emperor’s private chambers. 

Inside, you sat by the large window, enjoying the soft glow of the setting sun.

You hummed a quiet tune as you arranged fresh flowers into a vase. The scent of jasmine and roses filled the air.

Geta entered the room with his usual commanding presence, his steps strong, his robes flowing behind him like the waves of the sea. He was fierce to the world, a ruler with fire in his veins, yet the moment he stepped into your presence, something inside him softened. 

His expression relaxed, and the weight of the empire that rested on his shoulders seemed, if only for a moment, lighter.

“My Love,” he greeted, his voice low and warm.

You turned with a bright smile, setting down the delicate blooms. “You’re back early.”

His lips twitched, almost a smirk. “Should I have stayed longer and let the Senators bore me to death?”

You giggled, moving to him, reaching for his hand. He took yours without hesitation, his fingers warm against your soft skin. 

“You work too hard,” you murmured, brushing your thumb along his knuckles.

“For Rome.” He kissed the back of your hand, his eyes never leaving yours. “But you are the only reason I endure it.”

You knew the burdens he carried.

The enemies who lurked in the shadows, the politics that clawed at him from every side and his brother. You saw the exhaustion he tried to hide from the world, and you wished, more than anything, to protect him from it.

“Come,” you whispered, tugging him gently toward the cushioned seat by the window. “Rest with me for a while.”

He hesitated only for a moment before allowing himself this moment of peace. 

He settled beside you, one arm draped around your waist, pulling you close. You leaned into him, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“You are too kind,” he mused, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Too sweet for this world.”

You smiled, fingers tracing absent patterns on his arm. “And yet, I am yours.”

His grip tightened. “And I would not trade you for any woman in the empire.”

You lifted your head, eyes searching his face. “Not even for one of noble blood?” you teased.

A scoff left his lips, though his gaze darkened with something deeper, something possessive. “Never. I would sooner burn the Senate to the ground than let another take your place.”

Your breath caught at the intensity of his words. He was not a man of empty promises; every syllable was laced with truth. You reached up, cradling his face in your hands. “I am yours, Geta, always.”

A rare, genuine smile graced his lips before he leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss. 

A promise, a vow, sealed not in gold or politics, but in love.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[ekkkkey]

there will be games! (chapter V)

A short chapter I wanted to post pretty much right after ch.4, but sadly real life got in the way *sigh*

summary: Cassandra, a quiet and loyal wife to the much older Senator Tiberius, accidentally attracts the unsettling attention of Emperor Caracalla at a lavish feast hosted by Senator Thraex...

warnings: 18+ minors dni, this is dark, noncon, violence, blood, possession, degradation, caracalla is a deranged little freak, geta is mean too

word count: ~1k

chapter I chapter II chapter III chapter IV

«No woman could feel safe if her beauty or name aroused the emperor's curiosity.»

-Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars (Caligula, Chapter 36)

⋆ ☼ ⋆

She waits for someone to summon her. Waits as if for death—though even that would be kinder. There is no life in her, no flicker of the hope she once held. Her husband is most likely dead. She is disgraced.

In a final desperate gesture, Cassandra clasps her cold, trembling hands together in prayer, pleading with the gods. Let them show mercy. Let them grant her freedom, release. Let them protect her family. She forces herself not to think of her father and sisters—dwelling on them would only push her deeper into despair.

But the Gods do not hear her. No. Not this time. Not ever.

The Praetorians seize her by the arms, leading her through the dark, empty halls of the palace. A flicker of shameful relief stirs in her chest—at least, for now, there is no one to witness her disgrace. But she quickly scolds herself. Her trial will be public. The doors will be thrown open for all to see. Anyone who wishes may come and witness the spectacle.

And of one thing, she is certain—Emperor Caracalla will make sure it’s a grand one.

"Caesar," a Praetorian reports curtly, shoving her forward before stepping away.

She knows where she is. These are the emperor’s private quarters—only they could have halls like these. Gold gleams from every surface. Silk, fine fabrics, statues, endless bowls and vases clutter the space. Once, she might have been awed. Now, it means nothing.

Yet, she is slightly surprised when she sees not Caracalla but his brother. He is still dressed only in a robe, barefoot, disheveled. Thoughtfully, even theatrically, he looks out onto the balcony leading to the garden. She remembers, it was from there that Geta witnessed her shame.

"Expected my brother?"

His dark eyes gleam with cruel amusement as he turns to face her, studying the way she trembles before him. His gaze lingers on her tangled hair. Oh, he sees it all. The tear-streaked cheeks. The bruises blooming on her wrists where the Praetorians had held her too tightly.

He leans forward, fingers steepled, his voice dripping with false concern.

"My dear, you’ve found yourself in quite the predicament, haven’t you? Your husband, that foolish man, wanted us killed. And yet, here you are. And he…"

Geta paused meaningfully.

"…and he is dead, little bird."

A hand—someone else’s—lands just below her throat, burning and possessive. It slides up, slow and deliberate, past her neck, wrenching her chin back. Her breath catches. Her eyes lock with his.

So little blue in his gaze. Just black. Endless, hungry black.

Caracalla had crept up silently, unseen, and now held her firmly, not letting her turn away. His hand was hot—hotter than usual.

Then she felt the moisture.

Her eyes flicked downward without moving her head.

And then she screamed.

His hands, pale, soft hands, usually adorned with rings, had chosen a different ornament this time.

Red.

Blood covered his delicate hand up to the wrist, staining her face, her neck, branding her skin with crimson streaks. The scent of iron fills her nostrils, thick and suffocating. Her stomach churns.

"Shh, shh," he whispers. "No one will interrupt us anymore. You’re a widow now—congratulations."

His lips pressed against her neck, right where the blood stains her skin.

"I promise, this night won’t count in court," he adds with a foolish giggle, clearly delighted by her stunned reaction.

She doesn’t want to think about whose blood it is, but deep down, she knows.

"And oh, that’s not all!"

He releases her, and yet she remains still.

"A gift!"

He claps his hands, and a carved chest is brought into the room. She doesn’t want to know what’s inside.

But Caracalla, his face alight with childish joy, flings it open, proudly displaying its contents. The emperor smiles, but his eyes remain cold, watching her eagerly, waiting for her reaction.

In horror, she recoils, her scream tearing through the hall. Her legs give way, and she collapses to the floor, gasping for breath.

Caracalla is pleased.

Without a flicker of disgust, he reaches into the chest, grabs its contents, and tosses them toward her as if they were nothing more than a mere trinket. But it’s not.

A pale, lifeless hand, severed at the wrist, lands on the marble floor before her.

She recognizes it instantly by the ring on its finger. Her husband’s hand.

To seal the horror on her face, Caracalla lifts the severed hand and waves it at her, grinning.

"I wanted to bring the head, but Geta stopped me," he chuckles. "You should thank him."

"Take it away," Geta grimaces, ordering the slaves to remove the chest and the hand.

As a final touch, Caracalla slides the ring off the dead hand and slips it onto his own thumb. His hands are small, nothing like her husband’s—the ring wouldn’t fit any other finger.

Since their time in the throne room, the young emperor has tidied himself up, trading his sheet for a silk golden robe. His hair remains wild and unkempt, but a small gold earring glints in his ear.

How charming that for this meeting, full of horror, fear, and humiliation, he had dressed up for her.

She couldn’t take her eyes off his hands, still staring at the ring—her husband’s ring—the one she placed on his finger on their wedding day. She never imagined it would end like this.

Unconsciously, she reaches for her own ring—the one her husband had given her—only to remember. It is gone.

Geta took it.

Caracalla’s gaze flicks to her fingers, immediately recognizing his brother’s ring.

"Where did you get that?" His smile fades, his eyes darting to the other emperor, noting her golden ring on Geta’s hand.

"I won," Geta drawls smugly. "Won our little bet." He’s clearly pleased with himself, his lips curling into something like a smirk—but his eyes remain narrowed, watching, waiting. He’s wary of his brother’s reaction, she realizes.

In the short time Cassandra has known them, she’s learned that despite his innocent appearance, Caracalla is the one to fear. Geta knows this too—though he holds far more privileges, he doesn’t dare to gloat too openly.

A shiver runs down her spine.

A bet? They were betting? On her?

Caracalla’s expression darkens.

"You’re always like this! You must have cheated, didn’t you?" he snaps, frustration clear in his tone as he shoots a suspicious glance at his brother. But he doesn’t approach Geta. Instead, he moves toward her, still sitting on the floor.

"And you… One disappointment after another. Did you really want to upset me? Have you forgotten who you belong to?"

"Yours…" she whispers, her eyes glued to the ground.

"No, this time you won’t get away so easily." His fingers tighten in her hair, yanking her to her feet. "You’ll remember. You might cheat on that fool of a husband, but not me. Never me!"

"I didn’t…" she begins, her voice breaking, but no one is listening.

He drags her toward the massive bed, shoving her onto the silks and furs. Again? Will he force himself on her again?

Geta watches with interest, tilting his head—just like that time on the balcony. But this time, the emperor stands very close.

Caracalla steps back for a moment, only to return, looming over her, his breath hot against her skin. She trembles so violently that at first, she doesn’t even notice the cold steel pressing against her collarbone.

"Don’t kill her," Geta warns, sitting on the edge of the bed, making no move to intervene. "She has a trial to face, remember?"

"I don’t need your reminders," Caracalla snaps, glaring at his brother before turning his focus back to her, a lazy smile curling on his lips. "You forgot your place, didn’t you? Who do you think you are? You think you can play with my brother?"

The dagger in his hand makes her breath hitch. With a quick, sharp motion, he bares her chest, ripping her clothes apart—but it isn’t lust driving him. Or at least, not only that.

What did her body matter when terror shone so clearly in her eyes?

Her fear excites him far more. She can see it. She can feel it, his hardness pressing against her. The blade slides lightly between her collarbones, and she flinches, trying to twist away.

"Hold her."

And Geta does.

Obediently, he grabs her wrists and pins them above her head against the bed. His grip is so tight it makes her want to cry.

Cassandra meets his gaze, searching, pleading—

But the emperor is indifferent. Amused. Cold. He will allow his brother anything.

Mockingly, he brushes his thumb against her cheek, wiping away her tears. Then, just like that, he hands her over to Caracalla's mercy.

Caracalla is pleased, exhilarated. This time, the blade pressed harder, and she felt the sharp sting of pain.

When he moved lower, just above her right breast, she screamed, and his left hand covered her mouth. Geta still held her wrists as Caracalla began to carve intricate symbols into her pale skin with the tip of the dagger.

"I’ll reward you, brand you with your emperor’s name," he whispered, breathing heavily, biting his lower lip. "Now you won’t forget."

She whimpered into his hand, crying, her skin blazing like fire, shame and embarrassment consumed by the burn.

He carves with care, a craftsman at his art, then pulls back, licking his lips, admiring his work. She catches him touching himself beneath the robe, cheeks flushed with feverish red.

"Up—now," he commanded, and Geta yanked her by her numb arms, giving her no time to think, dragging her off the bed and forcing her to her knees.

The spot below her collarbone throbbed, as did her stiff arms, but none of that mattered now. Caracalla was marking her, asserting his claim. No one would save her; she was completely at his mercy. With a low, guttural moan, he reached his peak, using only his hand, never once touching her body. His seed desecrated her face as he gripped her hair tightly. Oh, the young emperor had always been inventive, and this time, he’d found yet another way to break her.

Tear-streaked and branded with his bleeding name, his seed staining her face, she was completely shattered. Geta looked on with disdain, Caracalla with lazy boredom. Yet, he didn’t look away, showing no intention of discarding her like he usually did.

"When’s the trial?" The tip of his tongue traced his red lips, his eyes burning with feverish anticipation.

"Tomorrow morning," his brother replied hoarsely, sounding almost intrigued, a quiet observer of her humiliation.

"Then we have time," Caracalla said, playfully picking up the dagger and running his thumb along its sharp edge. His hands were already stained with her husband’s blood. "The trial tomorrow is for those foolish senators. But yours… yours starts now."

There was no mercy in his voice, no remorse. The gods had already passed their judgment. Cassandra shut her eyes.

⋆ ☼ ⋆

Hey friends, we’re almost at the finish line—the next chapter’s gonna be the last one, and it’s kinda massive! Thanks so much for all your support, I really appreciate it! 🙂‍↕️

[medievalharlot]

A gift for the princess 彡 Geta x princess f!reader x Caracalla

Pairing: Geta x princess f!reader x Caracalla

Synopsis: The empire comes to your aid and you are reunited with your childhood friends, they end up having a gift you cannot turn down

Wordcount: 3,1k

Request: ‘I’ve been thinking of this plot for a while, but I’m not a writer and could never write it myself. But what if both of the twins x reader, who was their childhood best friend, she came from a very wealthy family (for some reason I like to think she was royalty in a neighboring country or smth, anyway, she was forced to move away, and the twins and here were devestated (cause they like LIKED each other) years go by, and they are now emperors, they have to go to a place for business, with other royals (like where the reader lives) and they meet again, and like, fall in loveeee’ by anon

Tags: Childhood friends to lovers, reader is a princess, some light groping but no full on smut, period accurate misogyny, implied violence, implied abuse.

A/N: Phew this one is a little longer than I intended it to be. Maybe a little less historically accurate than my last one but I tried sticking to historical facts. I always thought of Caracalla as a shy child that turned mad and Geta being the brave one. This will be the last full on fic I post before I go to Paris, enjoy!

It would be a short seige, your castle walls were never strong enough to withstand the Parthian army. Yet your father, having spiraled into madness, insisted to keep fighting. For years your small kingdom had been an ally to the empire. Even if it was small, it had a strategic and important port. Under Marcus Aurelius it had it added to the list of allies and it had been loyal up. Your father suddenly decided to start a war against Parthia. Voices plagued his mind, advisors gone corrupt filled his mind with delusions. You had been supportive of your father, trying to see the good in his actions as a way to cope. Giving up on the man that had raised you felt like betrayel. Your mother was a noble lady and after giving birth to you ander your brother she moved back to her own home. Their marriage was arranged and quite an unpleasant one. You were his only daughter, his sweet delight. Your brother was aiding the empire in the conquest of Numidia by order of the emperor, leaving you to watch over your father. Every day he slipped further into madness, and everyday it became more painful to watch.

At a certain point his advisors convinced him to go to war. Once you got wind of the idea you had the advisors sent away, unleashing your fury upon him. But your father had already sent out the command. You had prayed to Pax, Fortuna and Minerva for the war to end well and for the Romans to send aid. Emperor Severus had been a good friend to your father. You weren’t aware that he had passed and his sons, Geta and Caracalla, were terrorizing the empire. News travelled slow in the empire and before you knew it there was an entire army knocking on your door with no aid in sight. You had witnissed the Pathian generals slaughter the people on the outskirts of the city being killed. Their screams haunting your mind as you hid.

Once, you knew the twins. It was a long time ago, before your father had become king. He took you and your brother to Rome quite often, in hindsight you understood it was probably to find a suitable match amongst the sons of the senators. Due to the friendship your father and the emperor shared you were often on the Forum. You remember meeting the twins for the first time.

Caracalla was a shy boy, hiding behind his brother. Geta was a bit cocky but curious about you. They were a few years older than you were. You were clinging to your fathers toga, you never played with boys. At home you were either being taught by master or you were playing with the daughters of your fathers advisors. Boys sucked. And yet here you were, alone with these boys in a room.

“Do you wanna play soldiers?” Geta had asked eventually. “You can be the helpless girl and we-” He had shoved his brother from behind him. “We will save you.” There was a proud smirk on his face.

Soldiers? Why would you want to play that, why would you be the helpless girl. “I don’t want to play that.” You reached for the wooden sword. Geta tried to grasp for it.

“You can’t play with that, that isn’t for girls.” He sneered as you pulled away. Caracalla still hadn’t spoken a word.

“Stop it!” You frowned, you weren’t one to let somebody to tell you what to do.

Soon, chaos ensued. Somehow you ended up in a brawl with him, and to your surprise you were winning. All that commotion had alarmed the servants, who had fetched your fathers. Emperor Severus was pissed. He had dragged Geta off you, shouting stuff like ‘this is not how you treat guests’ and ‘you let that little girl beat you up’. Caracalla chased after them while sobbing as the emperor dragged Geta by his collar out of the room.

The banging on the door only got louder, together with the other women of this court you were hiding in the cellar. Soft prayers were whispered, hopes that the devine above might save them. You didn’t pray, you knew there was no stopping an army, your kingdom was way too small to beat Parthia. Your father didn’t have the men, nor did he have much expierence. It would be over soon and all you could hope for is that they wouldn’t slaughter and take every single woman in this room.

Over the years you luckily grew to appreciate each other’s company. Visits to Rome became more frequent. Your father enjoyed the wine, food, feasts and whores in the capital better. Geta was still as boisterous as before as he often liked to remind you of how he would become emperor someday. Caracalla had grown out of his shyness, but he got reckless and often faced his father’s wrath.

You were sitting on Caracalla’s bed, soflty dapping your handkerchief against his busted lip. Geta was leaning agaisnt a pillar as he watched you tend to his brother. “What happened.” You had asked Geta, Caracalla was still visibly upset. He was rambling some words you couldn’t understand, making himself small and leaning out of his touch. Sometimes it felt like you were talking to a child.

“Drank too much wine last night and was found in the horse stables.” Geta replied, keeping it short. You could tell his fathers violence got to him.

“You’re a fool sometimes Caracalla.” You spoke to him, lifting his chin to get a better look.

“He just needs to die then I will be emperor.” He had spouted a bit angrily in return.

You sighed softly and stood up. “We will fetch a doctor.” You spoke, nodding your head to Geta to signal him to come along. Something was up with Caracalla, he was reckless but he had become more unpredictable and forgetful over the last few months. It was eating away at you, you saw them as your closest friends.

“Something is wrong with him, Geta.” You spoke as soon as the two of you turned a corner. “Did the doctors say anything last time?”

“They say his peverse nature has infected his mind.” Geta spoke as he walked with you. “They’re trying to treat him but father says he is fine.”

“He’s not.”

“I know.”

Then the screams came. The walls had been breached. Younger girls started sobbing, with a stern look you tried to make them shut up. You couldn’t blame them, the worse thing that could happen to you is that they would make you a concubine. Soldiers knew better than harming a princess that could be used for blackmail. But those girls, they would have to endure the worst. You held your breath as you could hear them getting closer, your heart beating in your chest. The doors opened, but to your surprise it weren't Parthian soldiers. Their shields carried the Roman chrest. It were Roman Soldiers. Had they come to your aid? You got up, your dress was dirty and your messy. The seige lasted a few hours and you had been stuck in this stuffy room.

“Princess Y/N, you have summoned by imperial decree.” One of the generals entered, you did not recognize him. He looked older, his black hair slowly graying. They took you, dragging you out of the room despite your protests. The didn’t take commands from a woman, they took direct orders from the emperors and the emperors alone.

It was a particularly hot summer that year. This time you had went ahead of your father to Rome, he had some business to take care of back home. It was uncommon for girls your age to travel alone, you had long passed the age to be wed, but you were of age. It was the only reason your father let you go alone. Something had changed this year tho, you weren’t sure about what. The three of you always went swimming in their private pool, it had been a tradition for you of some sort. You never thought of it as strange. Yet, this year you could feel your cheeks heating up as you watched them swim around.

“Are you just going to lay there?” Geta spoke up. You were still laying in the shade and still dressed.

“Don't feel like swimming.” You spoke as you grinned softly.

“Is the princess afraid of getting wet?” He laughed loudly as he swam to the side of the pool.

“I am not!” You got up defensively. In the midst of your conversation you had not noticed Caracalla lurked behind you. With a giggle he flung you into the water.

“There we go.” Geta laughed, watching you struggle to swim in the flowly stola you were wearing. You would have bothered to undress first if you knew they were gonna force you in.

The echoes of Caracalla's laughter rung around the pool. It had gotten worse, you knew that. Both of them got worse in their own way. From what you heard they were drunks with concubines from all over the empire and a lust for blood. It made you sad.

“You should come to the Colosseum soon.” Geta swam closer to you, looking slightly down on you. The water was up to your shoulders but you could still stand. The way he looked at you made your head do summersaults. He lifted your chin. “I think you would enjoy what we have prepared for you.” He got closer, eye contact still remaining as your lips almost touched.

“I am not sure if-” He cut you off with a kiss. Caracalla was behind you now, his hands roamed your hips and his lips were on your neck. He softly bit down on the skin as he whimpered while rutting against you. You were sandwhiched between them. One of Geta's hands was on your breast, the other holding your chin in place.

It was so perfect, until it wasn't. Your father had barged in and saw the scene. He, too, had heard of the twins endeavours. And upon seeing you sandwiched between them he got furious. He ordered you out of the pool and he scolded the both of them. Surely, they would never hear the end of it from their own father. It made you anxious for what would happen when the emperor got word of what had happened here. That didn't matter tho, you would be there to patch up their bruises.

Atleast, that is what you thought. Your father had send you home right away and you never saw the two of them again. The first year was hard but you learned to live with the heartache. With your father illness you had more pressing matters than Rome.

They had dragged you back all the way to Rome. It was early in the morning when you finally arrived, your head ached and your feet were sore. On the way you were informed your father was killed, only worsening your pain. The soldiers had given you a minimum of food and water and kept you dressed in simple rags. You felt like a prisoner and you still weren’t none the wiser about why you were summoned. Atleast you didn’t have to walk all the way.

You arrived in Rome filthy, dehydrated, hungry and confused. At once, you were taken to the throne room. It was nearly the same as you remembered, only there were two thrones. Maybe he put it there as a way to honor his deceased wife. Taking in the surroundings you heard the emperor and the guards come in.

“I hope there is a good reason for my treatment on this journey, your imperial highness.” You turned around, but instead of seeing emperor Severus, you stood eye to eye with them. Geta and Caracalla. Your heart dropped. It been years since you had seen them. They were the emperors now?

“We apologise for your treatment, my lady.” Geta spoke first as he offered his hand. You stood frozen, taking in the both of them. You couldn’t lie, it was good to see them. It was like a weight falling of your shoulders. But something felt off. Geta had a cold look in his eyes and Caralla looked almost insane. His eyes reminded you of your father. Both of them were dressed in gold armour with a gold laurel crown on their heads. They radiated divinity. It didn’t feel the same as it once did.

With a trembling lip you stumbled over to them, falling on your knees infront of them. You had grasped ahold of Geta’s robe. Caracalla grinned as he crouched down to look at you. “We saved your kingdom. You must thank us, your brother will be king now.”

You looked up at him with fat tears rolling down your face as you were reminded of your father’s death. Geta grabbed your face in his hand. “What my brother means to say is that we are very sorry about your father. He may have acted like a fool but no ally of Rome should suffer like you have.” He gave you a hand, you took it and stood. “There will be games in his honour tonight. You will be attending.” It wasn’t a question, it was a demand.

Softly, you nodded. You tried to process what was going on. “Yes, games.”

“Real games, with bloodshed. No mercy.” Caracalla spoke to you as if he tried to comfort you. “We got you a dress.”

“Yes, Cassia will help you get dressed. You must get some rest now.” Geta turned to a young girl, she looked foreign but she had a Roman. She was probably a concubine that they liked so much she got promoded to a handmaid. “Cassia, get her cleaned up.” He snided at the girl.

Cassia led you out of the throne room to the baths. The hot water felt nice against your sore skin, you felt clean atlast. An essence of mint and citrus hanging in the air.

After the bath, Cassia had dressed you in your gown. It was purple with gold trimmings, it must’ve cost a fortune. The fabric felt expensive. Your hair was done in an elaborate hairstyle. Even if you were a princess, the luxeries in Rome was something your father could not afford. You looked like an empress, the empress. “The emperors wish to see you before you leave for the Colosseum.” She eventually spoke after she finished doing your hair.

With heavy feet you made your way to the throne room. It did feel better to be dolled up again, but under these circumstances you doubt you could feel anything at all. You were alone in a city full of people that would probably want you dead, you had no moment of peace as two guards followed you at all costs. They pushed the door open to the throne room, Geta and Caracalla were already waiting for you.

They had changed into new clothes too. Caracalla wore a black gown, Geta opted for a rich red. The twins turned to look at you.

“You look splendid, my lady.” Geta spoke first before Caracalla interrupted him.

“My brother and I have a proposal to make.” He sat in his throne like a giddy child. You carefully watched them.

“Your father has passed, leaving you unmarried and under nobody’s protection.” Geta started, you weren’t sure what he was getting at. “Your brother is too busy being king, so..”

“What is it you want from me.” You cautiously narrowed your eyes.

Caracalla rose to his feet and walked towards you, grabbing your hands. “Marry us. You loved us when we were children, you love us now right?” There was a hint of desperation in his eyes. “Right?” He repeated, now sounding a little more angry.

You were left speechless. If they had asked you this question a few years ago you would’ve agreed without a second thought, but after all these years and all that happened you just couldn’t process what they asked of you.

“Nothing would happen to your kingdom once you are empress.” Geta was suddenly behind you, whispering in your ears. “We will make the man that murdered your father die a painfull death, my lady.” He stroked a ringed finger against your arm, the metal felt cold against your skin.

Geta took a step back. “We will give you some time to think, we have a surprise for you during the games first.” You heard Caracalla giggling, what had they planned?

In the Colosseum you were seated in between them. The two of them clearly enjoyed the bloodshed. Geta watched with a calm gaze and a smile on his face, Caracalla on the other hand was clapping and laughing as soon as blood was spilled. They had plenty of servants filling their cups, while they drank and enjoyed the finest food. You watched silently with your hands folded in your lap. The screams of agony from whoever was being slaughtered only reminded you of home. When you closed your eyes you could see the families being slain, the face of the Parthian general clear as day. You couldn’t have protected them even if you wanted, it made you feel helpless.

“And now! For the main event, our undefeated champion!” The master of ceremonies announced. Geta gave you a shove, making you look up at what was actually going on in the arena. “The Tigris of Gaul!” The crowd roared when he entered. He rode in on a rhino, the heavy beast trotting in.

Caracalla was basically jumping of his chair now, he took your hand and led you to the edge of the balcony. His grin was like a cheshire cat. “This will be our gift to you.” He spoke.

Geta got up as well, gracefully walking to place a hand on your back.

“Our champion will be taking it up against the Parthian Mithridates!” A beat up and confused man entered the ring, you recognized his face immediatly. It was the general that had killed your citizens. You remained silently as you coldheartedly watched the man taking it up against the Tigris of Gaul.

It didn’t take long for the gladiator to have the general on his back, he had only been given a dull sword. He had no chance of winning. The Tigris held his blade against the general’s neck, looking up to the emperor’s balcony for approval to kill him.

Geta had been smiling this entire time, gauging your reaction. “Well? What do you say? What judgement will the gods render.”

“Kill him.” Caracalla almost spat in your ear, his behaviour getting more erratic. “Kill him!”

Your thoughts ran a hundred miles an hour. That was the man that killed your people, he might even have killed your father. He caused so much suffering, so much death. You had him in your clutches now, you were the one deciding his faith. You looked down at him, the tears had fallen down your cheek a while ago. Were you able to say word, have this man killed? You had always been a sweet girl, your father sang praises of your gentle nature whenever he could. But something had changed, something had stirred.

They had given you this chance. This could mean war with Parthia and yet they still did it. They did it because they could, and they wanted you to have revenge. If being of empress of Rome ment you could reign terror down on the ones that hurt your people you had made your decision.

You looked at Geta, giving him a small nod. His grin grew even wider as he grabbed your hand. He lifted it slightly, he held his other fist up. “The gods have rendered their judgement!” The crowd went silent. They all watched the downturned thumb and they cheered once more. It was true what they said about the games, show them blood or else they will want yours.

You watched coolly as general Mithridates got his throat slid, only flinching slightly as the blade his neck and the blood spurted out. Before you could see the rest you had turned around to leave the emperors box.

“Where are you going. You are missing the best part.” Caracalla frowned as he watched you leave.

“There is a wedding to be planned.” You replied calmly. The twins looked at each other, their gift had worked. Rome would have a new empress soon, and she would show no mercy to her enemies.

[toxicanonymity]

Hii! Appreciate you using your platform to encourage action against the fascist gov in the states. I did 5 calls today to senators about the SAVE act vote, have been participating in protests across NYC monthly at minimum, and protesting at Columbia for Mahmoud Khalil as a member of the uni community there. Anon to protect my identity from Columbia.

My ficlet request is NightWalks Joel and reader smoking, boob workship, and cockwarming :)

- 🌿 fern anon

SAVE Act | 5calls | resistbot | Update - ask senators to vote no on cloture AND bill. Ty for all of your activism and good call protecting your identity. 💚💚🍃

nugs and kisses

Joel x f!reader | 1780 words | Joel masterlist

“Good girl,” he said and got the joint from the nightstand...“Now c’mere,” he added with commanding eyes. You playfully whined at the prospect of moving. He tilted his head...You got on your hands and knees and stretched. He bit his lip and nodded.

SUMMARY: A playful, intimate, and hot wake & bake romp. WARNINGS: I8+ weed, shotgunning, praise, unsafe p in v NOTES: night walks AU (after tired & rested ). can read alone.

You slept like a baby in his embrace. He even managed to resist waking you up for sex. He had said he couldn't promise he'd behave in the morning, but he knew you needed sleep, so he tried. His body was flush against yours, his leg over yours, with his foot resting on the bed, his heel against your ankle. 

He smelled you before fully waking. Your shampoo, or your soap, and your pheromones. Your Scent carried a whole wave of comfort and familiarity, stirring affection in his heart before he knew what or who he smelled. 

As he roused into a half-awake state, he imagined he had broken into your basement again. But after a moment, the thrum of the fan told him this was his bed. A bed where he normally slept alone.

He could get used to this, he mused for a moment, then his face heated as his thoughts became fully conscious. you shifted slightly in your sleep, and your nipple dragged against his forearm. He sharply inhaled and his hips pushed forward in a reflex, pressing his erection harder against you. 

If you weren't wearing anything, it would be a lot more difficult, but your cold nature left you in your pants and camisole whereas he had stripped. 

He took in a slow breath with his nose pressed to the nape of your neck. His hips rocked in a subtle motion he couldn't stop, aching to put it in you. But  he wanted to know how you felt first. You had been upset by the pool before he found you. He wanted to be what you needed and also inside you. 

Wake and bake, he thought to himself and after giving you a little squeeze and a light kiss on the crown of your head, he willed himself himself to roll over to his nightstand where he had some good shit.

You stirred with the loss of your comfy cocoon. You didn't fully wake up, but you turned onto your back and you looked so pretty.

The shape of your lips, the curve of your breasts.  The way your face scrunched slightly. And then it scrunched more. You rolled toward him, and he laid a hand gently on your head. “Mornin’, pumpkin.”  A little smile flashed onto your lips before your eyes  even opened.

“Baby, you've made me believe in beauty sleep. Always wake up gorgeous.” 

You turned your head slightly into the pillow with a shy smile. He asked, “How do i look?” puffing out his chest a bit with an expectant tilt of his head. His muscles looked great but a tent in the sheet was tugging at your peripheral vision. You finally glanced there and the sliver of skin you could see under the sheet made you answer, “naked” with a chuckle. 

He looked down at himself. “It's hot work bein’ your personal heater, ya know. You still cold?” 

“Not really… You did a good job.”

He took a puff of the joint and you reached for it. He held it back playfully and said, “dare ya to get naked.” 

You giggled into the pillow and then your eyes met with playful affection. “You triple dog dare me?” 

“Quadruple dog,” he replied. “Five dog.”

You said okay, and he lowered himself to be at your level and he looked from your eyes to your lips, and brought his lips millimeters away from yours before slowly releasing the smoke.

You sucked in the smoke with your eyes closed. As you held it in your mouth, he couldn't resist pressing his mouth to your upper lip, and then your cheek.

As you exhaled against the side of his face, he palmed your breast, then his thumb tugged at the camisole's strap. 

“Lemme help ya with that,” he said and reached way back to put the joint in an ashtray on his nightstand. You sat up and lifted your arms.

“Attagirl,” he said as he pulled your top off and “Mmm” when your breasts fell free. 

“Ladies,” he greeted them.  

“ladies?” you giggled.

“Hadn't named’em…” 

He tugged at your waistband and you removed the pants.

“Good girl,” He said and got the joint from the nightstand, still holding it away from you. “Now c’mere,” he added with commanding eyes.

You let out a playful whine at the prospect of moving. He tilted his head.

You got up on your hands and knees first, and stretched. 

He bit his lip and nodded. 

Then you made your way into sitting -  you were gonna sit next to him, but once you were up on your knees, you found yourself going straight for his lap. 

You tugged the sheet off his lap, exposing his hard cock and thighs. He raised his eyebrows, and you sucked your bottom lip with a playful glint in your eye as you straddled him. 

“Hell yeah,” he said, “that's my girl.” You hovered and looked down at his thick stiff cock and felt your breath deepen as you lowered yourself.  You descended to just the right spot, so your naked front was pressed right up against his hard-on.

“All yours,” he murmured with a little tilt of his hips as he held the joint up to your mouth.

You took a short puff then pulled your head back and he set it aside. He looked back and forth between your breasts and palmed them with the reverence some men reserve for artwork. His hand pressed against one, framing the nipple in the crook of his thumb. His other arm nudged you into moving up a few inches. He took a deep breath through his nose, then tongued the sensitive skin as his mouth covered it. 

His eyes closed and brow furrowed as he sucked and tongued at your nipple and breast. “Mmm,” he moaned, and you throbbed. His dick twitched against you. Arousal surged through your blood like a drug.

God, you needed him bad. 

He pulled himself away, and your hips rolled, grinding against his hardness as he paid attention to the other one. Then he pulled himself away with a smack and licked his bottom lip. 

“Pumpkin, I know I've said it, and I'll say it again, but from the bottom of my heart… you are so goddamn hot.”

You smiled and replied, “okay… I know you know it, but you're pretty hot yourself,” then bit your lip at the admission. 

His eyes widened with an impressed raise of his brows. “You think I'm hot?” He asked, and you would've rolled your eyes if it was just a compliment, but it was an understatement if anything.

“There's something about you,” you said. 

“She thinks I'm hot,” He gloated, and you playfully gave his muscular chest a little punch.

“Prove it, baby,” he said.  

That was all you needed to rise up on your knees again, giving clearance for his cock. Then you held it at the base and slid it through your ample slick. That was proof. Solid evidence. He took in a chest full of air, looking sexy as hell with his hair disheveled his eyes blown out with lust. Then he watched you notch his cock at your entrance, and his mouth opened as your snug, wet cunt swallowed his tip. You sank down on him, and he moaned in a haze of desire. You didn't bottom out right away on your own. When you lifted up an inch, leaving the smooth skin of his dick shiny and wet, he grabbed your ass. He pulled you down on his cock, fully seating himself all the way in your warmth. 

“Fuck, pumpkin,” he breathed. He cradled your face and pulled it toward his, kissing you deep with an inhale through his nose. Your lips fit together, and his cock twitched inside you as his tongue plunged into your mouth. His hips rocked under you at the rhythm of your kiss. You licked into his mouth, pulling a short moan out of him as he accepted your tongue, caressing it with his. 

Your hips moved, meeting his cadence. A gentle ride, more of a joystick pivot than up and down, to start. His hands possessed you as you made out.

He groped your ass, your breasts. 

He pulled you tighter, wrapped an arm tight around you, and when he broke the kiss with an urgent breath, he lifted you enough to begin fucking you from the bottom, bouncing you on his cock.  He kissed your neck, breathing audibly and moaning into your jaw, grunting against your cheek, as he fucked you, and your hips rocked together.

“God damn, you're fuckin’ perfect,” he breathed. “Th’way you ride this cock.” He thrust up and let you down, with his cock even deeper. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Yeah, lemme see ya ride it. He pulled his head back against the wall, captivated by the way you moved. You planted your hands on him, one on each pec, and rolled your hips. Keeping his cock deep inside, you tilted forward and grinded against his pubic bone, moaning at the synchronized pressure on your cunt and the nudge of his cock in your depths. 

“God damn, that's good,” he marveled. “Yeah, just like that.” 

You felt fuller with each drag of his girth through your soft walls. The fullness made your mouth fall open, then his head came off the wall. His neck began to stretch, then when you moaned again, his core flexed as he came off the wall and wrapped an arm around you. His mouth took yours again, and you gladly surrendered it to him. You kissed and fucked, sliding against each other, pressed together. With your arms around his neck, you breathed against each other's mouths. His cock throbbed, and you whimpered.

Pleasure built in your belly, in your chest, then seized your body with a shaking release that nearly had you choke on a moan. “Baby,” he moaned as your climax hugged his cock so good.  “Feel so–oh, fuck–” His body jerked as his first rope shot into you, with your thighs already trembling from your own release. He kissed you as you finished milking his cock, each warm burst in your core had him moaning a little softer into your mouth. 

When your mouths separated, your foreheads came gently together. You breathed each other's breath, and you only realized your hand was in his hair after you absent mindedly raked your fingernails over his scalp and he hummed, “Mmm.”

He planted a firm kiss on your neck, and held you until you started dozing off and he leaned back against the wall, stroking your back, softening inside you, content for you to stay like that as long as you wanted.

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Thank you for reading, and thank you for your activism. please consider sharing this fic if you like it <3

[thedevilsoftruth]

Best Mistake.

Thunderbolts/Senator B. Barnes x Afab! Reader

smut tags: Old man Bucky love, heavy heavy breeding kink ( can you guess what my biggest fetish is!! ), unprotected sex, little bit of degrading, crying during sex. Not beta read.

A/n: yeah I know I said on last night's post that that last fic would be the last Congressman Barnes erotica I made before Thunderbolts comes out, but ive had this idea for weeks so I turned it into a short drabble. Enjoy!

[ MDNI! I am not responsible for what you find on the internet. ]

You don't even intend for the words to fall out. They just do.

Right there. On your couch. What was supposed to be just a small quickie before he had to go off to work turned into something so much more than that when you decided to open your mouth.

"I'm not on birth control."

The way Bucky looked up at you had you shaking more than the actual sex did. It was a look that you'd never forget. A look that he could never recreate. One that was initially pure shock but did not take long to turn into something that was hungry and dark.

"You uh..." He panted. You swore you could feel his cock twitch inside you. "You wanna repeat that?"

No. No you did not. The situation already had you embarrassed. Plus, he looked really angry. You wanted to shake your head but your mouth betrayed you when he gave you a singular deep thrust that had you gripping his forearms for dear life.

"Not... ngh--on birth control." You repeated with a mewl that was so whiny and desperate that it made you embarrassed. Bucky just laughed. He threw his handsome head back and laughed, long silver and black strands of hair sticking to his sweaty skin.

"oh baby," he crooned, his voice so condescending and mocking that it made you feel so ungodly broken but so ungodly needy. "that's just too bad, hmm? 'cause I'm gonna.. fu--fuckin' cum soon." You'll never forget how strained and gutteral his voice was when he spoke those words to you, or the way your pussy fluttered around him after he had spoken them.

You yelped when he started back up his brutally fast and punishing pace without warning. Your hands shot to his back, clawing at him through his white button down. His red wine tie hung loosely around his collar, falling onto your exposed breasts and bouncing with you as your body moved perfectly in time with his thrusts. Your legs wrapped around his thick waist, pulling him into you deeper, needing more of him despite how utterly embarrassed you were.

"You gonna let me fill this pretty little pussy up? Hmm?" He cooed, smoothing your hair out over your forehead with his flesh hand, all with the fakest pout you'd ever seen on a man. And that was saying something, because you went on to have two children.

"Get you nice and round with my baby.." He grunted through gritted teeth, his cock pushing into the most perfect little spot in your pussy that had your muscles tightening around him and fluttering. You almost fucking screamed. "Ooho," he laughed darkly. "Did you like that?"

His vibranium hand cupped your warm cheek. Your eyes were wide and tears were prickling them. His cold, metal thumb brushed over your puffy, wet lips. You wanted to cry. You were going to cry.

"Filthy girl." He growled, slamming into hard and making you cry out. "Not taking birth control, begging me to come fuck her an hour before I have to go to work." He leaned down and kissed your collarbone. His teeth lightly grazed over your skin. "Is this what you wanted? Hmm? Were you hoping that I'd fill you up? Get you all stuffy and bred nicely?"

You couldn't stop the tears slipping down your warm cheeks as he shamelessly degraded you. You covered your face with your hands, whimpering but trying so hard to contain the broken moans coming out of you.

"Nuh-uh." Bucky growled, tearing your arms from your face. "None of that. You know better." He told you with the shake of his head, his pace slowed down by just a tad. "You don't get to act all shy after what you just told me." He leaned down to kiss you, his silky salt-and-pepper beard grazing against your skin as he moved his jaw against yours.

"Now." He said, giving you one singular kiss along with a thrust that hit you so hard that you swore your vision turned white for a moment. "You gonna let me fill this pathetic little cunt up? Or are you just gonna sit there and cry?"

Spoiler alter: it was both.

You blinked, opening your wet eyes, your hand dropping down to his right forearm, your palm grazing against the cold metal of the watch you gave him as a 3rd year wedding anniversary gift. Which he still had, 7 years later.

"Ngh--" you tried, your eyes drifting to the ceiling subconsciously. He forced your eyes back on his with two metal fingers. "Yes..." You gasped, fingers digging into his exposed skin. He tapped your clit twice.

"Try again." He frowned with the click of his tongue. You coughed, a broken moan disrupting it as he started rubbing your little bud in harsh circles.

"Yes! Please, James. W-want you to fill me up." You begged, your tongue thick in your mouth, your used pussy drooling over his cock, all with hot tears slipping down your cheeks.

He laughed darkly. A sound so deep, it rumbled from his chest like thunder and made your cunt flutter all over him like it was the first time.

"Good fucking girl." He said through his laugh, leaning down to kiss you. "I knew you had it in you to admit to it." His teeth lightly grazed over your swollen lips. Your toes curled when he started hitting your sweet spot all over again in heavy, deep thrusts.

"Now be good for me and take this like the good, filthy little girl I know you can be."

[astrids-blog333]

Before the Fall

Emperor!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Fiancé!Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: In the weeks leading up to your wedding, Lucius swears you’re his. But when a plot to kill you unfolds his protective instincts go into overdrive, and his need for revenge becomes a force that can't be stopped.

Warnings: obsessive love, betrayal, poison, dark romance, hurt/comfort, angst, death themes, violence, mention of needles/medical tools, nudity (no smut)

A/N: This is based off a request from the lovely @londonalozzy, hope its what you imagined. I really enjoyed writing this :)

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 3.5k

The city lies below you, gilded in dusk. It's a sprawl of rooftops and marble, with lanterns flickering to life one by one. You can hear laughter from the palace gardens far beneath, and the distant hush of fountains, the clink of goblets and soft strains of music carried by the wind.

But here, above it all, it’s quiet.

You lean on the balcony rail, the cool stone pressing into your hands. Behind you, the doors to your shared chambers stand open, silk curtains dancing in the breeze. The faint and heady scent of night-blooming flowers drifts on the air.

Lucius stands in the doorway, watching you.

He hasn’t said a word since he came in. Just shed his armour, piece by piece. First pauldrons, then chestplate, the belt goes, until all that remains is the linen shirt clinging to his frame.

You don’t need him to speak. You can feel him in your skin.

“You’re brooding,” you murmur without turning.

He doesn’t answer at first. Then the floor creaks under his bare feet as he moves closer. “I’m thinking,” he says, low and rough.

You smile faintly. “Dangerous habit.”

His arms come around you from behind, slow and sure. One hand flattens against your stomach, the other wraps across your chest, holding you flush against his powerful body.

“I can’t help it,” he says, and it isn’t a jest.

You tilt your head to the side as he brushes his mouth against your neck, a kiss that lingers without deepening.

“I saw the way that senator looked at you today,” he says quietly.

You sigh, resting your hands over his.

You twist slightly to meet his gaze. “I’m not a prize to be guarded, Lucius.”

His jaw ticks, eyes burning dark. “You are to me.”

There’s no apology in his voice. No shame in the way he holds you tighter, like he’s half a breath away from shielding you with his entire body.

You reach up and brush your fingers through his hair. It’s unbound now, wind-swept and silvering in the moonlight. “You’re too intense for this world.”

He huffs a soft sound that might be a laugh, or at least something close to it. “You’re too beautiful for this world.”

“You’re biased.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you fully, fingers curling around your wrist. “Utterly.”

The moment stretches, a welcome pause in the chaos of court and crowns. Then, wordlessly, he reaches for the clasp at your shoulder.

You don’t stop him.

His hand is steady, but his eyes search yours, still always asking. Even now when you’re to be his wife in days, even when your lives are tangled like roots in soil.

The fabric slips with a whisper, your gown loosening, sliding down one arm. Lucius watches it fall like it’s a sacred thing.

He helps you turn, facing him. The city is behind you now, but you can still feel it glowing on your skin. His gaze follows the light, tracing the place where your collarbone catches it, the hollow of your throat, the edge of your shoulder.

His hands come up to the other clasp, and you let him undo it, and the silk shudders as it slides down your body.

You should feel exposed. But all you feel is his eyes.

He touches your waist. Then your arms. A finger down your spine. Not lust, not hunger, something deeper.

You raise your hand and press it against his chest. His heart thuds beneath your palm, a steady drumbeat. When you look up, his expression is thunderous—stormy, hungry, aching.

“Say something,” you whisper.

He shakes his head slowly, lips parted. “I can’t. You make words useless.”

“You’re thinking again,” you murmur.

His hands still. His voice is hoarse. “I don’t want anything to take this from me.”

You step closer, bare and unflinching. “Nothing will.”

But he doesn’t look reassured. He looks like a man staring at the edge of a cliff.

His thumb brushes your cheek. “I’ve known war. I’ve known loss. But this-”

You reach up, pressing your mouth to his before he can finish. It’s a soft kiss, one that asks instead of takes. He answers with a sigh, a sound that shudders through him.

You feel his restraint like a coiled spring.

When you break apart, your voice is soft. “Do you still want to marry me, Lucius?”

His eyes flash. “I want to chain the gods if it keeps you safe. I want to carve your name into time next to mine so we can never be parted. I want to wake beside you for every breath I’m given.”

You laugh, almost tearfully. “So that’s a yes?”

He kisses your temple. “Yes. And so much more.”

You stand there like that for a while, bare beneath his cloak, wrapped in arms that have held swords and shields and empires, and now only hold you.

He doesn’t take you to bed, not yet.

Instead, he carries you inside and wraps you in soft linen, his rings cool against your skin. He brushes your hair back and watches you fall asleep like you are something holy.

Like you're far, far too fragile for this world.

The feast sprawls across the garden in a blur of gold and wine and silks. Lanterns are bobbing in the warm evening air, casting lights over noblemen and generals, over perfumed women and simpering lords. Somewhere, a lyre sings.

But Lucius hasn’t left your side. He watches you like he still has his hand on your spine. Like you might vanish between one breath and the next.

You keep your smile polite, easy, soft. You let a duke’s wife compliment your gown. You lift your goblet when a toast is made. You play the part, but there’s a weight to your awareness now. His gaze presses into your shoulder blades.

“Try to enjoy yourself,” you murmur beneath your breath, turning just enough for Lucius to hear.

“I am,” he replies, voice low and unhurried. “You’re here.”

You reach for your wine again, only for Lucius to stop you, two fingers resting lightly against the stem of your goblet. Not forceful, not commanding. But final. Then he lifts the glass himself, sniffs it, and hands it to a nearby guard without a word.

“Too warm,” he says when you frown. “I’ll have another brought.”

You almost laugh. You don’t. Something in his eyes won’t let you.

Across the courtyard, past the music and marble statues and glistening tables, someone is watching you.

A young noble, tall, broad-shouldered, with golden hair and a face carved for vanity. Lord Severan. You’ve seen him in passing, heard his name wrapped around gossip. His family fought beside yours long before your birth.

He doesn’t look away when your eyes catch his. He simply inclines his head, as though he has every right to look at you for as long as he pleases.

He doesn’t see Lucius.

Lucius sees him.

Your future husband doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But the space around him sharpens. You feel his fury the way you feel the storm season rolling in over the mountains, a distant thunder, the scent of earth before rain.

When you glance up, Lucius is already watching Severan.

The younger man falters. It’s slight, almost nothing, a stutter in his stance, a flicker of something uncertain in his expression. But you see it. And so does Lucius. Severan turns away a moment later, voice rising as he joins another conversation, too loud, too bright.

Lucius exhales.

You want to ask, what was that? But you don’t, because part of you already knows.

The garden has always been your secret. A place carved from stone and vines, hidden past the west wing. Lucius insisted the entrance be sealed to all others after you found it together, calling it your little kingdom.

“You should let me build you a new one,” he says tonight, low in your ear. “With statues of you in every corner.”

You hum without turning, leaning back into his chest. “Tempting. But then where would we hide when the Senate bores us to death?”

His arms fold around your waist from behind. “I could banish them for that.”

You laugh. “You say that like you haven’t already threatened half the council.”

He kisses your shoulder, grinning. “Only the slow-witted ones.”

You’re barefoot, perched on the stone bench where he’s draped a throw for you, one slipper forgotten in the grass. The vines above sway gently, scenting the air with jasmine.

Lucius pulls back just enough to press a goblet into your hand. “To your patience, beloved. And your saint-like tolerance of me.”

“Oh, that ran out weeks ago.”

He chuckles, watching you take the first sip. “And yet here you are.”

“Because you’re pretty.”

He arches a brow. “Pretty?”

“Devastatingly. Like a sculpture. One of those marble heroes. But significantly moodier.”

“Moodier?” He feigns offence.

You glance at him sidelong, smirking. “Broodier?”

“I prefer commanding.”

“Mm. You’d still look very commanding as a statue. Naked, obviously.”

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “If you wanted me naked, love, you only had to ask.”

You swat at him half-heartedly, laughter slipping past your teeth, and he grins like a man completely, stupidly in love.

You drink. A sip, no more. The wine is sweeter than before. Thicker.

The silence stretches, but something shifts.

It happens slowly. A throb behind your eyes. A warmth in your chest that doesn’t spread, just tightens. Like a band drawn too tight.

You blink once. Twice. The moonlight blurs at the edges. Your breath catches.

Lucius’s head snaps toward you.

You try to speak, but the words catch. Your chest rises too fast, then too slow. The goblet slips from your hand and crashes to the stone.

Lucius is on his feet. Hands on your arms, your face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer, you can’t. The garden sways around you, your vision warping. You grip his tunic for balance and feel your body sag against him.

Lucius roars for the guards.

There’s no mask of Emperor now. No calm authority. He lifts you into his arms like you weigh nothing and turns toward the palace, already shouting orders. The corridors blur around you, columns and frescoes and startled faces. Lucius is yelling for Ravi, voice like thunder crashing through marble.

You hear your name. Over and over again.

“Stay with me. Stay with me.”

Then darkness.

A few hours later, Ravi works in near-silence.

His hands are stained with herbs and tinctures, sleeves rolled back to his elbows. A bowl of tainted wine stands on a side table, half-emptied for testing. A copper basin is dark with water and blood.

Lucius has not moved from your side.

You lie on his bed, pale and still, your lips parted as though caught mid-breath. Your skin gleams with sweat. There is a mark on your arm where Ravi injected the antidote, a desperate gamble on what he believes is poison from the south, rare, expensive, slow to kill but brutal.

“She’ll live,” Ravi says at last, voice hoarse. “It was close. It still is close. But I think we caught it in time.”

Lucius doesn’t respond. He only nods. His hand wraps around yours, cold, trembling slightly. His thumb strokes your knuckles like a litany.

Behind him, the guards wait, silent. Tense.

“Find out who brought the wine,” Lucius says quietly.

Ravi looks up.

Lucius doesn’t look away from you. “Every hand that touched it. Every link in the chain. I want names.”

The guards bow and vanish like shadows.

Lucius leans closer, his breath stirring your hair. He brushes it back from your brow and presses his forehead to yours.

“I swear to the gods,” he whispers, “I will find them. I will tear the world apart if I have to.”

The palace is hushed.

Not in reverence, not in mourning. In fear.

Lucius walks the halls like a spectre, draped in crimson. His jaw is locked, his stride steady. The guards who follow don’t dare speak. The scent of iron follows him. His hand is still stained red from the last interrogation.

He reaches the chamber at the end of the east wing.

They'd dragged Lord Severan here after Ravi confirmed it—the poison traced to the noble's house, hidden in a shipment of rare wine, sealed with his signet.

Fool.

Lucius opens the door himself.

Severan turns at the sound. He stands in the centre of the room, straight-backed, still dressed like a man of title. His tunic bears a pale smear of dust, but his eyes are sharp, unreadable. He does not kneel. He does not beg.

Of course he doesn’t.

“Your Majesty,” he says, voice even. “I trust this is a misunderstanding.”

Lucius says nothing.

He steps inside, and the door shuts behind him with a soft click. No guards. No audience. Just the two of them.

Severan lifts his chin. “I’ve served the Empire faithfully all my life. My family-”

“Thought I wouldn’t notice,” Lucius says, low. “Or care.”

A pause.

Then Severan’s face twitches, just slightly. “I’ve no idea what you’re implying.”

Lucius is across the room before Severan can blink, one hand slamming into his chest, shoving him back into the stone wall. The crack of it echoes like a gunshot. Severan grunts, breath knocked from his lungs.

“You poisoned her,” Lucius snarls. “You put your filthy hands on something that wasn’t yours.”

“She was never yours to begin with.” The words spill out before he can stop them, bitter and sharp. “Your engagement is recent. Our families have been allied for years. I expected-”

“You expected?” Lucius’s voice is low, dangerous. “You expected her to fall into your lap like land and cattle? Like shes property?”

“I would have treated her with dignity. She would have been safe with me.”

Lucius punches him. It’s fast, brutal. Bone cracks beneath his fist. Severan chokes on his own blood.

“She was safe with me. The only reason she is not anymore, is you.”

“She nearly died,” Lucius growls, fist curled tight. “She still might. Do you know what it feels like to watch someone you truly love suffocate in your arms?”

Severan coughs, lips wet with red. “She would never have been yours if she had a choice.”

Lucius stills.

Then he smiles. A thin, terrible smile.

He steps back. “On your knees,” Lucius says.

Severan doesn’t move.

Lucius draws his dagger. “On your knees.” This time, Severan obeys. Slowly. Jaw clenched.

“You think you’re the first man to covet her?” Lucius circles him. “You think you’re the only one to look at her and wish she belonged to you? Well you're not.”

His voice darkens. “But you’re the only one foolish enough to try to take her from me.”

The blade gleams in the torchlight. Severan’s breath comes in short, ragged bursts.

“I’m the Emperor,” Lucius says, voice almost soft. “I could have stripped your title, dragged your name through the dirt. But that’s not what you deserve.”

He kneels beside him, dagger at Severan’s throat.

“You deserve to bleed.”

“Wait-” Severan tries, voice hoarse. “Please-”

“No.”

Lucius cuts.

The blade slides across Severan’s throat with surgical precision. No hesitation.

Blood spills fast, warm and thick, soaking into the marble.

Lucius watches him fall. Watches him die.

His face is blank, empty, but his hands are shaking. He stays there a moment longer, crouched over the body.

Then he stands.

Ravi is waiting outside the door, eyes wide, breath held. He nods. “She’s breathing. Still weak, but stable. She’s asking for you.”

Lucius exhales once, sharp and unsteady.

Then he walks. Not like an emperor or a man victorious.

He walks like someone who nearly lost the only thing that ever made him feel human.

And left death in his wake.

You wake to the sound of breathing. Slow and steady. Not your own.

Everything aches. Your bones feel waterlogged, your skin too tight, your lungs not quite yours. The world is heavy and blurred, but not empty anymore.

There’s a hand in yours.

Warm, large, calloused. Gripping so tightly it’s almost painful, as if letting go might kill him.

Lucius.

You don’t say it aloud. You try, but it comes out as a whisper of breath, just enough. A ghost of his name.

His head jerks up.

He’s slumped in a chair beside you, his hair mussed, eyes bloodshot, his tunic stained with something darker than dust. There are bruises along his knuckles, dried blood in the grooves of his rings. But none of that matters.

Because the moment your eyes meet his, it’s like the whole world crashes into place.

“Lucius,” you rasp, barely a sound.

He’s already moving.

He doesn’t shout, doesn’t call for servants. He just presses forward, sinking to his knees beside the bed, wrapping both hands around yours like he’s trying to feel your pulse with his whole body.

“You came back to me,” he breathes. His voice is hoarse, wrecked. “You- fuck sweetheart, I thought I lost you.”

You manage a faint smile. “You’re the one who looks like death.”

He huffs a sound that’s almost a laugh. But his eyes are wet, his shoulders trembling as he bows his head against your arm.

Your fingers twitch, reaching, despite the fire in your muscles. You reach for him, your hand dragging against his jaw. He lifts his head instantly, eyes wild.

“You shouldn’t move-”

“I need to touch you,” you whisper.

Lucius leans into it, closes his eyes as your fingers brush the side of his face. His stubble scrapes your skin. He’s so warm. Solid. Alive.

“Ravi said it was close,” you murmur. “I remember his voice.”

Lucius nods slowly. “You stopped breathing. Twice.”

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. You can see it in him, in the smudged shadows beneath his eyes, the twitch in his jaw.

“How long?” you ask.

“Three days.”

You blink. “You haven’t slept.”

“No,” he says, without shame.

Silence falls.

Then, quietly, “You don’t get to die before I marry you.”

You smile, weak but real.

You glance at him properly now. The blood on his sleeves. The state of him. “You found out who it was.”

His jaw clenches.

“I didn’t just find him,” Lucius says softly. “I made him confess. I made him beg.”

You don’t ask for details. You don’t need to.

But he gives them to you anyway. “Severan thought you were promised to him. His family assumed your hand would be theirs by alliance. No contract. No vow. Just... pure entitlement.”

You close your eyes.

There’s a pause. You open your eyes to find him watching you, ruthless, wrecked, and so full of love it almost hurts.

“I didn’t kill him quickly,” he says. “I wanted him to understand. I wanted him to feel what it means to steal what’s mine.”

You swallow. “Lucius-”

“No. Don’t ask me to regret it.” He brushes your hair back, gentle as a prayer. “If I hadn’t been holding your hand when you woke, I’d still be out there, finding the rest of them.”

“You think there are more?”

“There are always more.”

You study his face. The darkness in it. The desperate, burning edge that hasn’t softened.

He’s not the same man who teased you on the balcony. Not quite.

But he’s still yours.

“Come here,” you say softly.

Lucius hesitates, just for a second.

He climbs onto the bed carefully, lying beside you atop the covers, his arm beneath your neck, drawing you gently into his chest. You can feel the tension still thrumming through him, like a wild animal only half-caged.

You press your face into his throat. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He holds you tighter. “You’d better not.”

“I’ll marry you,” you whisper, half-dreaming. “Even if you look like a ghost.”

He chuckles into your hair. “Then we’ll make it soon.”

“I want the dress with the pearls.”

“You’ll have it,” he murmurs, lips at your temple. “You’ll have everything.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of his heartbeat, steady against your cheek. The warmth of him. The safety in it.

And the sense, finally, that the worst is over.

But even now, as you drift, his grip doesn’t loosen. He’s still watching the door. Still ready to kill.

Still yours.

I had a lot of fun writing this, please comment/like/reblog is you enjoy, and as always requests are open <3

[notjustjavierpena]

Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia: Chapter I

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Here it is. I have been working hard on this chapter for you, plotting out the little details that will hopefully connect beautifully with the coming chapters. I hope you like my take on Marcus Acacius, and I hope you will be patient and follow along ❤️💖 I hope you enjoy the effort I’ve put into making this somewhat historically accurate! 

Chapter Summary: In which you meet your future husband, get a warning from an old friend and explore pleasure on your own - all the while tension grows in Rome. 

Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Chapter warnings: +18, arranged marriage, historical sexism, probably historical inaccuracies, large age gap, reference to marital SA but no actual SA, religion in the form of Roman Gods, talk about virginity, intense kissing, f!masturbation involving shame and guilt.

Word count: 7k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57443332/chapters/146141770

Chapter I: In these tumultuous times

You step through the atrium with a pulse that might break your ribs, too nervous to enjoy the marvel of the glorious marble construction that envelops you in near gold-speckled white. Neither can you fascinate yourself in the grandeur of the peristyle garden that you eventually find yourself in, green and luscious with well-tended plants that have no other purpose other than being beautiful - much like you. 

The afternoon sun will come soon, casting a shadow over the rose bushes and the fountains which slow trickles of water are supposed to bring you peace but somehow just makes you dread this meeting even more. Any girl back home would deem the location romantic from the blooming red flowers but you feel no affection for the man you are to greet in less than an hour. Even if your mother claims that you eventually will.

You thank the Gods that your mother isn’t here with you, knowing that you would have had to suffer through hearing her complain about Sol moving just a bit too far across the sky in his golden chariot to let your gown shine the way it is supposed to. She has already spent several hours doing your hair since dawn, decorating each strand with violets from the grass patch close to the river that runs through your village. Symbolizing modesty and faithfulness, she had said. 

It’s not like you are here alone though. Instead of being here with your mother, you are here with your father; a senator who, despite his well-earned respect in the confusing web of Roman politics, still finds ways to satisfy his greed for more power. In this case, it is giving away his daughter to General Marcus Acacius. 

“This is good for us,” your father had said during your silent crying as he talked about your new life with importance, “It will secure our family's position in these tumultuous times.”

Times are indeed tumultuous and they are changing right before your eyes in the form of angry shouts in the streets, rotting fruit and vegetables at the town square market, and fewer outings amongst commoners. Rome, once a beacon of hope and stability, now teeters on the edge of a type of chaos that not even the previous emperor Commodus could imagine putting his empire through. The co-emperors’ insanity, greed, and vanity drain the empire’s coffers as they engage in petty conflicts that lead to war left and right. As a result, the population is left impoverished, the youngest of men are dying in battle and the women cry for their families all the while the very top - your family included - luxuriates in growing wealth. Such is war, your father has stressed. 

“General Acacius is a man of influence,” your father had continued, his voice laced with conviction that you did not understand, “His alliance will protect us from the whims of those who oppose the emperors and their righteous campaigns.”

General Acacius is a man of great renown, co-emperors Geta and Caracella’s right-hand man, and with a sea of stories about his admirable exploits on the battlefield. Your father has somehow made the political move of his life by settling this deal, promising the great warrior a wife of exceptional beauty who he can do with as he pleases. Women never have a say in these things, so you simply smiled during dinners where your future was discussed in the same manner as when a farmer plans the sale of one of his cattle, listing the animal’s qualities like he would say them later to the buyer. 

Whenever he finally let you in on the conversation, he would give you a stern smile and emphasize the importance of this arrangement because of the honor and security it would bring to your family to have such a man as your ally. However, where your father wanted you to think about your future husband’s victories, all you do think about is the fact that your future husband is a man in his fifties and you have barely surpassed your twentieth Summer in the mortal realm. 

When the minutes tick by with excruciating slowness, you find a bench made of stone in the shade. You dust off your dress, tuck it close to your thighs, and sit down to steady your nervous breathing. The sun has made you unsteady, having beaten down on you - contrary to your mother’s worries - despite it being the last burning rays of the afternoon. You blame it on your overactive mind, the racing thoughts having gone straight to your heart and made your blood flow hot through you. 

You lay a hand against your forehead, fighting off a sob as the nerves finally get the better of you. There’s no way you can ever see your reflection in the cold river again, smell the hyacinths that brush your ankles as you walk through them, or hear the laughter of children in the building next door unless the giggles are those of your own little ones. 

You have been groomed for this, trained by your eager mother to be the perfect wife to a man you have never met. Your mother’s meticulous preparation is meant to ensure that you make a flawless first impression and are a suitable wife, but right now it does little to calm you because you know that this arrangement’s ultimate goal is for you to bear children that will be even more powerful than you and the General’s respective families. 

Barely an adult and never been kissed, forced to be intimate by the General’s command that will surely come. You know well enough that there’s more to it than that, Cassius, a boy from the market, once having revealed in great detail what goes on between a man and his wife or even just a man and a woman. The future wedding night feels like an impending disaster, embarrassing for you with the way your mother has also dragged you aside to tell you horror stories of men taking what they want from their wives with little regard for their pain. 

You gasp as a twig snaps close by, pulling you out of your trance to assess the situation. In front of you, you see him. General Marcus Acacius is standing no less than ten feet from you, his armor, a white plate body adorned with the design of two golden griffins, gleaming in the sunlight. He stands tall and imposing, his presence radiating with authority but when you spot him, his eyes make him seem incapable of the horrors that people attribute to married men. His hair, streaked with gray, frames a face marked by the years and experiences of a seasoned soldier. His eyes, sharp and assessing, bore into you as he waits for you to move. 

You stare up at him for a second only to be seized by panic as you remember the routine you had been forced to practice with your mother. Quickly, you rise from your seat, dust off your dress, and lower your gaze respectfully. 

“General Acacius, forgive me,” you say without finding his gaze. 

You hear your name on his lips, surprised to hear that his voice is firm yet not unkind. It’s hard to suppress the shiver that wants to run down your spine, a tingling sensation at the small of your back as he speaks because you know what he will be doing to your body soon, “I’m pleased to finally meet you.”

You nod, letting out the rehearsed lines expertly, “The honor is mine and mine alone, General.”

“Look at me, my child,” you hear him command softly, getting a glimpse of what led him to become the man of power and grace that he is today because you follow through without thinking. You only imagine what he must be able to accomplish when his voice is rough and demanding. However, his eyes are softer still, a striking contrast to his profession where he has to consider each of his steps with deliberate and measured precision. 

Marcus steps closer. You automatically take a step back, afraid that he might try and touch you already against your will. Nobody would know if he ravished you right here. He presses his mouth together in a thin line but he still somehow doesn’t look angry, instead just looks like he is analyzing the situation that he is in. 

“Your father thought it best that I introduced myself without him or the servants’ eyes watching. I was surprised at his immediate confidence in me to be alone with his youngest daughter,” he says while you hug yourself to soothe your aching chest, holding on tightly as you beg someone to help you escape. He examines you long enough for you to believe he won’t strike to take what he might want. You feel guilty for thinking that he might have, knowing that it’s not the actions of an honorable leader. 

“You are much younger than I expected,” he admits after a moment, a hint of weariness in his tone. 

A tear slides down your stinging cheeks but you quickly brush it away and regain your composure enough to not start sobbing. The embarrassment of your single teardrop is evident on your face as warmth creeps up through the intricate twists and bends of your bloodstream, a dull pounding sounding in your ears. 

“And you are a great man,” you reply in the most steady voice you can muster, “I hope to be a worthy wife to you.”

Marcus smiles, a small but genuine expression while he ignores your obvious distress. After all, this is not a matter in which women have a say. He sounds ever so confident in you, encouraging even, in a way you guess is to soothe your impending tears, “You will do well, I am sure.”

When you do not respond, he tries again. You must look like a scared little girl, desperately in need of being approached like a frightened animal and your heartbeat certainly imitates the one of a rabbit.

“I see you wear flowers in your hair,” he notes, finding the least threatening subject to discuss.

“Yes?” You furrow your brow, arms already falling down your sides. You link your fingers together in front of you. 

“I made sure to have the gardener do extra work on each of the flowers in case you were interested in flora and fauna,” he elaborates, “Does the garden please you, Carissima?” 

Carissima. The Latin word for dearest. He seems to be trying it out, collecting information from how you react to it, and making a move based on it. Your brows knit even further together but you use the opportunity to seem less scared and more relaxed after hearing it.

“It’s very beautiful, General. I shall be very fond of it in the future,” you say genuinely because, despite your ignorance of its charm right now, a rational part of you knows that it is gorgeous and enchanting. You will come to love it wholeheartedly.

“The birds that land in the trees here sing you awake in the early hours of the day,” he continues and mirrors you by also softening a little, looking around with a surprising fondness toward the gentle coos of the doves sitting on the rooftops, “If you are very lucky, you might hear a nightingale amongst the doves’ coos.”

“Nightingales are common back home,” you tell him with longing in your heart, closing your eyes for the briefest second but being able to see your backyard so clearly in that fleeting moment. Marcus senses it, shifting a bit on the spot with a concerned expression so you force a smile to let him know there’s no reason to worry about getting a sorrowful wife. You will cry tonight but you will be ready when he needs you to.

“So you know their song well,” he answers thoughtfully, “Good. I’m glad. It will remind you of home in these new surroundings. Will you let me show you the rest of the garden? Perhaps we can get to know each other a little before the weekend’s ceremony.”

He holds out his arm for you and you hesitate for just a moment before taking it, swallowing thickly at the feeling of how strong he is. His muscles flex gently underneath his bare skin, nicely soft wrapped around the muscles of his bicep when you expect everything about him to be rough and worn out by years of service to the empire. His smell envelops you, near-dizzying to you because you’ve never been in such close proximity to a man before and you don’t think you can imagine being any closer than this even though you have to soon. To think that you were nervous about him stepping close just minutes ago and now he is touching you and it feels… fine, not scary at all.

As he walks beside you, you can see the lines on his forehead when he speaks in concentration. He still looks good for his age, you find yourself thinking, blessed by the deities Venus and Apollo for his well-aged beauty and the golden radiance of his skin that reminds you of the sun. You notice his nose now that you see his profile, it curving in the way of Jupiter’s and making you swallow thickly at the power his mere appearance gives him. 

Some things speak to the young girl in you too; his beard has patches, one formed in a heart shape that you would tell the girls in your village back home about if you could. To this, they would giggle delightedly like they were still the age of getting tutored. 

Then there are his brown eyes, deep as the darkest of amber you have collected on the shorelines in your youth. They shine with sincerity, more than once filling yours with their honey glow as you walk together. You begin to see beyond the fearsome reputation and the sternness that he first approached you with. He speaks of the flowers surrounding you with surprising tenderness, admitting to the jasmine being his favorite, and of how he had the garden designed to remind him of his childhood home in the countryside.

You think that your responses seem trivial compared to the anecdotes that he is able to share but he seems to enjoy hearing tales about your childhood home. He nods in understanding and adds the words of someone well-reflected even if he is known for brutality when at war. You let down your guard, “We must have more in common than I initially thought, Gene—“ 

“Marcus,” he corrects when you come to a stop, “You may call me Marcus when we are alone.” 

“Marcus,” you repeat. You look down briefly as warmth settles in your cheeks, your heartbeat speeding up in your chest because you realize he has led you to a small, secluded area of the grand peristyle garden. The sun is lower now, casting a warm, golden hue over the marble fountain before you. It is small yet majestic in its simplicity, surrounded by vines of ivy and jasmine. It seems to be his favorite spot on all of his owned property.

“What are we doing here? Are we supposed to be this hidden from everyone else?” Your grip loosens on his arm.

“Never mind that, Carissima…”

There’s that name again. 

“Look, I know this isn’t the Trevi Fountain of Rome but I thought we could wish for Fortuna to bring us good luck and happiness together,” he reaches for his belt where a pouch hangs in a string that pulls it closed. He digs his thumb and index finger into it and digs out a coin, its front decorated with an engraved picture of a peacock’s feather; a symbol of Juno, the Goddess of marriage and childbirth. 

He holds the coin between his fingers, the sunlight catching its glimmering surface, and offers it to you with a gentle expression that’s not quite a smile in case it might scare you off. You take it, feeling the weight of the moment settle in your palm. This is your future husband and he is trying, doing everything in his power not to unsettle you but invite you to give yourself to him in the next coming days.

The coin is mostly cool against your skin but still holds the tiniest amount of warmth from Marcus’ fingers, its edges smooth and worn from years of handling. 

“This is a tradition,” Marcus explains, his voice carrying reverence, “We make a wish and toss the coin into the fountain. It is said that Fortuna, the Goddess of luck, grants blessings to those who seek her favor.”

You nod. This moment feels intimate, a quiet ritual shared between the two of you amidst the grandeur of the garden yet still hidden away from everyone else. This is a ritual of lovers, of people whose fates are closely entwined. You look at Marcus, meeting his warm brown eyes, and find reassurance in his steady gaze and slow secure breaths. You find it shameful that you believed him to be violent with you, that he would do anything with anger because he is, you realize, the type of man who doesn’t have to take anything by force when it comes to women. In that moment, it makes total sense to follow his wishes, but even more, it makes sense to wed him and go to bed with him. 

“What should I wish for?” You ask softly. 

Marcus dares a smile, “Whatever your heart desires. A wish for happiness, perhaps. Or for our future together to be filled with understanding and respect. Perhaps, in our own way, companionship and love.”

Together, you approach the edge of the fountain and you lean over it to gaze at the many glinting coins on the bottom. A violet falls from your hair and lands on the surface of the water, floating effortlessly with such strong symbolism that your stomach does a flip.

Marcus steps closer behind you and you turn to face him, the rim of the marble fountain digging into the back of your thighs until you nearly fall backward in an embarrassingly young fashion. Marcus takes you by the wrist to steady you but the touch doesn’t last long since you’re supposed to throw the coin over your shoulder. 

With a flick of your wrist, you send the coin into the water behind you. The only thing you feel is the coldness on your skin where Marcus’ fingers were a moment ago, the slight breeze cooling down his leftover body heat quickly. 

The coin hits the water with a splash. You swallow your nervousness to say something for the first time that isn’t the answer to a question from him, “May Fortuna smile upon us.”

“May she indeed,” Marcus agrees, pleased. He motions to a bench close by, “Shall we sit for a moment? Your feet must be tired.” 

You agree, and he helps you to sit. Your hands touching sends a spike of energy through you before you are disappointed by him taking a seat beside you but maintaining a respectful distance. He takes his sword out of its place in his belt and rests it against the bench, getting comfortable with you. 

“Marcus,” you say his name before you even realize what you want to ask of him.

“Yes?” He waits patiently for you to continue, nodding his head in acknowledgment. 

When your request comes to mind, you are struck by the fear of ridicule but you shove it down in favor of letting yourself have this.

“I know this is most unusual to ask of you, but would you give me a kiss?” The second you have said it, panic makes you babble in his presence, “I know my duties as a wife, my mother has told me plenty, but I cannot bear the idea of the first show of affection between us to be in our chambers and with… with more to come.” 

If you are not to burst into tears at the festivities after your union or even worse, when he takes you to bed, you need to get this out of the way. You only hope to be successful in your attempt, knowing it is not customary to follow through on such an ask. It hangs in the air for a moment, the garden seeming to hold its breath along with you. It all comes down to your future husband’s view of modesty. 

Marcus watches you carefully with an expression that is a mixture of surprise and contemplation. He looks like he might say no at first, afraid that someone from his staff might spot you and start a rumor that deems you unworthy of this arrangement. It might be the sincerity and vulnerability in your request that convinces him and lets him take the risk.  

“Very well, I understand your concern,” he nods with determination. 

He shifts closer on the stone bench, his movements slow as if trying to put you at ease, as if approaching a deer in the forest and not wanting it to run. You can feel the warmth of his body next to yours as your thighs nearly touch, the scent of his skin filling your senses. It is leather, sandalwood… and something that is his own distinctive smell. Your heart races, your skin prickles underneath your gown, and heat spreads across your thighs. 

It feels like you only blink for a second but when you open your eyes again, Marcus is closer, his face inches from yours. You can feel his uneven breaths mix with yours, 

“Are you ready?” He asks in a whisper, his breath warm against your face and his eyes roaming over your features in case you want to stop.

Your voice has died in your throat, so you simply nod your head. Marcus swallows thickly while you are lost in the fact that you can count his eyelashes right now. He leans in, his lips brushing against yours with care and apprehension that takes you by surprise. The kiss is soft and restrained as if he is giving you the chance to pull away if you want to.

But you don’t. Instead, you lean into the kiss when you’ve gotten used to the scratch of his beard, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders and moving inwards towards his neck, sliding under the collar of his cape. His lips are warm and you feel a shiver run down your spine at a sort of contact you have never felt before. You wonder what he thinks of you, if your passion even in your inexperience is worth his time to broaden your horizon… but any doubt vanishes as the kiss deepens slightly, Marcus’ hand coming up from where it rests on the stone to lay on the small of your back, pulling you closer.

A tiny noise leaves you and something stirs in the pit of your stomach. You can feel the strength in his arm as he has it wrapped around you but there is no force or demand in his touch. Instead, there is a sense of him handing control over to you. 

An instinct tells you to get even closer, straddle him, do something, anything even if you are not sure what. One of your hands falls down to Marcus’ chest plate, his uneven breath evident in how it pushes against your palm like raging waves. Your hand travels further down until the tips of your fingers brush his belt.

It is only then that the General reacts, pulling back firmly but without hurting you. He creates some distance between you by pushing you gently away by the shoulders. The both of you are breathless. He shakes his head, “Carissima. That was not part of the deal.”

You are embarrassed by your actions, not sure if Cupid is playing tricks on you by blowing to the fires of forbidden desire that you were not even aware burned in your lower belly. Your body hums but you are mortified, “S-sorry, my legatus. I don’t know what came over me.”

You go back to general. It feels appropriate to use his proper title now. You have brought shame on yourself, might as well have let him take your maidenhead right here on the stone-cold bench and the worst part is that you are not sure if the fire in your loins would have fogged your brain enough to not stop him from doing it. 

“Please, do not apologize,” he says to reassure, holding up a hand to stop you from protesting, “There is nothing wrong with what you feel. It is natural. But I want to honor my promise to your father, no matter the impulses that you give me. You are as beautiful as Venus herself. I shall enjoy our time together very much when it comes.”

“Thank you,” you say with a still trembling voice. The lump in your throat feels impossible to swallow. 

“Now. Shall we continue our walk?” He suggests while getting up from his seat, his tone light as if to ease the tension. He offers you a gentle smile as he ties his sword to his belt again then reaches to take your hand.

You get up with a simple nod. He acts like nothing for the rest of the day. 

—

You return home by carriage after dinner at Marcus’ estate. After a day with such complex emotions being explored, with how your new life seems less and less like a dream, and with how the sun hangs so low in the sky, you have already started to feel tiredness taking over your body. 

You excuse yourself to your room not long after you return to the comfortable familiarity of your home, brattishly avoiding conversation with your mother about how everything went when she starts asking a million questions. 

“I thought you might like to talk,” she says after you have gotten up from your seat in the living room, a few paces behind you as you make your way down the halls. 

“Mother, I just want some rest,” you stress, bare feet patting across the floor. You hold your skirt up to walk faster, nearing your destination but not wanting to slam the door in her face, “I do not wish to talk about anything with anyone. Ask Father. I bet he’ll be eager.”

“Dearest,” she tries, “Don’t be cruel.”

“Please,” you beg as you turn around in the doorway, “It was fine. I’ll be fine, it’s just a huge transition from this life.”

“That’s why I wanted to—“

“No,” you say more firmly than intended but your overwhelmed state leaves you with little patience. You hope she understands, know that she might because her marriage to your father started the very same way, “I promise we can talk in the morning but I really need some time for myself right now.”

Your mother looks slightly hurt like she is watching her child slip through her fingers during her last night at home. You swallow thickly but hold your ground. 

“Very well,” she says finally, eyes closing briefly to breathe through her nose. She forces a small smile and leans in to kiss your forehead, “Get some rest. We can talk tomorrow with this conversation forgotten.”

You offer the very same smile in return, then close the door behind you with a relieved sigh. You cross the room to the window, pushing open the shudders to overlook the buzzing garden. 

Carefully, you start detangling the flowers from your hair and laying them on the window sill. A few of them are taken by the wind, some landing on the ground while others delicately fly through the air. You watch them until a gasp leaves you, two eyes belonging to a man staring at you from across the garden but you don’t feel frightened. 

You sigh with annoyance as he steps out of the bushes and closer to the window, picking up one of the violets on his way, “You should not be here, Cassius.”

“I wanted to see you before tomorrow,” he admits with a little smile, boyish and inexperienced compared to the ones you have received from Marcus today. He places his hands on the window frame, about to crawl inside.

“Are you trying to get killed?” You whisper loudly and barricade the window, “You cannot be in here, don’t come in.”

“What if I never see you again?” Cassius huffs but doesn’t push it, “I just wanted to say congratulations on your union tomorrow.”

“We’ve known each other for years, Cass. Of course, I’ll see you again; you’re my oldest friend,” you say with exasperation but you know that it is naive of you to assume this is the way things work. Cassius grew up with a farmer for a father, living far away in the countryside where the houses are surrounded by fields of vegetables that they eat at the palace and a long way from the neighborhood that you have grown up in.

“Well, you can say it from outside my window,” you continue and tense up at a few footsteps outside your door. You hold your index finger in front of your lips, listening intently to see if they pass or stop in suspicion of who you are talking to.

A moment passes and the footsteps fade. You turn back to Cassius who now wears a troubled expression, eyebrows knitted together. You go a little softer, a little more quiet, “There’s more, isn’t there?”

Cassius hesitates just a second before speaking, “Your dear old dad has probably told you about this but things are changing around the outskirts of Rome. It’s growing more dangerous by the day to live out where I am. Geta and Caracalla’s combined ruling. They are not in their right mind and it is tearing the backbone of the empire apart. We’re angry and starving.”

You nod, narrowing your eyes at him. Your father has indeed talked about this during dinners in the past but always with no air of real concern and more with a scoff when mentioning the ungrateful people of Rome, their greed, their arrogance but mostly their lack of trust in their emperors who are right under the Gods.

“Why are you saying this?” You inquire impatiently.

“To ensure your safety in all of this when things break loose. You know how I feel about you,” Cassius looks down briefly. Yes, you know how he feels about you and while you have never reciprocated his love, you feel a tug in your heart about how he has waited for you for years with knowledge of how impossible your life together would be. A farm boy and the daughter of a senator? It is doomed from the very beginning.

“If things are as dangerous as you say then the General will be able to protect me, will he not?” You ask to push him away, make him let go of you. 

“Marcus Acacius is a powerful man, but even he may not be able to navigate the storm that’s coming to the citadel,” Cassius places a hand on the window sill, the violets flying to all sides from the force. It’s his way of trying to get closer. 

“And your solution is what? That I run away with you? Please,” you look down at his hand. This is not one of those moments where you realize your feelings after all this time, after years of childhood friendship, and run off together with the boy next door, so you let your hands fall down to your sides. 

“Don’t marry him,” he suggests with pleading eyes, “I don’t want you with those people.”

You laugh in disbelief and turn your head away, “Cassius, by the Gods, you know that I have no say in that whatsoever. Besides, who says that I don’t want to be there with him?”

Cassius ignores the last part of your sentence bitterly, “Then just be careful, my friend. I know your father has power but I know he favors the emperors which will not benefit him in the coming future. Those caught in the middle often pay the highest price and you’ll soon be at the very top, exposed.”

You shake your head to brush him off but something is looming underneath Cassius’ words. They don’t sound as delusional as your father might think them and you poke fun to maybe earn a confession, “You sound like you’re going to storm the palace tomorrow.”

It is Cassius’ turn to laugh but the sound is hollow, “Tomorrow is your wedding day. I would never be so bold as to make you hate me. No, I have no plans to go so far.”

“What are you planning?” You narrow your eyes at him. 

“Nothing right at this moment,” he replies quickly but unconvincingly. You can feel the tension in his voice and the strain on his jaw as he clenches it, “But I will do what I must if it comes to a point where I need to fight back.” 

“You make it sound like I have the power to fix everything. I do not,” you say with frustration.

“Then at least change your heart,” he tries one last time, holding his hand out for you like he wants you to take it and crawl out the window, never to show your face here again. 

You shake your head, “Cassius, you know our lives were never meant to intertwine like that. We come from different worlds.”

“But our hearts,” he whispers sorrowfully, “They’re from the same world. At least, mine has always belonged to you.”

“Cassius…”

“I understand,” he admits in defeat, “Marry him, have his children but stay out of the palace. I can’t stress that enough. Stay out of the palace.”

“You are speaking in tongues again, what does this mean? What do you know?” You stare at him.

Cassius steps back from the window, the distance between you growing both physically and emotionally. With a sad smile, he looks at you one last time. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Cassius,” you reply with furrowed brows. 

With that, he turns back into the night, leaving you with a mind filled with questions. You watch as he disappears into the shadows of the garden. 

You lean against the wall with a deep breath, heart heavy with uncertainty about who you thought you knew so well but you decide to ignore it completely to get some relief by rest. You will rather try to focus on the events of tomorrow as you start to undress down to your tunic, your thoughts swarming around Marcus instead of Cassius. The way that things are supposed to be.

Not long after, you lie down to sleep in your bedroom for the last time before moving into Marcus Acacius’ villa the next day. You should be feeling upset about leaving everything and everyone behind, nostalgic and melancholic even about Cassius, but all your mind does is replay the events that took place on the bench in the peristyle courtyard just half a day beforehand. It is so vivid that you cannot seem to rest, the images of Marcus’ beautiful, God-given eyes and mouth flashing on the inside of your eyelids whenever you try to fall asleep. The pictures are in such vibrant colors too, so intense that you resort to pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. The colors smear and blur together until they look like painting instead but you have to stop due to the ache. 

It doesn't matter anyway because it isn’t enough. Your vision isn’t the only one of your senses that he has taken as his own. The feel of his mouth lingers on yours, enough for you to let your fingertips trace over your bottom lip. It feels the same but then again, it doesn’t. Maybe he has left a mark on you that no one has dared to point out? 

As well lingers a feeling of a spark that cannot be extinguished once it has been ignited. The sensation has you restless under the covers, the woven fabric scratching uncomfortably against your arms and legs until you have to throw them off. 

It is a warm night tonight. The window shutters are still open to let in a night breeze that feels nice on your bare, burning, and untouched skin. You try to find sleep by listening to the usual chirping sound of the crickets but it is of no comfort this time. Marcus is still right there with you, his strong hand on your back and his eyes flickering down to your lips. In your head, he wants you and he lifts up your tunic to touch you where your pulse throbs and— By Jupiter, you need to calm yourself. 

You open your eyes to stare up at the ceiling. Everyone has gone to bed, your parents, despite your protests, having come in and kissed you on the forehead while expressing how proud you have made them feel. Yet in the familiar surroundings of your childhood bedroom, everything feels foreign now that you’ve stepped into new territory of desire, unlocking something that separates you from what belongs to the mind of someone’s child. You don’t belong anymore in this room with walls that contain all of your childhood memories. You are grown now.

You should feel sorrow about this, about never coming back here but instead, your body buzzes like a hive of bees, tiny shivers of lust provided by Cupid flowing through you as teasingly as the softest butterfly wings flapping around inside you. It’s a forbidden feeling that stirs guilt in you but also a strange anticipation that has your hand slipping down your belly. Has your skin always been this soft?

You wonder if Marcus feels the same turmoil inside of himself, if he is lying awake just as you are right now and replaying the way your fingertips danced around his waistband but never got any further. The thought makes your hand slide down between your legs, reaching up under the hem of your tunic until your fingers slide over the wet skin there. You breathe deeply in through your nose.

You have done this a few times before but you’ve always gotten to a point where you have to stop yourself, afraid of what might happen when you feel yourself start to reach some sort of pinnacle that you are at a loss for words to describe. It’s natural, you remember Marcus saying about your body’s response. But doing it alone? Isn’t what you are feeling as you touch yourself reserved for your future husband? What would he say if he saw you explore yourself like this? Would he be disappointed in you? Or does he do it himself? Naked in his bed with his thigh muscles flexing as he feels what you are feeling right now? No, don’t think about him like that. 

Your thighs fall out to the sides on their own accord. You find the spot that makes you gasp softly, the night way too quiet for you to be making such a noise when others are sleeping soundly. You tip your head back to open your throat, hoping it will make you quieter as you play with the sensation between your legs. Are the Gods watching you? Are they the only ones who can understand the complexities of your mortal longings? Can they tell you what will happen on the other side of this tightening in your gut? 

Your breath quickens, shallow puffs of air coming out as you near the pinnacle quicker than ever. A noise close to the sound of a hurt animal escapes your lips and your fingers start to move in earnest, quickly back and forth over the little nub that you think is far too small to have such an effect on the rest of your body. How are you so soon covered in a sheen of sweat? How is your soul already teetering on ripping from your body, a mere vessel?

“Ah,” you moan a little louder, catching it in your throat by biting down on your lip. You feel the pleasurable buildup gradually increase in intensity and suddenly you’ve rolled around onto your front to grind your pelvis up and down on your fist. 

Marcus. Marcusmarcusmarcusmar—

No. Clarity comes to you right before you lose it, fear too as it feels like your spirit might leave your body completely. You force yourself to stop your hips’ rapid movements against your hand, surprised at how quickly the sensation of something so unfathomable can ebb away from your grasp. It leaves both a physical and emotional ache. You pant against the bed, nearly creating a damp spot where your mouth rests against the linen. 

You roll onto your back once more, wiping your slick fingertips on the sheets before pulling your tunic back into place around your thighs. You suddenly start to freeze, the air from outside your window starting to cool down the sweat on your skin. 

It takes a few minutes for your heart rate to drop again. Tomorrow, you will marry Marcus Acacius and a new chapter will begin - a chapter where the tingling ache between your legs will belong to him - but for now, you let the fatigue of managing to hold off lull you to sleep. 

You pull the covers up to your chin, feeling smaller like this but it doesn’t comfort you like it did when you were a mere child. You cannot stop the tears that spring to your eyes, starting as a tightening in your chest, a thick swallowing, only to come out in quiet sobs. 

You feel the drops slide down your face, running freely down to the sides of your cheekbones and over your ears. Your hair dampens slightly, your nose grows stuffy and sensitive but despite all the telltale signs of your distress, there’s mainly relief as you let go to cry harder about your new life.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[gothcsz]

I bet you already know what I’m about to say. I really wish you’d write a fic about Marcus Acacius eating pussy. Bonus points if he’s wearing his ring and uses that hand to please you. Extra aura points if you’re his wifey. Modern/canon time. Whichever. 😁🤭

Flesh & Gold | Marcus Acacius x Black F!Reader | ~1.8k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Tags: oral (f receiving), vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, size kink kinda, secret fling with the general, his ring makes an appearance, not historically accurate we're just vibing here, a smidge of possessive!marcus, reader is a black woman, has curly hair, and is able bodied, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!

A/N: feliz cumpleaños primita! 🥂 this one is specifically for you and i hope you enjoy it! thank you for always supporting the feral musings that plague me and for being an amazing friend 🖤 this is the same pairing from this lovely moodboard... i couldn't help myself 🏹

The invitation had come by way of a sealed scroll, delivered just before the sun set.

You had expected it the moment he wheeled through the streets in a decorated chariot, the roar of the crowd so thunderous it seemed to shake the very stones beneath your feet.

The banquet that followed the fights had been routine, its opulence familiar. You’ve lingered in Rome longer than any other city or village, drawn by the wealth, the beauty, the intoxicating danger of slipping into the arms of a man as powerful as him.

You had seen the hunger in his gaze long before his lips ever formed your name. How he traced the shimmer of oil on your skin, your hips beckoning his attention beneath the rich gossamer fabric.

You effected him deeply, much to his dismay, grip tightening around his goblet whenever you locked eyes. A silent promise in the look you shared.

You were summoned to his home under the guise of performing for a private gathering, a small dinner shared with a few senators. But as you stepped into the lavish cubiculum, purposely draped in expensive fabric, it became clear that you were never meant for an audience of many.

The chamber was dimly lit, the warm glow of oil lamps flickering against frescoed walls, the scent of myrrh and clove thick in the air.

A half-emptied tray of honeyed dates sat abandoned on a low table near the lectus, its decadence forgotten in the wake of something far more intoxicating.

You turned just as the heavy door groaned shut behind you, sealing you within his den.

Acacius stood before it, still in his white and gold ceremonial robes, his presence alone filling the space. Big-shouldered and imposing.

The golden light caressed the hard planes of his face, tracing the scars that cut across his cheek and strong nose, the slight furrow of his brow—an expression you had come to know well.

A slow, knowing smile curved your lips as you took a step forward, the skirt of your two piece ensemble shifting with your movement, the golden body chain adorning your midriff catching the light, twinkling with every breath. 

Your hair had been swept up into a high bun (minus the few strands that framed your face), exposing the line of your throat, the delicate layering of gold and bejeweled necklaces resting against your bronze skin.

Your earrings swayed as you moved, sounding like wind chimes in the summer breeze, every piece of you an adornment—an invitation.

He took you in, his gaze darkening, lingering at how your exposed midriff gleamed beneath lamplight.

“Where are your senators, General?” you questioned with a teasing lilt, tipping your chin in challenge. “Am I to dance for ghosts?”

His mouth twitched in amusement, but his eyes remained fixed upon you like a predator assessing its prize. Slowly, deliberately, he removed his bracers, then unclipped the heavier red cape, setting each article aside with the practiced ease of a man who had undressed for war a thousand times. 

“I did not invite them,” he admitted, his voice a low rasp, now standing before you only in the white tunic that lied beneath the formal wear.

A shiver slithered down your spine. Your confidence did little to protect you from the intensity of his stare, from the way he stepped toward you, unburdened now by armor or pretense.

You let him come.

His hands found your waist, skin ablaze as his roughed and calloused touch made contact, palms mapping the curve of your hips.

A slow exhale left him as he traced the golden links, admiring how they dipped with the natural swell of your body. His hands cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing and teasing your stiffened nipples.

“You are a temptress,” he murmured, leaning in, breath tantalizing against the shell of your ear. “Every man watches you, but none dare touch. I would cut them down where they stand.” Each word rolled over you like the slow pour of honey.

You managed a smug grin, though your breath caught when his lips found the column of your throat, coarse hairs of his beard grazing the sensitive skin. “At ease Acacius. So possessive.” 

He hummed against your warmth, the sound deep, reverberating through you like the low growl of a lion. His lips and teeth traced a path down the curve of your neck, lingering, tasting, claiming.

Your eyes fluttered shut as pleasure stole through you, your fingers finding purchase on the thick cords of muscle of his biceps beneath his tunic. The tickle of his beard, the scent of wine and leather clinging to him, the sheer size of his broader frame against yours—it was enough to make you sigh, melting into him as your inhibitions lowered.

He lifted you with ease, his competent strength effortless as he carried you to the bed, its frame carved from ivory, sheets a cream color. He laid you upon it, the fabric cool against your heated being, and he stood above you for a moment, consuming you with his eyes.

“I have thought of this often,” he admitted, voice slathered with desire as he leaned down to kiss the swells of your tits, beginning his descent. “Dreamed of tasting you again.”

What an obscene act, one that was practically unheard of—that was until you found yourself beneath the General’s touch, claimed within the sanctum of his bed.

His hands slipped beneath the deep slit of your skirt, knuckles dragging against the fevered skin of your thighs as he bared you inch by inch, removing the garment that covered the gift between your thighs.

You shivered, nerves thrumming like the strings of a lyre as his fingers traced a languid path upward, teasing your pussy lips.

He exhaled when reaching your mound, nuzzling his curved nose at the stripe of hair there. You keened.

The heat of his breath washed over you before an open-mouthed kiss was pressed to your pussy. His action made your hips swivel, a sweet moan sung from the depths of your throat.

Marcus gripped your hips, thumbs stroking the dip where flesh met bone beneath the thick band of your skirt, keeping you still.

When his tongue breached you slit, he groaned as though he had discovered a treasure more valuable than the gold that lined his wrists or filled his pockets.

And then, he feasted.

His mouth was slow and indulgent. The slide of his wet muscle circling your clit was a prayer, the scrape of his facial hair a plea for divinity. He held you down firmly when you writhed, his hands moved to grip the meaty, soft flesh of your thighs, forcing you to take what he gave.

The lewd cunnilingus had pleasure striking your body like a lightning bolt, unraveling you with each intentional stroke and kiss.

The melody of your jewelry danced with every shake of your form, echoing off the stone walls, mixing with your cries of pleasure—a symphony of passion, a testament to your shared lust.

Your fingers tangled in his greying brown curls, tugging desperately, needy, and he growled in response, the tremor of it sending a shock through your very core.

“Marcus—” His intimate name left your lips like an invocation, a whispered surrender.

He grunted, the sound bordering another snarl, and just as you thought he would grant you your orgasm—he withdrew, his mouth parting from you with agonizing slowness.

A protest nearly fell from your lips before you felt something cool against your skin.

His ring.

A thick band of gold with an emerald cut into the shape of a ziggurat. He traced it along the inside of your thigh, the smooth metal a stark contrast to the heat pulsing at your pussy.

He slid his ring-clad knuckle between your folds, the cold press of gold against spit slicked, sensitive flesh sending a quiver through you. And then, he sunk two stocky fingers into the mouth of your cunt—deep, firm, the tip of his tongue resting against your swollen, pert clit as he moved.

The sensation was intoxicating. You clenched around his digits, hips arching, chasing the rapture only he could give you. He chuckled, low and dark, his breath fanning against your sex.

“You take my touch so beautifully,” he rasped, curling his fingers inside you, angling just right. Your pussy squelched and weeped for more. “As if you were made for it.”

Your moaned loudly, uncaring if anyone could hear you. Acacius knew how to command your body, the skill honed from his title. You were like a beautiful string puppet meant only for his entertainment and pleasure.

He worked you open with a measured pace, teasing you to the edge before retreating, only to start again.

Pleasure coiled, unbearable, exquisite. And when he bent his head once more, his tongue lapping with more ardor at your clit before he sucked roughly, the sensation sent you careening into bliss.

Your body bowed off the bed, a sharp cry piercing the air, your orgasm crashing over you like a breaking wave.

And still, he did not stop.

He licked, sucked, kissed, and drank from you as though he had been starved for years, only now having been given leave to taste the heavens.

His fingers still moved in slow, deep thrusts, prolonging your bliss until you were entirely pliant beneath him. 

Over and over he made you fall apart, soaking his hand as if cleansing it of the blood it had long been stained with.

When your body could take no more, when your limbs quaked and your breath stuttered, sweat built to a sheen at your skin, he finally lifted his head.

Acacius’s lips and chin were wet with your essence, expression darkened in satisfaction, curls in his hair mussed by your affections. He dragged his mouth up your body, once more tracing the curve of your hip, your stomach, licking at the golden links of your body chain until he was at the valley of your breasts, biting down the supple flesh.

“Taste yourself on my tongue.” He uttered before capturing your lips in a kiss that stole the last breath from your lungs.

And you did, kissing him languidly, taking your time to trace the inside of his mouth with your tongue, flitting over his teeth, tasting your tanginess and enjoying the feeling of his large, strong figure pressed against yours.

Only then did he withdraw, brown eyes hazed over with lust, stroking your cheek affectionately.

He then lifted his hand to his lips, the emerald on his ring catching the flames of the flickering lamps. He met your eyes as his pink tongue swept out to taste you from the very accessory that marked him as Rome’s greatest conqueror.

“I should not keep you here,” Acacius vocalized gruffly, trailing his palms up and down the length of your enchanting body, eyes appreciating, showing no sign of letting go. “But I cannot bear to let you leave.”

Your lips tugged into a sultry smile, your heart still pounding in your chest, brain fogged with simply... him. “Then do not.”

[revelboo]

I was rereading Gravity because it was one of my inspirations for the song I ended up writing about Optimus and I just realized I accidentally made it a waltz.

https://www.tumblr.com/mi-mi-ri/775082342247202816/sneak-peek-of-the-optimus-prime-x-yn-song-ive?source=share

I wanted to share a bit of it because your fics have been helping me emotionally so much 😭🫶

This is so cool! I’m glad you’ve been feeling creative 💕

Gravity- one shot Waltz

Optimus x Reader

• “Do Cybertronians dance?” Lifting his head from a report at your question, he watches you move around his desk. Dancing by yourself when he’d give anything to dance with you. Would you let him? Or would that be another line you draw and refuse to let him cross. Afraid of letting him get too close. And not even realizing that for him, it’s too late. Loves your attitude, those quick, mischievous smiles and the sound of your laughter. “Besides the horizontal tango, I mean,” you add, laughing when he frowns slightly.

• That one went right over his handsome head. Most of what you say probably does, but he’s good enough to just look slightly puzzled and to go with it. “We dance.” Motions faltering, you stare up at him. Really? ‘Show me,’ you demand, aware that you sound like a little kid, but this you need to see. “Show you?” He repeats. And maybe you want to dance with him. A real dance not just grinding on a stranger, the air thick with cigarettes and your skin itchy with glitter.

• There’s a challenge in those eyes of yours as he sets his datapad aside and presses him palms against the desk. Vaulting up and mass shifting, stumbling a bit before he finds his balance. And your eyes drift up and down him as he holds out a hand in invitation. Your little hands so soft as he curls his servos around it and sweeps you up against his frame. Aware of how inexperienced he is with this. That while Senator Shockwave had invited him to parties, he’d rarely attended and then only so the other mech could pretend to be occupied talking business with him to avoid being pulled into a dance. They’re all sharkticons, the Senator had whispered once a bit too loud, lips curling into an almost smile. That memory fills him with an unexpected melancholy as he tries to remember the dances he’d seen. Trying to remember the steps. Not what they’d done to the Senator for daring to question them.

• For a moment, there’s something in his expression. Almost pain and he takes an uncertain step, resting a hand against the small of your back. It’s a waltz, you realize. Or something close. Following his slow, uncertain lead, there’s a vulnerability in his hesitant movements. Resting your cheek against his chassis, his palm slides up your spine, servos splayed. You can hear his spark thrumming, those little noises his internal systems make. Familiar sounds. “Thank you for not laughing,” he says, venting to stir your hair. “I know I’m bad at this.”

• Palm shifting against your spine, he chases the steady beat of your heart and the feel of you breathing. Needs those things or he can’t recharge anymore. Needs the feel of you. “You’re really not,” you reply, your free hand on his chassis and tucking his chin to see you, your eyes are closed. Relaxed in his arms as you let him guide you. Those words you don’t want to hear on the tip of his glossa. Wanting to say them anyway even if you get angry with him. To tell you he loves you, but he swallows them down again, spark aching. Taking what little of you that you allow him to have and being thankful for it.

[multific]

A Love Worth Defying an Empire

Emperor Geta x Reader

Summary: As Emperor, Geta rules with a cold heart, trusting no one in a court full of betrayal. But when you are accused of treason, something in him breaks. In between power and love, Geta has to make a decision.

The halls of the imperial palace were cold, carved from marble that shined under the dim light of torches.

The scent of burning incense lingered in the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of spilt wine and whispered betrayals.

Rome was always alive, but inside the palace walls, the heart of the empire was filled with treachery.

And you were caught in the middle of it.

You stood before the Emperor’s throne, your hands bound together.

The accusation had been whispered into Geta’s ear by men.

Men who lied.

Men who thought could do anything they pleased.

Treason.

A word that could have you executed before the sunset.

The guards gripped your arms, but your eyes remained on him.

Geta sat high above you, dressed in deep crimson, he looked like a true Emperor because he was.

His brother wasn't informed of what was happening. Caracalla was in his room, hidden from all of this.

Geta's expression was unreadable, his jaw tight.

You knew him.

You knew the way his mind worked, the weight pressing upon him.

But did he know you?

Truly know you enough to see through this lie?

“Tell me,” he finally spoke, his voice sharp. “Do you deny it?”

Your heart pounded but you only spoke the truth. “I do.”

“And yet, here you stand, accused by men with no reason to lie.”

“No reason?” You wanted to laugh, you almost did. “They have every reason. They fear how much you trust me.”

The court gasped at your words, but Geta… Geta did not move.

Only a single muscle ticked in his jaw.

“I would not be so foolish as to trust blindly.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you whispered. “They know I have your ear. They know you listen when I speak.”

Perhaps you had more than just his ear. But the court didn't need to know that. You didn't want to confirm any of their suspicions.

A simple servant is all you were. You have been accused many times to be in love with the Emperor. You deny everything. Yet they all know.

But now, this wasn't the man you fell in love with. This was the Emperor.

And then Geta stood up.

Silence.

The room stood still as he walked from his throne, his steps slow and deliberate.

The guards at your side straightened, but he gave them a single look, and they released you.

You exhaled, rubbing your wrists as he came to stand close to you.

“If I have made a mistake in trusting you…” he said quietly, though his voice was sharper than a blade, “I will not hesitate to correct it.”

You held his gaze. “And if you haven’t?”

His fingers twitched as if resisting the urge to reach for you. “Then I will have to kill the men who speak against you.”

You swallowed. “Then you know what must be done.”

His breath was unsteady, just for a moment. And then, without another word, he turned back to the court.

“Leave,” Geta commanded. “All of you.”

The senators, guards, and servants scrambled to obey, whispering amongst themselves as they hurried from the hall.

You remained still, watching Geta, waiting.

When the last man was gone, the doors shut with a heavy echo.

And then, finally, Geta turned back to you, his mask of power falling, shattering.

His hands came up, gripping your face with desperation. “I cannot lose you. I have spent my life surrounded by deceit, by hunger for power, by hands that reach for our throne while I sleep,” he murmured. “You are the only thing that is mine. If they had taken you from me…” He shut his eyes, his grip tightening. “I would have burned this city to the ground. Please tell me it is not true, please tell me every word is a lie.”

Tears filled your eyes. “I never betrayed you, I love you.” you reached out to him, keeping your hands on his. Hoping to ease his pain.

His thumb traced your cheek. “I know. But they will pay.” when his eyes opened, they were filled with determination.

You knew what that meant.

Blood would stain his hands before the night ended.

You should have feared it, but you didn’t.

Because this was his way of showing you love.

Love, in a world where power meant everything and tenderness, was a rare thing.

Love, for which he was ready to murder senators.

A simple servant is all you were. Cared for him through the hardest times, but fell in love with the Emperor.

Love, for which you were ready to die. But not like this, not by his hands due to a lie.

You leaned into his touch. “And what will happen to me?”

His forehead rested against yours. “You stay.”

A promise, an order, a plea.

Your fingers tugged the fabric of his tunic. “Always.”

He let out a shaky breath of relief.

And then he kissed you.

Not in the way an Emperor should, but as a man desperate for the one thing that made him human.

And in that moment, the throne meant nothing.

There was only you.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

The Emperor’s Gaze

Pairing: Emperor Geta x reader

Warnings : Fluff

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy! I couldn’t get Geta out of my mind so… here we are 🤭🤭

Word Count: 2.5k

Masterlist Part 2

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The palace was a labyrinth of marble corridors and gilded chambers, each corner a testament to Rome’s wealth and power. For those who served its rulers, it was also a maze of rules, where a single misstep could lead to ruin. You had learned this early, keeping your head low and your presence quieter still.

Your role as a maid was one of humble necessity—sweeping the floors, polishing silver, ensuring the tapestries hung just so. Others gossiped about the palace’s intrigues, but you avoided such folly. It was better not to know.

Tonight, however, was different. The air was heavy with expectation. The emperor himself, Geta, had returned from a victorious campaign, and the palace was alive with revelry. You had hoped to avoid the feast entirely, yet a last-minute order sent you to the grand hall with a pitcher of wine in hand.

The moment you stepped inside, the scale of the event hit you like a wave. Braziers cast a golden glow over the sprawling chamber, their flames reflected in polished bronze shields mounted on the walls. Senators and noblemen lounged on silk-draped couches, while musicians played softly in the background. The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine hung thick in the air.

At the far end of the hall, seated atop a raised platform, was the man himself. Emperor Geta.

He looked every bit the ruler of an empire. His dark crimson robes, edged in gold, flowed around him like a mantle of fire. The laurels on his head gleamed under the light of the chandeliers, but it was his presence that truly dominated the room. Leaning back in his chair, he surveyed the hall with a mix of boredom and subtle amusement, his dark eyes flickering over each guest as if weighing their worth.

You kept your gaze fixed firmly on the floor as you approached the head of the table, clutching the pitcher so tightly your knuckles turned white. The clamor of conversation around you seemed deafening, yet you moved unnoticed—just as you preferred.

Until you didn’t.

As you leaned forward to refill the emperor’s goblet, your trembling hands betrayed you. The lip of the pitcher brushed his fingers, and before you could pull back, he spoke.

“Stop.”

The single word was quiet, yet it silenced the room. A hush fell over the feast as all eyes turned toward the emperor—and you.

Your breath caught in your throat as you froze, the pitcher still in hand. Slowly, hesitantly, you straightened.

“Look at me.”

It wasn’t a request.

For a moment, you debated disobedience. Maybe if you bowed deeply enough, he’d let you slip away unnoticed. But something in his tone—firm yet curious—compelled you to obey. You lifted your gaze, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it.

When your eyes met his, the world seemed to shrink.

His face was sharp, regal, yet there was a warmth in his deep brown eyes that you hadn’t expected. He studied you in silence, his gaze moving over your face with the precision of a man who missed nothing. Your breath hitched, your pulse racing under the weight of his scrutiny.

“What is your name?” he asked, his voice cutting through the silence.

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice to steady. “Y/N, my lord.”

“Y/N,” he repeated, the syllables slow and deliberate, as though savoring them. His lips quirked into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “How long have you served in my palace?”

“Two years, my lord.”

His head tilted slightly, as if considering your answer. The room seemed to hold its breath, the tension thick enough to cut with a blade. You felt the stares of the assembled nobles boring into you, some curious, others envious.

“Two years,” he mused, almost to himself. “And yet, I’ve never noticed you before.”

Your cheeks burned with a mixture of shame and confusion. Was that an insult? A compliment? You didn’t dare ask.

Geta’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer, then he leaned back in his chair, dismissing you with a slight wave of his hand. “You may go.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Bowing deeply, you retreated as quickly as decorum allowed, your hands trembling as you clutched the empty pitcher. The whispers began before you even reached the doors.

Back in the safety of the servants’ quarters, you pressed your back against the cool stone wall, your heart still racing. What had just happened? Why had the emperor singled you out in such a public way?

Unbeknownst to you, Geta’s thoughts lingered on the timid maid with the downcast eyes and steady voice. In a hall filled with Rome’s finest, it was you who had caught his attention.

And he wasn’t the type to let such curiosity go unanswered.

——

The next few days passed in a haze of unease. Though you tried to immerse yourself in your duties, the memory of the emperor’s gaze lingered, as vivid as if it had happened moments ago. Whispers of that night followed you through the palace—servants and guards speculating about why the emperor had spoken to you, of all people.

You did your best to ignore them. You were a maid, nothing more. Whatever had sparked his interest that night would surely fade.

Or so you thought.

It began subtly at first. A guard would appear in the kitchens as you worked, delivering a cryptic message: “The emperor has requested his chambers be attended to by Y/N.” The head housekeeper, though confused by the unusual request, complied without question. After all, one did not defy the emperor’s wishes.

And so, for three mornings in a row, you found yourself alone in his private quarters. The rooms were grand, draped in rich fabrics and adorned with treasures from across the empire. Yet they felt oddly… personal. A small desk near the window held stacks of parchment, the ink-stained quills hinting at late-night writings. A sword, its hilt worn with use, rested casually against the wall.

The first two mornings passed without incident. You worked quickly, cleaning and tidying without lingering, half expecting the emperor to appear at any moment. But he didn’t.

Until the third morning.

You had just finished smoothing the folds of his bed’s silk coverlet when you heard the door open behind you. Your breath caught, and you turned slowly, clutching the edge of the bed to steady yourself.

There he was, dressed in a simple tunic, his firey hair slightly tousled as though he’d only just risen. Without the laurels and formal attire, he looked younger, almost approachable. Almost.

“Y/N,” he greeted, his voice warm yet carrying the weight of command.

“My lord,” you replied, bowing deeply. Your hands twisted the hem of your apron nervously as you straightened, unsure of what to do or say.

He stepped further into the room, his gaze locked on you as if he were trying to solve a riddle. “Tell me, do you always avoid looking at me, or is it just since the feast?”

The question startled you. You glanced up, meeting his eyes briefly before looking away again. “I…I did not wish to presume, my lord.”

A soft chuckle escaped him, and he crossed the room to stand before you. “Presume what? That I’m a man who enjoys being ignored?”

You blinked, unsure how to respond. Was he teasing you? Testing you?

“You intrigue me, Y/N,” he said after a moment, his tone shifting to something quieter, more genuine. “In a palace filled with people clamoring for my attention, you shy away from it. Why?”

You hesitated, the words caught in your throat. Finally, you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because attention in this palace is… dangerous, my lord.”

He tilted his head, considering your answer. “Wise,” he murmured. “But perhaps unwarranted.”

Your eyes snapped up to his, surprised by his response. His expression was unreadable, but there was no trace of mockery in his tone.

“Dangerous or not,” he continued, “I find myself drawn to you. And I’ve never been one to ignore my instincts.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. The room felt impossibly small, the air heavy with the weight of his words.

“Tell me,” he said, stepping closer, “what do you think of me?”

Your heart leapt into your throat. What was he asking? Why was he asking? You couldn’t afford to offend him, yet honesty seemed just as perilous.

“I think…” you began cautiously, your eyes darting to the floor, “that you are a great emperor, my lord. Respected. Feared.”

He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that caught you off guard. “Feared,” he repeated, shaking his head. “And are you afraid of me, Y/N?”

Your silence was answer enough.

Geta reached out then, his hand brushing your chin. Gently, he tilted your face upward, forcing you to meet his gaze. His touch was warm, unexpected.

“You don’t need to fear me,” he said softly, his eyes searching yours. “Not when I intend to protect you.”

Your breath hitched at his words, your mind spinning. Protect you? From what? From whom? You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came.

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still, the two of you suspended in the quiet intimacy of that moment.

Then a knock at the door shattered the silence.

Geta’s hand dropped, his expression hardening as he turned toward the door. “Enter.”

A servant appeared, bowing low. “My lord, the council awaits your presence.”

Geta nodded, his composure returning as swiftly as it had slipped. He glanced back at you, his gaze lingering. “We will speak again, Y/N.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you alone in the room, your heart racing and your thoughts tangled in a web of confusion and anticipation.

——

The following days passed in a strange blur. You carried out your duties with the same diligence as always, yet your mind was consumed by the emperor’s words: *You don’t need to fear me. Not when I intend to protect you.*

What had he meant by that? Protect you from what? And why had he chosen you, out of all the people in the palace, to share such a promise?

The whispers among the staff had only grown louder. They noticed, of course—the way the emperor’s gaze lingered on you when he passed through the halls, the way he seemed to seek you out in moments when no one else dared approach. You tried to ignore it, but the weight of their eyes was impossible to escape.

It was on a quiet afternoon, as you scrubbed the marble floors of the palace’s western wing, that your solitude was once again interrupted. The sound of boots echoed down the corridor, drawing closer with each passing moment. You didn’t look up, assuming it was a guard or another servant on an errand.

“Y/N.”

The sound of your name, spoken in that familiar voice, sent a shiver down your spine. You froze, your hands stilling against the wet cloth. Slowly, you turned to see him standing there, his arms crossed over his chest. He was dressed simply again, his tunic and cloak free of the heavy embellishments he wore in public.

“My lord,” you said, bowing your head quickly, trying to mask the nervous flutter in your chest.

He stepped closer, his boots clicking softly against the marble. “Is this how you spend your afternoons? Scrubbing floors?”

You dared a small smile, though you kept your eyes lowered. “It’s honest work, my lord.”

His expression softened. “Honest, perhaps. But a waste of your talents, I think.”

You blinked, startled. “My… talents?”

He crouched slightly, bringing himself closer to your level. “Do you know what intrigues me about you, Y/N?”

You shook your head, your breath caught somewhere between confusion and anticipation.

“You see things others don’t,” he said, his voice low. “You understand the dangers of this palace, the way power twists and turns. But you also carry yourself with grace—humility. It’s rare.”

You stared at him, unsure how to respond. Was he testing you again? Trying to unsettle you? Yet there was no trace of malice in his tone, only sincerity.

“I don’t belong in your world, my lord,” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“No,” he agreed. “You don’t. And perhaps that’s why I find you so… refreshing.”

His words hung between you, their weight heavy with unspoken meaning. You felt your cheeks flush under his gaze, your heart racing in a way you couldn’t control.

“Come with me,” he said suddenly, standing and offering his hand.

Your eyes widened. “My lord, I—”

“No arguments,” he interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. “You’ve spent enough time scrubbing these floors. Humor me for a while.”

Hesitating only a moment, you placed your hand in his. His grip was steady, warm, and surprisingly gentle as he helped you to your feet. He led you through the palace, his stride purposeful yet unhurried.

The halls grew quieter the further you went, until you found yourself in a secluded garden, hidden away behind towering marble walls. The air was cool, the scent of blooming jasmine filling your lungs. A small fountain trickled in the center, its soft gurgle the only sound.

“This is my favorite place,” he said, releasing your hand and turning to face you. “Away from the politics, the noise. No one comes here without my permission.”

You looked around, awed by the serene beauty of the space. It was unlike anything you’d seen in the palace—a haven untouched by the chaos of court.

“Why did you bring me here?” you asked softly, your voice barely carrying over the sound of the fountain.

“Because I want you to understand something,” he said, stepping closer. “In this palace, you’re right—attention can be dangerous. But it can also be a shield.”

You frowned, confused. “A shield?”

“Yes.” His eyes locked onto yours, their intensity stealing your breath. “As long as my attention is on you, no one else will dare harm you. They won’t dare use you to get to me.”

Your chest tightened at his words. Was this his way of protecting you? Claiming you as his, if only to keep the vultures at bay?

“But why me?” you asked, the question tumbling out before you could stop it. “I’m just a maid. Why would you risk your reputation for someone like me?”

His lips curved into a small, almost sad smile. “Because you’re the first person in years to see me as a man, not just an emperor.”

The weight of his confession left you speechless. He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. His touch lingered, his fingers warm against your skin.

“You don’t have to answer now,” he said softly, his voice a low murmur. “But when the time comes, I want you to trust me. Will you try?”

You nodded, unable to find your voice. His smile grew, a flicker of warmth crossing his otherwise guarded expression.

“Good,” he said, stepping back. “Now, come. There’s more to this garden I want to show you.”

And as you followed him deeper into the hidden sanctuary, you couldn’t help but feel that, for the first time, the world might not be such a dangerous place after all.

Next

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[crowsofdarkness]

Riding Steve on his office chair.

18+ CW's below the cut(unprotected pinv, slight choking, spanking, use of a vibrator, squirting, and Steve being slightly mean.)

Steve had made it clear an hour ago that he wasn’t to be disturbed. He had an important meeting with Senator Ross for a debriefing on the next Avengers meeting. But I was feeling bratty, per usual. So here I was, sneaking into his office while Ross rambled on the phone about something I frankly didn’t care about. Steve hadn’t noticed I slipped inside completely naked and clutching my vibrator in my hand. 

Since it was a lazy day at home, he only wore a pair of grey sweats with his long hair unruly. He had neatly trimmed his beard this morning, hence why I’d been on edge all day. 

As I leaned down to his ear to whisper something, Steve practically pulled me down to his lap causing me to squeal. 

“Everything alright?” Ross’ question broke through his rambling. 

“Fine, sir,” Steve’s hard gaze was on me. “Please continue.” 

When Senator Ross did, Steve gripped my chin with slight force. “What are you doing?” 

I shrugged. “I’m horny, Stevie. You’ve been teasing me all day and I can’t wait any longer.”

Our voices were hushed so the man on the phone couldn’t hear us. 

“So you walk into my office, naked? What if it was a video chat?” Steve’s question was laced with agitation. 

And arousal but mostly agitation. 

I rolled my eyes along with my hips against him. “I knew it wasn’t. Which is why I came in here. Now are you going to fuck me or do I have to take care of myself?” 

I shook the vibrator in my hand which made Steve’s eyes darken and he lifted me slightly off of his lap so he could take his cock out of his sweats. I licked my lips at the sight of it, like I always had. His cock was thick, almost standing straight up with how he was sitting and I bit my lip when I watched precum ooze out of the slit. 

“Be quiet now, Steve. We don’t need to let the Senator know what we’re doing,” I whispered while teasing the head with my soft fingers. 

Steve let out a low groan, it rumbling in his chest.

“Shh,” I hushed while clamping a hand over his mouth. “Not so loud.” 

My stomach burned with arousal, igniting a part of me I never knew existed. My sex life had improved with Steve and I was able to find out new kinks. What we were about to do, sex with someone possibly hearing was new. I knew that Steve wouldn’t let Senator Ross hear anything but even the thought of him hearing something turned me on. 

“Is that Agent Y/N?” Ross’ voice sounded from the phone’s speaker on the desk. “I’d love for her to get debriefed on this mission.”

I winked as Steve’s eyes darted from the phone to me. “She was bringing me some coffee but left. I’ll give her the run down later.”

“Wow,” I mouthed, proud of how well he came up with that lie. 

I adjusted myself over his cock and locked eyes with him as I sunk deep onto him. My groan caught in my throat at the fullness of Steve’s cock in my pussy. It felt fresh and new every time. 

I cringed a little from the pain due to his size but as soon as I started moving up and down, the pain began to subside. Steve’s bottom lip was caught between his teeth as he tried his best to keep his attention on the phone call  while I rode him, slow at first. 

“Doll,” he let out quietly through gritted teeth. 

Ignoring him, I flipped on the vibrating black rose, the vibrations sounding loud in the quiet room and when I touched my clit with it I wasn’t able to keep that moan quiet. 

“Fuck,” I dragged out while leaning my head back. 

“What’s that?” Ross’ voice asked through Steve’s headset again. 

“It's so good,” my body writhed against Steve’s. 

He quickly said goodbye to Ross, saying something came up and they would talk later. My squeals bounced off the walls when one of Steve’s hands snaked around my throat, using his thumb to hold my chin straight. 

“Such a fucking brat,” he hissed when I rolled my hips over his cock. “What if he heard you? No one is allowed to hear those pretty little moans. Just me.” 

I whined when he pulled the rose away from my clit, immediately missing the friction. 

“I didn’t-,” I was unable to finish my words because Steve wrapped his other arm around my back to pull me closer to his chest, the head of his cock hitting that spot. 

He bit down on my breast, right above my nipple, and I cried out in pleasure. 

“I should punish you,” he rasped, voice gone with lust, and began pulling his cock out. 

“No, no. I’m sorry,” I shook my head and desperately tried to stop him. 

Steve raised a brow while tightening his grip around my throat and pushed his cock in deeper. “You’re sorry?”

I did my best to nod in his grasp. “Y-yes. Please, I need you to move again.” 

He hummed and buried his face in the crook of my neck, breathing me in. His pace didn’t increase, instead, it was even slower than before. It was as if he wasn’t even moving and I let out a groan of frustration. 

“Such a needy little whore for my cock. I bet you want me to bend you over my desk while I fuck you for anyone and everyone to come and watch. But they can’t because your fucking mine.”

My stomach flipped at his words, the image he painted beautifully on the canvas of my mind. He chuckled before moving over to the other nipple, mimicking the same actions as before with his tongue. 

Every one of my senses was burned alive. It was like this every time Steve and I were connected; our souls becoming one. 

“I bet I could walk around fully clothed and you would get yourself off,” he bit at the skin of my ear.

My nails scraped along his scalp as I pulled on his hair, yanking his head back so he could gaze up at me, our pace always in sync. 

“You could wear the Captain America mask and it would do it for me,” I moaned while rolling my hips against him. 

“I can make that happen,” he promised before crashing his lips to mine in a hungry kiss. 

It was one of pure adrenaline, his tongue fighting mine for dominance and his teeth sunk deep into my bottom lip. I shook in his embrace when I felt the vibrations of the black rose against my clit again. 

“Oh-Steve,” I cried in ecstasy when the familiar heat spread to my core. 

“Good girl,” he praised in between devouring my mouth. “Say my name again.” 

“Steve,” I sang when my orgasm was on the crest, begging me to let go. 

His cock was fucking into me with absolutley no remorse. The chair beneath us was creaking and I was sure we’d break it at any given moment. My breasts were pressed tightly against his chest and the sharp metal of his chain digging into my skin added more blissful pain. My body was pulled tight with tension, knowing any moment I would snap. 

“You know what to do, Doll,” Steve spoke huskily as his cock twitched inside of me when he smacked my ass. “Don’t make me fucking ask.” 

Locking eyes with him, I cried out my orgasm as my body writhed in his tight grasp, and Steve created some space between us to glance down where our bodies connected. It was wet, more than usual, and his eyes snapped away from his soaked lap. 

“Doll,” his voice was deep, dropping an octave. “Did you just squirt?” 

I couldn’t speak; my orgasm took every single ounce of energy out of me. Instead, I nodded while resting my forehead against his chest and smacked away the vibrator that was still held against my clit. The aftershocks were too much and I was afraid of crumbling in his embrace. 

“So,” Steve grunted with a thrust. 

“Fucking.” 

Thrust. 

“Hot.” He growled out his release, spilling into my cunt, and held me tighter against him. 

Gentle fingers grazed up and down my spine, as we both came down from our highs and I hummed in delight when Steve’s lips pressed a kiss to my forehead. 

“I don’t think I could ever sit in this chair again without thinking of you,” he mused with a light chuckle. 

Sitting up straighter, I tapped his cheek. His eyes were still blown wide with lust; it made my pussy clench over his slightly limp cock. 

“I wonder what else we can fuck on in The Avengers Compund to make you think of me,” I joked before climbing off of him. 

Steve’s fingers gripped tighter into the flesh of my hips to keep me in place, and he winked. “Let’s find out.” 

[causeimhappinesss]

Rome's Devotion (part 4)

Warnings: Emperors Geta & Caracalla are warnings themselves, (slight?) blasphemy, slight non-con/dub-con, misogyny (Ancient Rome, so…)

Pairing: Geta x Christian!reader x Caracalla

Words: 7,1k (it's long af)

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

Masterlist

-

The sun had barely risen when the work began. The reception hall, large and imposing with its towering marble columns and intricate mosaics, had to be transformed for the occasion. Every servant had a task: arranging the couches with fresh cushions, polishing the golden goblets until they gleamed, placing the finest silver platters along the great tables. The air smelled of beeswax and crushed herbs as the floors were scrubbed clean, leaving a faint sheen on the stone.

It is Julia Domna’s birthday, and the Emperors want the celebration to reflect her status, not only as their mother but as a woman once revered as Rome’s Empress, the true power behind the throne during their father’s reign. Though no longer an Augusta in title, she remains a figure of influence, her presence commanding the respect of senators, generals, and noble families alike. Tonight’s banquet is as much a political affair as it is a tribute, with Rome’s most powerful men gathered under one roof.

The preparations had left no moment to breathe, keeping me and the other servants occupied the whole day until the first guests arrived. I had barely had time to think, which was a relief in itself. I had been chosen, along with several others, to serve the food and wine throughout the evening, a role that required silence, attentiveness, and above all, discretion. As long as I kept my head down and moved unseen, I would be safe.

Now, as the banquet unfolds in full splendor, I keep to the edges of the hall, gripping a silver pitcher of wine. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, honeyed figs, and spices carried in from the farthest reaches of the Empire. Torches flicker along the walls, casting shifting patterns over the murals of Rome’s conquests. The hall is alive with laughter and deep-voiced conversation, the clinking of goblets punctuating every boast and jest. Senators and their wives recline on their couches, their fingers idly plucking at the food before them. Musicians play softly in the background, their melodies barely heard over the hum of voices.

I move between the guests, pouring wine when a goblet is raised, careful to avoid lingering eyes. Tonight, at least for now, the Emperors are too preoccupied to notice me. It reassures me.

Julia Domna sits at the place of honor, her posture effortlessly regal. The years have not diminished her beauty. Her dark eyes, lined with kohl, watch everything with quiet amusement. Rings of emerald and sapphire catch the light as she lifts her goblet, listening as a senator beside her speaks. Her white stola drapes over her gracefully, embroidered with delicate golden threads that shimmer when she moves.

Then, Geta rises from his seat.

The shift is immediate. Conversations quiet, heads turn. My hands tighten on the pitcher.

“Tonight,” he begins, his voice carrying easily over the hall, “we do not simply gather to feast. We celebrate the woman who has been our strength, our wisdom, the heart of this Empire.”

His gaze sweeps over the crowd before landing on his mother. A slow, practiced smile tugs at his lips.

“Julia Domna, who has guided my brother and me through every storm.”

Polite murmurs of approval spread through the guests. Julia Domna tilts her head slightly, watching him with the same careful expression she always wears. Geta lifts his goblet.

“A woman whose devotion to Rome and to her family has never wavered. The mother of Emperors, the mother of Rome.” he finished with a proud tone.

The hall echoes with the words as the guests raise their cups. “To Julia Domna!”

She inclines her head, her smile small, measured.

“My sons honor me,” she says, her voice smooth, unwavering. “As does Rome, tonight and always.”

I glance toward Caracalla. He has not spoken. He watches his mother, his expression unreadable, his fingers toying idly with the stem of his goblet. A tension lingers between them, just beneath the surface. The flickering torchlight casts sharp shadows across his face, making his features even harsher than usual.

The moment passes, the feast resuming in bursts of laughter and conversation. I exhale slowly, easing the tension in my shoulders. No one has noticed me. No one has called me forward.

I turn away, slipping toward the next table, keeping my head down. As long as I remain invisible, tonight will pass without incident. Or at least, I hope.

Soon and again, the banquet swells with noise, a sea of voices rising and crashing like waves. Plates clatter, goblets knock together, laughter spills over the air thick with the scent of the finest food, with meat, but also oysters, lobster, shellfish, venison, wild boar, and peacock for the mansae primae (main dish). The senators lounge on their couches, their tunics loosened, their bellies full. Women murmur behind their jeweled hands, their laughter high and delicate, like the chiming of tiny bells. I move among them, careful, quiet. The weight of the bronze pitcher is familiar in my hands, a comfort amid the chaos. I pour wine, refill plates, nod when spoken to but never more. Tonight, I want to be invisible. The Emperors, occupied with their guests, have not so much as glanced at me. Relief spreads through me like a warm breath of air.

If I am lucky, they will forget me altogether.

Then, it happens all of a sudden.

The sensation crawls over my skin before I even lift my head; something heavy, something cold. A gaze.

I swallow, keeping my movements steady.

Do not look, do not react, I tell myself.

But my body betrays me, a shiver creeping down my spine like icy fingertips.

Still, I glance up.

Geta.

He is reclined on his couch, goblet in hand, one leg draped over the other. His dark eyes gleam in the torchlight, watching me with that same unreadable smirk. He twirls his goblet between his fingers, slow, unhurried. I know that look.

It makes my stomach twist.

I drop my gaze at once, my fingers tightening around the pitcher’s handle. Maybe if I pretend not to see him, he…

He lifts his hand, crooking his finger, a movement stopping in my thoughts.

A silent summons.

A pulse of dread lances through my chest, but I obey. I cannot refuse. My feet carry me forward even as everything in me screams to run away.

When I reach him, I keep my eyes on the goblet in his hand, not daring to meet his gaze.

“More,” he orders, voice smooth, easy. As if this is nothing.

Obedient, I nod and tip the pitcher, watching the deep red liquid fill his cup. The scent of wine mingles with something else, probably the musk of his skin, the cloying spice of perfume.

Then I feel it.

Fingers. A light touch against my hip.

I freeze.

His hand slides lower, a slow, measured caress over the curve of my bottom. Not an accident. Not a fleeting brush. Deliberate. Possessive. My breath stutters in my throat. Heat rushes to my face as the shame burns my cheeks. My grip tightens around the pitcher, my knuckles aching. My heart hammers so hard I fear he will hear it.

“So soft,” he murmurs, voice just low enough that no one else can hear. His fingers press, just barely. “Just the way I like them.”

A violent shudder rips through me. I want to pull away, to vanish into the shadows, to scrub my skin until the touch is gone, but I cannot move. If I recoil, if I react, it will amuse him. He will do it again. He will do worse.

I cannot afford to anger him.

My lips part, but no words come. I feel sick. Then, at last, his hand withdraws. I take a step back, too quickly, nearly knocking into a passing servant. My hands tremble as I clutch the pitcher to my chest, my breath uneven.

Geta chuckles, swirling his wine as if nothing happened.

I force myself to turn, to disappear into the crowd. My skin crawls where he touched me, my pulse wild and unsteady. I do not look back.

The amphora in my arms is empty, yet I clutch it as if it anchors me. The banquet hall hums with noise, laughters, voices slurring over wine, the clatter of golden plates against marble tables. I turn, ready to retrieve another amphora, when a woman steps into my path. Elegantly dressed, her stola draped in fine fabric that glimmers under the torchlight. Gold clasps hold her garment in place, her wrists jingling with bracelets. Her are dark hair pined with pearls, her lips painted a deep shade of red. She is a senator’s wife, one of the many noblewomen who float through these halls with quiet authority.

“Take him.”

She presses something into my arms before I can protest.

Warmth. Small weight. Soft breath against my skin.

A baby.

I freeze.

The infant stirs, his tiny fingers curling instinctively. His face is round, his cheeks flushed from the warmth of the room. Dark lashes flutter over unfocused eyes, and then, as if sensing my hesitation, he shifts against me, nuzzling closer.

“My son’s nurse is unwell,” the woman says quickly, her voice edged with impatience. “I need to speak with someone. Just for a moment.”

Before I can answer, before I can even think, she is gone. Her perfume, a mix of myrrh and roses, lingers in the air, but she is already lost in the sea of nobles. I swallow hard. The child sighs against my chest, utterly content. My heart, however, hammers wildly. I glance around, desperate. No one pays me any mind, too lost in feasts and politics. My grip tightens instinctively, cradling the infant’s fragile body with more care than I thought myself capable of.

“Y/N.”

I look up sharply.

Claudia stands nearby, an amphora balanced on her hip. Her brows lift as she takes in the scene before her.

“You’re holding a baby.”

“I know,” I whisper, still stunned. I shift, adjusting my grip, afraid to move too suddenly. “I… She just handed him to me. I don’t know and…”

“Stay calm.” Claudia interrupts, setting her amphora aside. “You’re doing well.”

I blink down at the child. His tiny hand reaches up, catching a loose strand of my hair, tugging weakly. A small giggle bubbles from his lips. Something warm flickers in my chest, so strange, unexpected.

Then Claudia’s voice lowers:

“You see to have their attention.”

The warmth turns to ice. I don’t look. I don’t need to. My skin prickles, my breath turns shallow. The weight of their stares is unmistakable.

“Are you talking about…”

“The Emperors, yes.” she sighs as I keep focusing on the sweet little boy in my arms, with the cutest toothless smile, showing his gums.

Alas, the blood drains from my face. I keep my eyes forward, but I feel them. Their presence is heavy, suffocating, like the brush of a blade against my throat. I grip the child closer, not for his sake but for mine, my hands trembling against the soft linen of his wrappings.

When will they leave me alone? Can��t they just annoy their concubines and prostitutes?

“I’m scared…” I admit, in a barely audible whisper. The words taste bitter on my tongue.

Claudia exhales, her gaze flickering toward the head of the hall. She hesitates before speaking, her voice softer this time, almost reassuring.

“You’ll be fine. With what we’ve done, with your idea, you’ll be fine.”

I part my lips, but the words never come. The baby shifts in my arms, yawning, utterly unaware of the storm swirling around us. I envy him and his innocence. He doesn’t know what women have to do to protect themselves…

The kitchens are bustling with preparation, servants rushing around, and the scent of roasting meat and freshly baked bread filling the air. I can hear the clatter of pots and pans as the cooks ready themselves for the evening's feast. But Claudia has pulled me aside, her grip tight on my arm as she leads me away from the noise, back toward the linen storage.

“Here, we have everything now.” she mutters, rummaging through a stack of sheets. “Wrap these around your hips. Now.”

I blink, confusion creeping into my mind. “Claudia, what…? Here ? Maybe I…”

“Just do it, we have no time to lost. After that we will be to busy and the others are about to join us!” she insists, pressing the sheets into my hands. “We need to make sure Geta doesn’t try anything tonight. For Caracalla, you can only pray the Goddess Diana for your safety.”

If only she knew… Would she keep protecting me?

The weight of her words settles on me and I swallow hard. My heart races as I move into the corner of the room, away from prying eyes. I unwrap the sheets, the soft fabric cool against my skin, as she brings wine and let it spill a little on the inside. Even if’s wait, I awkwardly begin to wrap them around my waist, under my dress.

“It will do. Madder roots would have been ideal, but it’s fine.”

She steps closer, her fingers quickly working on the knots.

“Trust me, we need this to look real. If anyone sees, you’ll be safe. No one will question you.” She adds in a lower voice.

I watch her carefully, my throat tight with nerves. The sheets settle around my hips, and I can feel the pressure as Claudia pricks her fingertips with a small dagger. She reaches out, using the tiny wound to stain the fabric with droplets of blood on the outside. The color spreads across the cloth, darkening it into something unmistakably real.

I stare at the makeshift “evidence” of my menstruations, my emptying womb, my hands trembling. It's not what I expected. It’s not what I ever wanted. But for a fleeting moment, a sense of relief washes over me. At least with this, it might help me.

I glance at Claudia, my throat tight, but my gratitude overpowers the shame.

“Thank you. You’re so kind with me.” I whisper.

She nods, her face unreadable, but there’s a softness in her eyes that I can’t ignore. Without thinking, I step forward and hug her, just for a moment, holding onto the small comfort she’s given me. It’s brief, but in the quiet of the kitchens, it feels like everything. When I pull away, Claudia looks at me, her lips pressed in a thin line.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Even if they manage to make you a woman, I heard their concubines loves them. They are not bad in bed…”

If her words are supposes to give me some relief, it’s the whole contrary. Losing my virginity isn’t only about the fear of becoming an unmarried mother, no. It’s about my purity. It’s about sin.  

Sin…

Sins devour these two Emperors from within, poisoning their minds to the point of necrosis.

I slid my hand on my abdomen, pressing down just enough to mimic the dull ache that I know would be there if I weren’t pretending. A cramp. It feels real, the pressure on my muscles, but it’s all for show. Claudia’s voice breaks through my thoughts, soft and measured.

“You need to step away, Y/N. They’ll be expecting you to serve what they want by the end of the night.”

I nod, but something holds me back, something about the baby in my arms. The little boy's tiny hands grasp at my sleeve, his eyes half-closed, and I find myself in no rush to move.

“But what about the baby?” I ask, my voice low, almost hesitant.

Claudia watches me for a moment, her eyes flicking over the room.

“Enjoy holding him as long as you can, he keeps them from coming over. They have to maintain a certain decorum, after all.”

I glance down at the baby, my heart pounding as I hold him more securely, the weight of his small body strangely comforting.

“How do you know that?” I dare to ask, my voice barely a whisper.

Claudia’s lips curl into a knowing smile.

“I can read lips.” Her voice is steady, but there’s something dark in her eyes. “I know almost everything they’ve been saying.”

I freeze, my pulse quickening. She piques my curiosity with great interest. I want to know every last detail to give myself the best possible chance of thwarting their plans.

“What... what were they saying?”

Claudia lowers her voice, her gaze flicking between me and the emperors at the far end of the hall. “Both of them want to… fuck you. It’s been a long time since they’ve had a virgin woman for themselves.”

My stomach tightens. I feel the baby’s breath against my skin, his warmth a contrast to the icy knot forming in my gut.

“They’re in competition,” Claudia continues, almost casually, “but they also want to share you. They don’t want to cause a scene right now, though. They’re more captivated by you holding the baby. It’s... it’s a kind of shield.”

I can’t move. The words echo in my mind, drowning out everything else, and I’m frozen in place, my heartbeat roaring in my ears. Claudia gives me one last look, her expression unreadable.

“Good luck, my poor friend…”

And with that, she turns, blending back into the crowd before one the matrona or the Magister Domus come for us. Now, I don’t know what to do. My thoughts feel like they’re unraveling, but the baby in my arms is the only thing grounding me. His soft, infant cries pull me from my haze, and I shift my weight, rocking him gently in my arms, my hands trembling.

“Shhht… You’re alright.”

His cries grow louder, more insistent, and I focus on the rhythmic motion, trying to block out the sick feeling rising in my chest. Rock him, just rock him. That’s all I can do, until he slowly calms down. He starts smiling again at me, making soft and adorable sounds.

*

The scent of wine and wax drifts through the corridors as I hurry past the last remnants of the feast. Servants murmur to one another as they scrub the floors, sweeping away the night’s indulgence, but their voices fade as I slip into the shadows. My heart pounds against my ribs, loud enough that I fear someone might hear it. At first, I started to clean with the others, but as there’s only a few guests left, I know I have to leave. Quickly. Very quickly. They will come looking for me.

What harassers those bastards are! They're not used to being resisted!

I shouldn’t think about him like that but I couldn’t help myself. Being terrified and tired is not the best mix. I keep my head down, my steps careful but swift. My hands shake, and I clench my fingers into fists to steady them. The corridor stretches before me, torchlight flickering along the polished marble. Every step I take feels heavier than the last.

I take an unfamiliar path, mostly used by palace attendants when they need to move unnoticed, even if it’s not forbidden for servants. It twists away from the grand halls, leading deeper into the servant quarters, away from the lavish opulence of the imperial feast. The air here is cooler, the echoes of laughter and conversation fading into silence.

Then… I hear sandals slamming in rhythm.

Not the soft shuffle of slaves nor the hurried steps of attendants. These are measured, deliberate. Metal clinks against leather.

Praetorian guards.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. They are close. Too close.

I move, pushing my legs forward, forcing my limbs to obey. Each heartbeat slams against my ribs, urging me faster. The corridor opens into a larger hall, vast and empty at this hour. My gaze darts around, searching. The flickering torches cast long shadows against the walls, offering little refuge.

Then I see it, the statue of a god, towering and solemn, carved in cold marble. It looms near one of the columns, its presence commanding, its base wide enough to hide behind.

I don’t even think longer.

I dive behind it, pressing myself into the darkness. My knees scrape against the stone floor as I crouch low, curling into the shadows. My fingers tremble as they press against the cold marble, seeking something solid in a world spinning out of control.

The guards enter first, their armor catching the dim light. They stop, waiting.

Then, voices.

Deep. Familiar.

Caracalla speaks first, his tone light, almost amused. “Where is she?”

“Gone,” Geta replies, calmer. Confident. “For now.”

I press my forehead to the stone, my breath coming in shallow, silent gasps. My body aches from holding still, but I don’t dare move.

“She is a free citizen,” Caracalla muses, voice laced with curiosity. “One of the servants told me.”

A pause.

“Even better, it’s more interesting.” Geta murmurs.

A cold shiver runs through me. Another step echoes in the hall. Slow. Purposeful.

“She is more beautiful than Decima, don’t you think?” Caracalla chuckles, his voice thick with something dark.

Silence stretches between them. My pulse pounds in my ears.

“And untouched.” Geta adds.

I squeeze my eyes shut. My nails bite into my palms, sharp enough to sting. The guards shift behind them, their presence a quiet reminder of the power standing in this room. Caracalla exhales, almost a sigh.

“She won’t get far.”

A footstep. Closer.

Geta’s voice is soft, almost teasing.

“Find her. We don’t have all night.”

They keep moving in the corridor, until I seized the opportunity to leave my hiding place and turn back to make sure I didn't run into them. They’ll get bored with not finding me eventually, won’t they? I turn off into another corridor and suddenly a male face assails my field of vision. The moment the guard’s fingers tighten around my arm, a jolt of terror runs through me. I twist violently, trying to break free, my breath coming in shallow gasps. His grip remains firm, unyielding, like an iron shackle.

“No, let me go!” My voice rises in desperation, but he only grips me tighter, pulling me closer.

“Be quiet!” he hisses, his eyes darting around the corridor.

I shake my head, struggling harder, my nails digging into his wrist. My stomach churns, my pulse pounding in my ears. I thrash, my feet dragging against the polished stone floor. The flickering torchlight reveals his face, his clothes, a Praetorian guard, young but hardened, his expression taut with regret.

“I’m sorry, I have no choice.” he whispers, his breath warm against my temple.

A cry builds in my throat, but I bite it back.

No choice? He says it as if that justifies the horror of this moment, as if his guilt will erase the fact that he is dragging me toward my doom.

Another guard steps forward at his silent command, nods, and turns down a corridor.

“Tell them we’ve found her.” my captor instructs.

I push against him, my chest heaving. My sandals scrape against the floor as he half-lifts me to keep me moving.

“Please!” My voice cracks. “Please, don’t do this.”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer, he just drags me along. The corridor seems to stretch endlessly, each step heavy with dread. Even the atrium is eerily silent now, the distant laughter and drunken murmurs of the lingering guests fading into nothing. We pass through gilded archways and towering marble pillars, deeper into the imperial quarters. Every fiber of my being screams at me to run, to fight, to do anything other than submit to the fate awaiting me beyond those heavy doors.

But I am powerless. I’m just a citizen. A woman… In a world where our voice doesn’t matter. We’re only wombs to men.

When we finally reach the chamber, the guard releases me so suddenly I nearly stumble forward. I freeze, my hands trembling at my sides. The room is impressive, larger than anything I’ve ever stepped foot in, drowning in excess, a symbol of opulence. A massive bed dominates the space, its silken canopy shimmering in the dim candlelight. Thick tapestries hang from the walls, embroidered with golden thread. The air is thick with the scent of wine, oil lamps, and myrrh.

My stomach twists violently.

This place was designed for indulgence. For pleasure.

For possession.

The door closes behind me with a dull thud, sealing me inside.

I barely hear the guard step back. My thoughts race too fast, crashing into each other.

If I run, they’ll catch me.

If I stay, they’ll come.

I press a shaking hand to my stomach, as if I can hold my fear in place before it consumes me whole.

God, help me.

Not long after that, the door creaks as it opens slowly, and I freeze, my heart pounding in my chest. I can hear their footsteps echoing down the long corridor. Geta and Caracalla, their voices muffled but unmistakable, grow nearer.

I take a breath, forcing myself to steady my trembling hands, my fingers still pressed tightly against my abdomen as if that would shield me from whatever might come next. I can’t escape now. I have nowhere to go.

“Quite the clever trick!” Caracalla’s voice cuts through the air, amused, almost mocking. He chuckles, and I shudder at the sound.

My eyes flicker to Geta, who is already stepping forward, a cold glint in his eyes.

“Did you really think you could hide from us?”

His words are soft, almost too calm, and it makes my skin prickle with unease. He moves closer, his presence overwhelming. I instinctively take a few steps back, but there’s nowhere to go. The wall is cold against my back, and my breath comes in shallow, panicked gasps. He’s too close. Too close.

Geta’s fingers reach out to trace the line of my jaw, and I flinch, my heart racing in my chest. His touch is gentle, too romantic, like he’s savoring the fear in my eyes. I try to pull away, but his other hand finds my hair, pulling it loose from its bindings with slow, deliberate movements. I can feel my pulse thudding in my ears.

“Don’t be afraid…” the younger twin whispers he murmurs, his voice low, almost like a caress. But there’s nothing comforting in it. The weight of his gaze presses down on me, and I can feel my entire body shaking.

“You should have known better than to mock us.” He adds softly, his thumb brushing over my lip, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are dark, predatory, and I have no choice but to meet his stare. His fingers tighten on my chin, holding me in place.

I swallow, my voice barely a whisper.

“I’m sorry, Augustus.”

The words come out without meaning, but they slip past my lips anyway, because it’s the only thing I can say. I’m not sorry. But I need him to think I am.

“Undress.”

My eyes widen and I gasp for breath. Did I hear right? Yes, there’s no doubt about it, especially when his eyes study every inch of my body, from my shoulders to my chest, right down to my hips. I swallow hard and try to free myself from Geta’s grip, but to no avail. He pulls me against him, preventing me from escaping, even as I struggle, provoking hilarity from his brother. Geta manages to drag me with him to his bed, where he pushes me down. I step back to get away from him, while Caracalla joins us, pulls himself up behind me and pushes me onto my back, his head above mine. Prompt, eager to snatch my innocent, Caracalla grabs the edges of my dress and rips them open to reveal my bare chest. His brother climbs over me like a predator and pulls the shreds of my dress up over my hips. Despite my vision fogged by the salt water, I notice that Geta stands still, brows furrowed, eyes glued to the bloodstains.

Are they still going to rape me?

Unable to hold back the tears, they burn my eyes and cascade down my cheeks. I can’t think. I can’t move. I feel as if my soul is leaving my body. I’m nothing but a nerospastos (puppet). Suddenly, their hands release my body and something strange happens, their expressions change. The grip of the Emperors is too tight. I tear myself away, the weight of their presence sinking into my bones. I curl into myself, my knees pulled to my chest, my hands trembling against the sheets. Their gaze burns through me, silent and heavy, a weight I can’t escape.

A long silence stretches. The room is still, only the sound of my ragged breaths breaking the quiet. Then, suddenly, I feel it. Arms, strong, familiar, wrap around me, pulling me into something that feels like safety, but it's not. I shiver, but I don’t move, my body frozen beneath the touch of Caracalla, by back against his chest. His scent hits me before I even really feel his fingers. The familiar mix of cedar wood, leather, and something deeper, darker. His fingers trace lazy circles on my bare shoulders, my skin burning at the contact. The movement stops, and then pinch. He pinches my thigh, close to my hips. I flinch, my breath caught in my throat.

“Carnal pleasure is fun. Pleasurable. Enjoyable. Don’t cry.” He comments, his voice low, teasing.

I shake my head, my vision blurring. No, no, no. The walls close in, my heart racing as though it’s trying to escape my chest. I can’t breathe. My throat is tight, and panic claws at the edges of my mind. My breathing quickens, but paradoxically, the air doesn’t rush to my lungs. My face blazes, and it has nothing to do with embarrassment or my nakedness. My hands go to my throat.

“Caracalla, move away. She can’t breathe.”

But his brother doesn’t listen, me pulls me tighter, his chest against my back, holding me still. His fingers graze the nape of my neck, soothing in their rhythm, but I don’t calm down.

“She’s suffocating,” Geta repeats, his voice now sharp, filled with anger. “Move.”

Caracalla laughs, the sound grating in my ears.

“She’s fine. Relax, dear brother.”

“Move. I don’t want her to die in my bed.” Geta’s command is cold, final.

I feel Caracalla’s hands leave my hips — reluctantly, it seems — but the space between us feels worse. He’s forcing me to straighten, his body pushing me up against him, my back rigid against his chest. I feel his breath against my neck as he pulls me back, his fingers splaying across my ribs to hold me steady.

The room spins, my heart a drum in my ears. I feel something cool touch my wrist… Geta. His rings. His hands are gentle as they guide mine to my chest, urging me to breathe.

“Deep breaths.” Geta says softly, his voice surprisingly calm. “In… out… slowly. Focus on the air.”

My chest is tight, too tight. My body refuses to listen, but his touch anchors me. Slowly, I find my breath again. In. Out. In. Out. The sobs begin to subside, and my pulse starts to steady.

“Good, keep breathing.”

I close my eyes, the tears drying on my face, the weight of their eyes still heavy on me. But for a moment, I can breathe.

I can barely feel everything around me, my knees pressing into the mattress, the sheets, the sharp chill cutting through my skin. I should be angry. I should be terrified. But all I can feel right now is this overwhelming dizziness that clouds my mind, like I'm trapped in a nightmare that’s far too vivid. The weight of it presses down on me, a suffocating blanket I can’t shake off.

I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I’ve never felt so small, so… powerless. The reality of this room, their presence, feels wrong, like a cruel game, and I’m nothing more than a pawn. Why is this happening? What have I done to deserve this?

Is this some kind of punishment from God?

The question lingers in my mind, unanswered, and my pulse races in my ears, too fast to catch.

I glance at Geta as he leaves the bed, moves across the room, his steps measured, deliberate. He’s different now, almost too calm, and I don’t know what to make of it. He picks up a cloth from a table nearby, the soft fabric stark against the dim room. Without a word, he sats in front of me, his gaze steady, as if trying to read something in my face. His eyes soften, but there’s no kindness there. It’s something more controlled, something colder.

He hands me the handkerchief, and I take it with trembling hands, pressing it to my face. My breath catches as I blow my nose, the sound sharp and uncomfortably loud in the silence. I feel exposed, vulnerable in ways I can’t even begin to describe.

Geta doesn’t move, though. He watches me for a moment longer, his gaze unreadable. Then he dips another cloth in the water basin beside him, returning to my side. His movements are slow, almost too careful, as if he’s considering every touch. He begins to wipe my face, and the coldness of the cloth against my skin sends a shiver through me. At first, the sensation is numbing, a strange contrast to the heat that still lingers beneath the surface, but slowly, I start to feel the tension ease from my shoulders. The water on my skin is refreshing, grounding. Alas, it doesn’t take away the gnawing uncertainty that twists deep in my stomach.

When he’s done, he doesn’t speak immediately, just sits back on his heels, studying me. My breathing is still shaky, but it’s more controlled now. My body feels like it’s been drained of all energy, each breath a labor. The dizziness is still there, swirling like a storm in my head, but I cling to the sensation of the water, as if it might offer me some clarity.

Then Geta speaks again, and his voice is a low, almost mechanical whisper.

“You belong to us now. Whether you like it or not.”

My stomach lurches. The words fall on me like stones, sinking deep. I want to scream, to fight, but my voice won’t come. I want to stand, to break free of the chains they’ve bound me with, but I feel nothing but weakness in my limbs. I don’t know what to say, how to respond.

“We don’t want to rape you,” he says, his eyes searching mine, as if gauging my reaction. “We want things to be pleasant for the three of us.”

I can’t breathe. The words hit me harder than I thought possible, and I feel the panic creep back, sharp and fast, my chest tightening again. My mind scrambles to hold onto something, anything, but it slips through my fingers like sand. No. No, no, no.

“I’m a virgin… I made a vow of chastity... until marriage.” I manage to croak, my voice trembling with the weight of it. The truth feels foreign on my tongue.  Caracalla’s laughter cuts through the air, harsh and mocking.

“We are above your God!” he sneers, his words dripping with something venomous. “You’ll be devoted to us, just as you will be devoted to Rome. We are Rome. You will bend to us. Just as you bend to your God."

Geta steps closer, and his presence looms over me, impossible to ignore.

“Tonight, you will receive your first lesson.” His voice is colder now, but there’s a strange tenderness beneath it, something soft but calculated. “A kiss.”

A kiss. I blink and my lips slightly part. My heart stutters, a thousand thoughts racing through my mind, none of them coherent. A kiss?

Caracalla moves around to gaze at my face, his lips curling into a smirk, and then he asks, his tone mocking:

“Have you ever been kissed?”

I shake my head, the motion small, almost imperceptible. I can’t even look at them.

Geta’s eyes widen slightly, a flicker of something crossing his face, but then his lips curl into something like amusement.

“You look like a Vestal Virgin.” he comments softly, almost as if to himself.

My pulse quickens, the strange mix of shame and curiosity twisting in my chest. I don’t know how to feel, what to think, or how to respond to him. I don’t know what they want from me, or how I can escape this. Then Geta is closer, his hand gently lifting my chin, guiding my face up to meet his. His touch is delicate, almost respectful, but I can’t bring myself to trust it. I can’t bring myself to trust anything. His lips are on mine before I can react. It’s soft at first, almost tentative, like a question. I don’t know how to respond. The warmth of his mouth against mine feels wrong, and yet, there’s a strange comfort in it. The tenderness is unexpected, almost… kind. It’s a feeling I don’t know how to process, a feeling I can’t reconcile with everything else that’s happening. Slowly, he deepens the kiss, his lips pressing harder against mine, coaxing me, drawing something out of me that I can’t name. It’s gentle, but there’s an intensity to it that makes me tremble.

I feel it then… These goosebumps, rising on my skin, warmth spreading from my chest to my fingers. Something inside me stirs, a flicker of heat that I can’t deny. I’m surprised by it. I’m surprised by how… pleasant it feels. How good it feels. I let him guide me, my lips parting slightly, and his kiss deepens, growing more passionate, more insistent. The warmth of his mouth on mine becomes almost intoxicating. His tongues tease mine, they dance together, they play cat and mouse. A small moan escapes me, making him growl.

It’s strange, and yet, something about it feels right. My heart slows, the dizzying panic I felt earlier fading, replaced by something new, something unsettling but almost… pleasant.

Suddenly, Geta pulls back, his breath shaky, his lips wet, and I can feel the heat of his gaze on me, intense and searching. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me, as if waiting for something. When I open my eyes, his lips curl into a satisfied smile.

“That…” he says, his voice lower now, “was just the beginning.”

I’m still reeling from Geta’s kiss, my lips tingling, my breath unsteady. But before I can fully process what just happened, Caracalla steps forward, his presence overpowering in a way that makes my heart race. He doesn’t wait for his turn. His hand grips my chin with a fierceness I wasn’t expecting, tilting my head back just enough for his mouth to claim mine. There’s nothing gentle in this kiss. It’s demanding, insistent, and hot, his lips pressing against mine with an urgency that makes my pulse spike. The passion in his kiss is different from Geta’s, rougher, more impatient.

It's something more primal.

He doesn’t give me time to adjust, his tongue pushing past my lips, tasting me before I even have a chance to pull away. His fingers slide over my shoulders, caress the exposed skin, reaching my collarbones and I can’t help but let out another moan of embarrassment against his mouth. The sound seems to please him. He pulls back slightly, just enough for me to gasp for air, and I feel his smile against my lips, smug and satisfied.

“Did you like that?” he mutters, his voice low and teasing.

I can’t find the words, and I’m too humiliated to answer. I don’t know what I feel, only that their touch leaves a fire in its wake, a fire I don’t know how to control.

Caracalla’s fingers trace over my skin one last time before he steps back, grinning widely. The flicker of candlelight highlights his gold tooth, and for a moment, I feel like I’m trapped in some nightmare that I can’t escape. His gaze lingers on me, amused, as if he knows exactly what’s running through my mind. I’m still struggling to steady my breath when Geta clears his throat. He motions toward the bed.

“It’s time to sleep.” he promises, his tone even, as though none of this is out of the ordinary.

Sleep. The word doesn’t sit right with me. The thought of lying down beside them, of being in that bed with both of them, fills me with dread. I can’t even begin to process it. Thankfully, Geta’s voice is calm, almost soothing.

“We won’t touch you tonight. Just sleep. That’s all.”

His words don’t reassure me. I don’t know if I can trust them. My heart races in my chest, the fear settling deep in my bones. Emperor Geta notices my hesitation and steps closer, his expression unreadable.

“We’re not going to hurt you…” he says, his tone almost gentle. “Not tonight.”

I want to argue, to demand that they let me go, but the words don’t come. What can I say to that? What choice do I have?

Caracalla is already taking of his clothes to get inside the beds, prawling out with a casualness that makes my stomach twist. I glance back at Geta, still unsure, still terrified. He doesn’t look at me with the same intensity that Caracalla does, but his gaze is still unwavering, as if he’s waiting for me to make the next move. Slowly, he also undresses and just like with his brother, I make sure to not look at his manhood. On the opposite of Caracalla, he wraps himself in a thin wardrobe, before he joins us.

I don’t want to sleep in that bed. I don’t want to lie beside them, surrounded by the overwhelming weight of their power. Slowly, with shaking hands and legs, I slid under the covers too, the fabric so soft, so silky.  Caracalla chuckles softly, his eyes glinting in the dim light.

“Don’t worry, we’re not going to bite.”

And as I turn my back to him, preferring to see Geta’s covered chest, I feel the craziest ginger getting closer to me, his hardening manhood pressing against my behind. If my cheeks are on fire, I bite my lower lip and close my eyes. All I can do now is pray to remain a virgin until I wake up.

---

I apologize to anyone expecting smut in the first chapters, but you'll have to be patient. Reader is a Catholic virgin, so she's not going to want to get laid so easily, let alone ride a dick like a champ' lol So yes, in the end, it's a bit of a slow burn, but not too much. I'm just trying to be logical. Things are progressing gradually. I think the lack of sex scenes is why I don't have that much readers, but I have to stay consistent :) I was supposed to post tomorrow, but I wanted too much to know your reactions, so I hurried. Let me know what you think! I'm just like a kid 🤭

My AO3: BetrayedWriter

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