#golden ruler

[dwuerch-blog]

Let’s Get Out the Golden Ruler

We have heard the Golden Rule many times. Jesus was being harassed by people who wanted to be right more than they wanted to do what was right. The Pharisees and Sadducees didn’t even like each other. But they were united in their dislike of this man, Jesus. He was causing people to question their teaching. In Matthew 22:37–39 Jesus gave them a teaching, now called the “Golden Rule”. He said,…

[nocturusvulpus]

Ok so hear me out; Eternal Sugar x Golden Cheese

Also bonus doodle cuz these girlies for sure have a height difference <3

[nova-moshi]

Crk Update spoilers under the cut

I appreciate this scene so much

I remember way long ago before even Dark Cacao was released, when a lot of people thought that Golden Cheese would be selfish, and not care for any of her citizens.

Not only was that proven wrong, she cares so much for others not even in her own kingdom!

She would never have involved her kingdom in the war if she could help it.

[calmbigdipper]

Metamorphosis

[anushkab2711]

[viaetor]

ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗢𝗙 𝗜𝗚𝗡𝗔𝗥𝗢𝗧𝗛 . . . ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ( 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘢-𝘭𝘰𝘨 — 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 4 / ? ) ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ to be continued.

ㅤㅤin the days when the stars ruled the heavens without question, two shone more blinding than most: aether and lumine, two caelings built from the depths of ignaroth’s tempest forge, where the hottest stars were shaped from the raw energy of destruction… and of creation. they were unlike any other starborn, outstanding even amongst their other caeling siblings, for ignaroth’s fiery essence had bled within their very veins. some rumour that lumine, from steel and old starlight, was made from five black holes and a dead god’s star shard. her brother, aether, however, was crafted with the power of five ancient suns and the heart of a mortal whose stardust refused to vanish. rumours say that young constellations blossomed in the night sky the first time aether and lumine opened their eyes, so strong were their presences. perhaps it was because the god of destruction cried with joy when he saw them; lumine, devastating, was ignaroth’s scythe. aether, piercing, was ignaroth’s sword. their purposes were singular: to bring ruin to worlds, scorch planets, and topple gods and civilisations in the name of cosmic balance. to extinguish eternal peace for the sake of equilibrium found within entropy.

ㅤㅤthey were the god of chaos’ favourite children, and all starborn and golden rulers knew of such a fact. ignaroth never tried hiding that he played favourites, either: the twins roamed through the crystal palace as if they were gods themselves, flying with no concerns for etiquette; they visited other worlds without orders, exploring the belly of the universe aimlessly, and they often sat by their father’s side when the golden rulers needed to assemble. for thousands of years, they stood as ignaroth’s right and left hand, blazing forces of chaos, destruction, conquer and goodhood that even other starborn feared. troublesome children, mumbled zor’yael, goddess of fate, once.

ㅤㅤwherever ignaroth’s burning blade pointed, the twins followed, their star-bound form tearing through the heavens like comets of doom. they obliterated entire star systems, reducing thriving worlds to ash, each victory fuelling their brilliance. many mortal worlds prophesied of their arrival; while lumine was called “the night bringer”, others called aether the “last morning star”—their names became legends, curses, but mostly importantly, promises of ignaroth, the god of chaos, destruction and conquer’s ultimate power. they were unwavering, a paragon of ignaroth’s will—until one day, kessithar happened.

𝗶. ㅤ𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝗵𝗼𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗸𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗿

ㅤㅤlumine and aether used to do everything together; hand in hand, they’d cross over one edge of the universe to the other. they’d chase after meteors together, fight in blood and fire together, and grow together. for a while, it was hard knowing who was who. they were made to complement each other, yet simultaneously, they were opposites with their very natures. weird. be it as it may, it was. they were meant to be soldiers, not poets or thinkers. so they weren’t, and they just were.

ㅤㅤas time passed, lumine grew closer to ignaroth and sera’len, walking beside them as they conversed about heavenly principles, cosmic balance and universal laws. when not accompanying the two ancient stars, she’d be found with a troupe of starborn following her trail, asking questions as if she was their commander. meanwhile, aether was usually seen within the palace’s library, reading, learning, and secretly questioning things. he was interested in mortal affairs and their many tales. as such, thalnor, the god of dreams, forbidden knowledge and lies, delighted themselves by sharing stories in aether’s ear and watching his reaction. this didn’t make them grow apart but drew them closer instead. rather than only talking during their missions, they’d question themselves when meeting in celestial hallways, later sneaking away from the crystal palace to talk about their discoveries of the day—they learned to scoff, to shout, to laugh. maybe they were finally learning to feel, maybe not. but all other starborn agreed; it wasn’t normal for caelings to be like that. they were weapons, after all, mere instruments to another’s will. perhaps they were defective.

ㅤㅤone day, the god of conquer had summoned aether. his forger father was always a wild flame, but his skeleton hands were always warm on the morning star’s cheek. that day was the first time ignaroth caressed his hair and bestowed upon him a task only for his ears and hands: kessithar needed to burn under his sword. aether looked up at him, face as ethereal as it ever was, and he wanted to ask why. he closed his mouth before any word could be uttered and heard the slightest chuckle coming from ignaroth. never forget who you are, o my celestial sword; pray with me—

𝗔𝗕𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘 𝗜𝗦 𝗠𝗬 𝗕𝗜𝗥𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧. i am the child of the cosmos, weaved from neverending stars. from lashes to claws, i was made in greatness, the reflection of yesterday, today and tomorrow. i am divination shaped, i am reality ascended, i am the life of death and the death of life. i am the blaze of the forge, hot hammer heavy upon the chestplate. i am the fire that inspires the higher crude courage to create. i am the sun that burns with no ashes left. i am the audacity to declare the end and the beginning. my messages are inevitable and my word holds the weight of a billion years of oaths. i am the 𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗥 of every world made sword. i bring light and hunger. 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗪𝗜𝗟𝗟 𝗠𝗘𝗘𝗧 𝗠𝗘.

ㅤㅤthey prayed together; the weapon-soldier bowed before his maker and went to vanquish what was rightfully of his god’s. at that time, aether had no idea why ignaroth wanted him to repeat that same mantra he was so used to uttering in every wake. the truth was that the god of conquer was worried that his sword, the last morning star, was losing its merciless edge. as we know by now, dear reader, ignaroth was right. this portion of the story is at least a truth we cannot fight with.

ㅤㅤfor you see, kessithar was a small, humble world, insignificant compared to the great empires and galactic kingdoms aether had once razed. it had no sprawling cities or towering spires of technology—only a quiet landscape of rolling hills, dense forests, and crystal-clear rivers. the people of kessithar were mortal and fragile, living simple lives untouched by the wars of the cosmos. they lived in harmony, all of them; eating in the morning, dancing in the afternoon, dreaming in the evening below their three moons. they cried for their deceased, celebrated the birth of their young, and helped even other species flourish alongside them. in every sense of the word, they were ordinary, dull creatures. to aether, this meant nothing. to ignaroth, their world was a point of balance that needed to be undone. peace was stagnation, and it could never last too long.

ㅤㅤbut when aether descended upon the world, something strange happened. as he prepared to unleash the fire of the five suns upon kessithar, he was met by a child. she waved in his direction while holding a basket of fruits, extending it to him as if he were a friend she was waiting to meet again. she was smiling—an expression of happiness, thalnor once told him in his stories, especially when they come from the young. “hello, o traveller from another world!”, the kid shouted, “come down, share a story with me!”

ㅤㅤaether had seen many types of mortals in his many years of existence. some planets birthed warriors, mortals who would die battling ‘til their last breath or cursing the gods as a blade pierced their chest. other worlds were home to negotiators, people who would try to bargain lives as if they were coins of any interest to the higher beings in the sky. others tried to play games, gamble, scheme, deceive. he had seen it all… but not this. as red as the blood of many enemies he had slain was the apple in his hand, shiny and big. he looked at the mortal girl, so tiny she barely reached his knee. perhaps this was meant to be poison. fine, he’d play along.

ㅤㅤit tasted sweet. one single bite dirtied his face, dripping to his chin and neck. he waited to sense a toxin, anything at all. yet, all he could feel was how delicious it was. “do you like it?” the girl asked, offering more fruits from her basket. he shouldn’t, but he tasted more and more of the fruits, berries and honey that was offered to him, waiting, hoping for something bitter to bite his tongue. it never did. puzzled, he asked the girl if she knew who he was. had she ever heard of the last morning star? she nodded proudly and raised her finger:

but fear not, for abundance is every being’s birthright. we are all children of the cosmos, made from stardust. from our heads to our toes, we are shaped in hope, the image of a day where greatness needn’t exist, only goodness. we are mortality earthed, makers of realities, the meaning of life and death, and the life and death of meaning. we are the blaze which makes the forge, burning fire of every shield and weapon. we choose to destroy or to create. we are the ashes that remain. we are the arrogance to defy every ending and every beginning. we are deaf and blind to certainty, for no final message can destroy our being. we are the oaths that are carried through. we bring light and hunger. they will meet us, and we will meet them. show them, every time, what it means to be mortal.

ㅤㅤ“i am choosing to show you love. so when you kill me, i’ll still live in your mind.” she offered him another apple. “we will haunt you, dearest morning star. so before you go, you will share a story with me.”

ㅤㅤhe’d be lying if he said such a puny display of confidence had amazed him. words were just as fragile as the mortals who invented them, easily broken and forgettable. what surprised aether was her audacity to extend her hand for him, offering to show him around gardens, beaches, mountains, villages and rivers. day after day, he watched the mortals of kessithar, their fleeting lives filled with so much emotion. they told tales of their heroes, showed him the animals they kept as companions, shared stories about their elders, talked about religion, and sang music to his ears. his presence, thick as the night and burning like the sun, seemed not to bother them: for the first time in his life, the last morning star felt incredibly small. they were free, they explained to him. and aether, who had only known destruction, began to envy them. why couldn’t he feel love, and loss, and peace? wasn’t there something more? to stay always the same, even if destructive and chaotic—wasn’t that against the very own principles of the cosmic balance?

𝗶𝗶. ㅤ𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗰𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗱𝗲𝗳𝗶𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲

ㅤㅤwhen aether realised he could not destroy kessithar, his fate was sealed. he defied ignaroth’s will, sparing the world and its people, returning to the crystal palace with no blood stain, the sword he carried light and hungry. as soon as he set foot in the floating ruins, lumine came to him. furious, she demanded why he had not completed the mission given to him by their forger. he kept his march towards the god of destruction’s throne, opening his doors, uncaring of the other caelings in their midst. that act granted knife-sharp gazes in his direction, yet ignaroth remained loosely in place.

ㅤㅤlegends tell different versions of how their exchange went. some say that ignaroth and aether were alone in that room; others say lumine accompanied him. rumour has it that aether shouted at his ruler, demanding explanations as if they were on equal footing. others say that aether cried, kneeling as he admitted his defeat—for some reason, he just couldn’t bring himself to destroy that world and needed to be reforged. few talk about how aether says his hands were cursed and how kessithar managed to trick him into touching their planet with his bare hands, thus connecting them forever. in many tales, lumine stands beside ignaroth, disapproving of her brother yet looking at him with an emotion that shouldn’t belong to stars.

ㅤㅤall agree that aether said something that made ignaroth rise from his throne and directly slash him with the eclipsing scythe—lumine. it was the first time that aether bled, black-matter blood thickly spurting from his cheek as he felt hurt for the first time. breaking his skin, the injury’s pain spread to his very core. despite how lumine cried and held ignaroth’s cape, pleading for mercy over her brother, ignaroth took aether by the arm, raising him from the ground. o my celestial sword, let me remind you who you are. he forced aether to become his celestial sword, shifting his form and keeping him in a tight, suffocating grip.

ㅤㅤwith aether in his hands, ignaroth flew across the ocean, leaving fire where his wings and blade touched. he cut open kessithar, and then sliced it into millions of pieces. he struck down its solar system and many neighbouring ones. it’s said that ignaroth’s fury lasted for many moon cycles and devoured so many galaxies that it shifted the universe’s weight. he used aether until his blade became dull and chipped, until it cracked in his grasp. some claim that ignaroth only stopped because sera’len had sent his sentinels to calm him down, and even then, it’s known among the starborn that the sentinels are still recovering their numbers.

ㅤㅤonly after his fit of rage had quenched, did ignaroth release aether from his hand and allowed him to recover to his starborn shape. lumine was there to hold him, borrowing her starlight so his cracks could immediately heal—yet the scar under his eye remained like an unwanted memoir. it’s unknown what ignaroth said to aether once he was done. still, over the following centuries, aether was almost always seen accompanying the god of destruction everywhere, never once stepping inside a library or asking about mortal matters. some whisper that he became even more violent than any other caeling, ascending as a ruthless general and becoming ignaroth’s favourite weapon to summon. however, ignaroth never smiled down on him again. probably because he knew that it wouldn’t take long until aether betrayed him again.

[kelbunny]

Okay, so partially brought on bc I've been playing tactics ogre reborn, but in TriStrat, there really should've been more Cordelia during the Liberty ending. There's the small scene with Roland if you stayed in the capital chapter 15, but that's about it.

Mostly with what her reaction would be to Serenoa, since he's just as much her brother as he is Roland's. But she wasn't as close to Serenoa as Roland was, and as far as she knows, it like she lost Roland due to the Wolffort's betrayal, just like as Frani warned Roland early on, that the Wolfforts weren't to be trusted.

And the thing is, Cordelia had already lost Roland once before, back when he faked his death between chapter 9 and 10. And just like with the Liberty ending, it appeared to be at the hands of the Wolffort's.

As a side note, that scene always felt so much more painful on the surrender Roland route. Cordelia put herself at risk to free Roland, only for some time later be delivered what appeared to be his corpse, making her risk be for naught.

I doubt during the period between 10 and 13-14 Cordelia was trusting of the Wolffort's and its a reason why she turned to Avlora, as she was the only person Cordelia had left to potentially rely on. So to have that doubt return full force after Wolffort takes Roland away from her once again seems like it would drive a rift between any potential relationship between her and Serenoa.

Benedict probably wouldn't try to get rid of Cordelia like he did Roland, as just like she was during Aesfrost's occupation, she'd almost certainly be a pawn to him.

I wish there was a scene between her and Serenoa, where Cordelia denies him as her brother, because although it was Aesfrost who stole Frani and her father away from her, it was Serenoa and house Wolffort who stole Roland away from her.

[rottingrot123]

False Ruler TOH AU. One of two AUs I can't stop thinking about

1 - 2 - 3

Belos has Hunter act as the emperor.

Hunter and the other Grimrulers (Grimwalkers that are made to be a placeholder ruler) know from day one that they are not the true ruler and are raised wholly with this mindset. He's being a good Nephew to his Uncle as a shield from ruling with a curse and taking on being the target for public outrages and even assignation attempts.

Grimrulers are grown only to the age of small children so they fit the narrative better and can be more finely tuned to Belos' needs as a false Emperor. Grimwalkers meant for only the GG (Golden Guard) role are allowed to grow normally up to young 10-12. 

It's not every grimwalker that gets used as a figure head. Belos has got to play like 4d chess to keep the cycle going and the ‘royal line’ working. (it’s something like a private game to him) Inserting himself as the actual emperor here and there too. Use of masks and keeping the Emperor’s life a heavily private affair. 

Belos likes to keep a good/evil thing going with himself and Grimrulers. He does everything from dressing them in overly heavy ornate dark robes and himself in light colored more common clothes. Framing the Grimrulers as cruel, unforgiving, malicious rulers and himself as the kind approachable Uncle/advisor that helps to keep the Emperor in check and manages their tantrums (which are really just Belos losing it to his curse or punishing the grimwalkers in private. Always making sure to leave a mess for others to find later) 

The golden guard is still always the Grimwalker but it's either full time or done in secret on the side when they are also playing emperor. Hunter is playing both roles. Golden Guard on the weekends mostly used for missions Belos doesn't trust/want others to know about or acts as the brute force and threat of the ‘emperors’ power. This further entrenches Hunter to Belos, he’s trusted with these things as the only one Belos can rely on, doubly so after the ‘betrayal’ of the last GG, he has something to prove.

When working as the GG Hunter is forbidden from revealing his face as he already shows it as the emperor to the coven heads and around the castle (though wears a mask/hood for public events). It does however let him have a lot more freedom to be himself as the GG as long as he gets the job done. 

Belos uses the grimwalkers as the emperor usually when he knows/thinks that he will need one to place blame or use as a scapegoat for reforms and such that he wants done. Hunter is used in this way for the Day of Unity and the growing strain as he has to ramp up sigil branding and other things for it. Day of Unity work succeeding or not won’t come back on to the kind, good hearted Uncle to the merciless child emperor that he had tried so hard to stop. Belos being known as the one to ‘tame and bring the more outrageous orders from the emperor down”. The poor overworked Uncle that many think is mistreated by his power hungry Nephew, if the rumors are to be believed. (this is more messed up than I originally planned, whoops)

Belos manipulates Hunter through lies, gaslighting and guilt. Belos can't take over as was his right because of his curse, no one wants a cursed emperor Hunter, what of my fits, what would the public think if they saw that Hunter? Even though Belos always manages to only have the fits in private anyways, only in front of Hunter. 

Belos has taken extra care to set up this situation for Hunter. At least 50 years dedicated to it, everything perfect for the day of unity. Darius' mentor and the previous Grimwalker was only a golden guard. Belos as the emperor but made sure to never show his face. His larger form in the robes and voice changed from the curse used to disguise himself. However in the later years he got ‘sick’ and his brother Belos appeared from afar to care for him. Belos would build his place as the kind and caring but wise brother of the emperor. Worming his way into taking over more duties of ruler and as a public icon. It only takes a few years before the current GG, who was already very uncomfortable with this new situation, finds more things out and it's exactly what Belos wants. The GG confronts Belos and Belos murders him, letting him scar him in the process (the scar above his left eye going into his hairline). That night he announces with a heavy heart that the emperor is dead, betrayed by the GG. But not all is lost as the Emperor also had a son. Hunter is brought in days later not quite 4 years old, but really fresh from the ground. The public is told he was kept a secret for his safety, which seems justified at the murder of his “father’ by the once trusted GG. The new little emperor‘s uncle Belos promises to take care of the boy and raise him while covering the position while he grows up having already cemented himself in the empire's affairs. He is beloved by the people at this point and his manufactured sob story sealing the deal.  

Hunter is trained in everything to be both GG and Emperor. However outside of a rigorous education and physical training, he isn’t actually trained to rule. Just how to know what His uncle wants and how to read him in front of people so he can relay exactly what Belos wants said or done.

Belos is at every meeting and acts as the secretary of the right hand to his Nephew. He still works in his role as advisor. Using a private code between the two to make comments and orders to Hunter in the notes, directing him when needed. 

Over the years Hunter is very good at just knowing or reading Belos’ to succeed in his role. Failing to ends in punishments and/or lectures that can leave him emotionally wrecked. Hunter only directly disobeys Belos while acting as Emperor 3 times at this point. The two scars on his face are lasting reminders of this and part of some of the most severe punishments. One such scar is from stating Lilith could keep her palisman when she was to be promoted to coven head. Hunter was maybe like 8(?) years old at the time and had looked up to her when he would visit the library. He felt terrible for how upset she was over it. Though he is still under the idea at the time that palismen are just things and dangerous wild magic. Lilith can totally be trusted to keep it safe, he thinks, because she was about to become the head of His(Belos’) Coven, selected by his Uncle personally. It would definitely be ok…it was not ok. She gets to keep her palisman and he gets a new face scar. 

Hunter’s room is basically the same but is instead in the private hall of the Emperors. There is a small suite for the emperor which is really Belos suite, including his study.

He still meets his friends though working as the GG.

(To be continued)~

[malkaleh]

JOAN.

Dauphine of France. Princess of Scotland. Princess of Albion. Queen Regnant of Scotland. Queen of England. The Half Breed Heathens Whore Of A Wife. My Darling Wise Thistle. Little Wise Eyed. Jeanne.

Though Joan’s father died not six months after her birth his love for her was remarked upon - indeed it was said that he could hardly bear to be apart from her. His death was something her mother Mary never recovered from despite two subsequent marriages and the reminder of him in her black haired and grey eyed daughter seems to have been a mixture of grief and solace to her. Joan proved to be a serious child - interested in books, archery and riding but with a keen talent for music she was included in and educated in rulership from a young age, particularly by her paternal grandmother who remarked that she saw ‘very much of Marguerite of Navarre in her’ she was excellent at politics, at rulership and in her concern and interest in the lives of all her people but she was not warm and nor did she have the charisma and ability to draw the eye of her mother, something that drew unfavourable comparisons. Her marriage was made out of pragmatism on her part and no one was more surprised than Joan when it turned into love.

(inspired in part by this edit by @emilykaldwen (ABBY MY BELOVED))

[dwuerch-blog]

 The Golden Rule aka the Golden Ruler

Aw! The old “Golden Rule”. Personal reciprocity. I like the word, reciprocity — as in harmony like a situation or relationship when two people or groups agree to do something similar for each other. So, if we took the Golden Rule to heart, then it should be simple to follow, and even go beyond. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” It’s right there in Matthew 7:12. Easy to find,…

[savourysaltysweet]

Seeing a bunch of clips for the Burning Spice update and tearing everything up with my teeth because I can't participate due to not having completed the rest of Beast Yeast.

[smiles-ocs]

Clover doesn’t like libraries. One of the reasons why under the cut (tho warning for a bit of horror). It’s actually a redraw from this!

This is a little darker than the older version but hey! Flashlight!

[quibbs126]

What are the chances that there may actually be a revolution in GC’s kingdom happening at some point? The art book states that she controls EVERY aspect of her citizens’ lives down to the smallest details, plus something tells me she may have forged/altered the story of her Vs Cheddas.

The odds of the Cheese Puff Orbs collectively deciding that they’ve had enough of her crap are high, but the chances of them winning the war by themselves…is debatable.

You know, I’m not sure, but honestly I kind of doubt it

I mean, in this scenario, it sort of paints Golden Cheese as the villain to the Cheesebirds, and while yeah, she can be a flawed character, she is still supposed to be an Ancient Hero. Yeah you could say she learns the error of her ways, but at the same time, it’s not a very flattering image for one of the heroes to be portrayed as the bad guy

[pyreshe]

I need to draw livvy’s entire helios royalty fit...

[hyakkiyagy0]

tag drop 2- muses

;oh mrs. fox please don't take an umbrella (kitsune) ;cucumbers and soul orbs of the water child (kappa) ;mischievous raccoon dog (tanuki) ;mountain flying dog (tengu) ;frozen beauty (yuki-onna) ;do you think i'm pretty? (kuchisake-onna) ;water dredged vampire (nure-onna) ;sound of railroad sirens (teke-teke) ;wanna play a game? (hanako-san) ;rising the dead with a purr (bakeneko) ;demon princess of the waterfall (takiyasha-hime) ;ringing of a funeral bell and the rattling of bones (gashadokuro) ;long long neck long long hair (rokurokubi/nekekubi) ;caught in the spiders web (jorogumo) ;her unkempt hair long and golden white / her kimono filthy and tattered (yama-ube) ;dance of the old biwa / cry out asore asore! (tsukumogami) ;my hatred will never die / a curse to see my disfigured face til you die! (oiwa) ;whistling of winds / the squeaking of weasel laughter (kama itachi) ;a gift and a curse / the child doll in the sitting room (zashiki warashi) ;something that cries with the voice of a bird / its true nature unknown (nue) ;chief of Yorimitsu's Shitennō / mountain child raised by a demon (kintaro) ;headless demon lord / headless dance (shuten dōji) ;kitsune oiran / manipulator of the emperor's court (tamamo-no-mae) ;Instead of looking at me / have a look at your own child! (wanyūdō) ;ruler of the seas / master of medicine (ryūjin) ;hell courtesan / paranormal watcher (jigoku dayū) ;the true ruler of white heron keep / commander of yokai (osakabe-hime)

[lovebugism]

✶ ┄ HOLY GRAIL !

part one | part two

summary: in ancient rome, where survival is determined by the whims of a mad ruler, the empire's beloved general gives you – his first and only love – to the crazed emperor to ensure your safety. (6k)

pairing: marcus acacius / fem!reader, emperor geta / fem!reader

contents: established relationship, strangers to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort cw for mentions of war and violence, mentions of sex work, swearing, smut 18+ (dubcon, m receiving oral, unprotected sex, cuckholding, exhibitionism) (this is a pretty dark fic so pls heed the warnings!!!)

Marcus Acacius was the name on the lips of a thousand fallen empires. His ledger ran a deep scarlet color, which dripped like proof from his sword. The war had destroyed the General over the years — had turned the man into an empty thing filled only by untamable ghosts. The relentless battle had wrung his boyhood from his body like a slow, merciless death. Any remaining innocence has since been replaced with violence.

Rome made a legacy of his grotesque evils, turned him into a saint. Marcus Acacius did not want to be a saint. He did not want to be angry; he did not want to be cruel. He only wanted to love and to be left alone with his tenderness. His mouth filled with blood instead.

You loved him like all doomed, grotesque things are meant to be loved. In the dark. In the shadows of war. In the depths of the soul.

“This is me,” he confesses, the great General Acacius, returning to you like a ghost to its haunt. “This is who I am.”

His golden armor is sullied from a victorious battle, tainted now with blotches of soil and dried blood that’s not his own. His dirtied, unholy fists tremble at his sides as he fights the urge to cross the threshold of your quarters to meet you. Marcus knows he doesn’t deserve to be held by you now. Not when he still wreaks of death.

He can still feel the breath of a fist on his bruised cheek, but the way his sword felt plunging through the beating heart of an enemy soldier plagues him most of all. 

“Love turned on me long ago— It is not a burden I compel you to carry.”

So, please, do not love me, he doesn’t say. I only know how to destroy you.

You smile at him, eyes soft with sympathy, and cross the threshold of longing with an admirable effortlessness. You cradle his weathered, war-torn face in your palms, willingly staining your delicate hands with the blood stained there.

“I love you despite. So I imagine I’ll carry it anyway,” you coo to him, gentle eyes locked firmly with his heavy ones. “And I’m certain you love me in return, regardless of what you think the siege has made of you.”

“There is naught I can do about it,” Marcus admits, words heavy with choked-back emotion. He melts into your touch but continues to deny himself the want to hold you back. “Not while I still oversee this campaign. Not while there is a war to be won—”

“We love each other, don’t we?” you interject, pleading eyes searching for emotion behind his dark, stoic gaze. Marcus swallows hard. His scruffy chin scrapes your palm as he nods once in response. You grin and say the unforgiving truth out loud. “So fuck the war.”

You pull him down by his face to press a kiss to his unclean lips. Marcus rests his shaking hands over your waist and lets you build cathedrals in his mouth with your tongue. The blood in his teeth turns to holy water. 

Marcus long understood that bringing you to the city would be his last act of love.

Keeping you in the heart of Rome was the only way he could ensure your safety, with the surrounding towns still under merciless siege. The people there were docile, and loyal most of all to the General who had won them a thousand wars. They would not hurt you because it was not in their kind too, and because they feared General Acacius’ wrath as much as they respected his mercy.

This was known to everyone in Rome except its Emperors.

Geta and Caracalla ruled together following their father’s untimely demise but shared not a brain between them. They were boys, after all, the oldest being hardly two-and-twenty –– it was in their nature to talk more than they listened, and to pretend as if they knew the world despite never leaving the city walls. 

They were as cruel and as stupid as anyone who wished to rule an empire would be.

But the two of them relied heavily on their General to keep the restless public at ease. It made it easier for Marcus to bring you with him, knowing he had the trust of the most powerful men in Rome. He knew Geta kept meticulous care of his most precious gifts — all Marcus had to do was get you there, really, and the Emperors would do the rest for him. 

It was simple, but it was not easy; though he imagines no war ever has been or would be. Both of you had survived, yes, but neither of you had been spared. Bringing you here was a testament to that, which you seemingly could not comprehend. You were as soft and green as the countryside he plucked you from, too naive for politics.

Marcus tells himself that this was the merciful decision, anyway, as he gives you a tour of Caracalla’s labyrinthine gardens — the place farthest from the feasting hall where the noblemen dined. Hidden behind climbing leaves, free from prying eyes.

“I can’t imagine why you would be so apprehensive in bringing me here. It’s beautiful,” you marvel aloud as you walk ahead of the man guiding you. 

Your sandals pad faintly along the cobbled trail as you skim your palm over the bed of blooming roses. The petals feel like silk against your skin. You pluck one from the soil, careful to avoid its thorns, and hold it up to your nose. You turn to face Marcus with the crimson flower resting on your cupid’s bow.

“And it smells better, too,” you quip softly, tilting your head to your shoulder as you smirk behind the budding rose.

Marcus just barely manages to bite back his own grin until you reach out for him, tapping the delicate flower against the bridge of his strong nose. He exhales hard through his nostrils in place of a laugh.

Your giggling comes carried on the breath of a warm summer breeze — a symphony of salty ocean, dainty florals, and the pretty oils you’d bathed in. The wind billows through your thin, white gown and creates music with rustling leaves. You squint one eye when the setting sun peeks through the swishing tree limbs, bathing you in a golden-hour aura. 

You’re as beautiful as sin. Sweeter than death. Smiling at him like this is the beginning of something that died the moment you entered the city walls.

Marcus clears throat and gently guides your hand away. His cautious eyes flit around the vacant garden. He’s constantly looking over his shoulder, you find, despite being the strongest man in all of Rome. You feel safest at his side, so you don’t know why he always looks so frightened.

“I know you are drunk on youth and immortality, petal, but we cannot get ahead of ourselves,” he advises, all stiff and stern, though the term of endearment spills effortlessly from his mouth. “We’re in the city now. So we must play the part. Like we discussed.”

He speaks to you with an unintentional sort of vagueness that makes you bow your head like a scolded child. Your arm falls limp at your side. A scarlet petal slips from its stem and hits the unforgiving stone.

“I know,” you murmur with a poorly hidden frown that conveys otherwise. Your sheepish gaze flits from the ground to Marcus’ unwavering stare and to the ground again. “I just thought— whenever we were alone, that we might—”

“We aren’t alone. We must behave as though the city is full of eyes. Understand?”

“I can’t,” you confess, peering up at the General from beneath your lashes. 

Marcus’ chest stings, like the fiery sun blazing his newly-fashioned armor. “What do you mean you can’t?” he bites emotionlessly.

He looks like a corrupt sort of angel in this light, unnaturally handsome and hopelessly wartorn. He was as hard as the earth below your feet — a statue made of clay, iron, and marble — cold to the touch and melting only for you. 

His heavy eyes were so brown they looked almost black, and they shone with a perpetual sort of gloom. His gaze swam with the prophetic darkness of a man who’s seen too much, though you often felt like you could drown in its void. For a man so adept at killing, he looked at you with a remarkable softness.

It wasn’t as shallow as physical desire. It was something far more cruel. You wanted Marcus Acacius the same way flesh wanted to knit itself together over a healing wound. It was simply in your nature to love him. 

“I mean, it’s impossible,” you ramble with a concerned furrow to your brow. Your grip on the flower’s papery stem tightens until the bulb rattles with the force. “How am I to be here with you but not touch you? That’s like asking the seasons not to change— It’s unnatural, and it’s cruel—”

Marcus swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His hands begin to ache with the urge to touch you. He balls them into fists instead.

“It’s the only way I know to keep you safe!” he confesses, words sounding heavy in his mouth. His eyes flit across the garden in a paranoid search of something that isn’t there. “Emperor Geta will take care of you. I know he will. And his brother is a half-wit, but he is kind when he wishes. He’ll take a liking to you, I’m sure of it—”

You interject his anxious rambling with a stubborn shake of your head.

“I can’t be someone else’s,” you murmur, voice as wet as the tears glittering in your wide-eyed gaze. “I don’t know how.”

“You will learn,” Marcus tells you with an emotionless stare. Not because he’s sure you will, but because he knows you have to. “For me.”

Your pretty features swirl with anguish. “Marcus…” you whisper his name in a feeble whimper caught in your throat.

He does not soften at your emotion like you’re used to. He’s practiced apathy for so long that it comes naturally to him now. He bites his tongue to keep from kissing you and lets the blood stain his teeth all over again.

“If not for your own sake, then for mine. The Emperors would have my head if they understood the pretenses I brought you under.”

You flinch at his words, perhaps finally understanding the weight of the unforgiving world in which you live. The surest example of such cruelty stands before you now, in the only man you ever loved now using your purest devotion as a means to keep you pliant. But your anger for the merciless arrangement is long eclipsed by your yearning.

“Then I will,” you tell him, rigid with a glacial disposition Marcus hasn’t seen before now.

The choices here were few. Either you were slaughtered outside the city walls by soldiers and pillagers, or you were slaughtered within them — in the metaphorical sense that burns physically in your chest now. 

Being without Marcus feels like a fate worse than death, but you want him so desperately to live. So much so that you’ll fall on the sword of your longing and bleed out at his feet. Knowing that you’re under the same sky would have to be enough for you. 

You can’t tell which it is — sacrifice or self-slaughter — but Marcus knows it isn’t as poetic as all that. 

Death is death.

Emperor Geta staggers drunkenly down the spiral stone steps of the west wing of his castle. The path to his chambers is illuminated by several dwindling torches hung along the brick walls. The subtle squeaking of his leather sandals sounds much louder in the quiet — filled only by crackling flames, a distant dripping noise, and the song he slurs under his breath. 

The latter ceases suddenly when he stumbles to a stop at the sight of General Acacius. The man stands like a statue outside his bedroom door — arms crossed behind his back, old spine perfectly straight — like the obedient guard dog he is. 

The thought makes the Emperor’s lips curl into a crooked smile. “What are you doing here, dog?” he calls to the General as he approaches him, voice echoing down the soulless corridor.

“Your nameday present, your majesty—” Marcus answers and tries not to make a face when the Emperor stands before him. The bittersweet scent of wine stains his breath, overwhelmingly so. Geta was never one to practice temperance. “—I was told to see that you got it.”

The younger man hesitates. “From my uncle?” he wonders aloud.

Marcus nods wordlessly in response.

Geta pauses for a moment. His wide, glassy eyes flit over the General’s shoulder to the arched doorway behind him. His stomach swirls at the thought of what may lie inside. The last nameday present his uncle sent from overseas was a monkey his younger brother has grown much too attached to.

“Well… What is it?”

Marcus swallows hard and steps aside. “Look inside, your majesty.”

Geta takes a deep breath in and swings the creaking door open. His bedroom is lush with crimson silk and golden candlelight, familiarly fragranced with cinnamon and sweet myrrh. It’s accompanied by something foreignly floral, a feminine rosy-lavender that catches his attention before his eyes ever find you.

He steps through the threshold and finds a strange girl standing by the window, before a platter of fruit and wine — bathed half in the silver beams of a full moon, and half in flickering orange flames. 

White silk adorns your frame, so delicate it’s nearly see-through. One of your shoulders is mouthwateringly bare, and there’s a slit in the fabric that rises to your hip. You look as pure as a dove, though you’re so obviously built for sin.

The ground sways beneath Geta’s unsteady feet.

You crunch audibly into an apple before you realize anyone’s there. The juice runs down your chin before you swipe it away with the back of your hand. Only then do your eyes lock with the Emperor’s, who seems equally stunned to see you there. You tense and say nothing as you hide the bitten fruit behind your back.

“It’s a woman,” Geta observes to no one in particular, though his dark eyes have not yet wavered from yours.

Marcus stands behind him and nods — hands still clasped behind his back, heart still pounding against his ribcage. “Yes, your majesty. In plain terms.”

“Well,” the Emperor glances over his shoulder. “What does she do?”

“Whatever you want,” the General answers, though the words taste like vinegar on his tongue. He swallows the bitterness down like bile and leers at you, looking upon his lover as though she were a stranger. “You need only ask.”

Geta, satisfied by his answer, turns back to you. His initial surprise has ebbed into something more pleased, diabolically so. His pink lips curl into a sneer as he walks slowly towards you, eyeing you up and down with curious eyes — a predator stalking its prey.

“Is that true?” he asks you, voice ringing through the quiet room. “Or is he confusing you for a dutiful hound?”

“A dutiful whore, your majesty,” you correct with an acquiescent smile, following the story as Marcus intended. 

The half-truth comes easily to you. Not a lie exactly, but not the whole tale either. You’d spent many of your years working in a brothel on the outskirts of Rome. You were a young woman, unmarried, without family or viable prospects — whoring seemed the most obvious decision then, though it feels so long ago now. 

You’d waited your whole life for something, for Marcus, though you hadn’t expected it to kill you when you found it. You won’t die a saint if the crazed Emperor decides to take your head, but perhaps you could be a martyr. Perhaps that’ll be enough.

Fear beats through your body like a second heart, but your eyes never waver from the Emperor’s. It’s easiest to meet his gaze. He feels more like a human that way. 

There are flecks of gold in his dark eyes, and dark strands in his gold hair. He’s got stubble on his long neck, spots on his broad nose, and wrinkles on his forehead. Not quite as perfect as the pristine white-gold armor would let on.

His eyes flit down your form once more. Something sparks in the deep brown of them, a flicker of silent realization. He spins suddenly on the heel of his sandal to flash Marcus an accusatory glare.

“Is she your whore, General?” he lilts into the heavy silence. His brows raise when he receives no answer from the man across the room. “The question was not rhetorical, Acacius.”

“No, your majesty. She is not mine,” Marcus answers, then clears his throat when the words get stuck there. It’s like he’s plunging a knife through his own heart. He can feel the cold sting of the sharpened blade and the burn of the blood on his skin. “Though, I don’t believe whores belong to anyone.”

A boyish chuckle spills from the Emperor’s mouth. “No. They don’t,” he says with an airy giddiness. “Not before now, anyway—”

Geta spins back again, pleated skirt fanning around his pale thighs. His smile fades with an eerie swiftness. “What are you waiting for? Undress,” he commands with a wave of his ringed hand.

Your wide eyes flit instinctively past him to Marcus, who still idles in the doorway. Only then does he realize how long he’s been staring at you. He forces himself to glance off in another direction, but his gaze keeps finding yours — like a magnet, or a planet with its own gravitational pull.

Your eyes lock, and the only thing you hear is each other, though neither of you has spoken a word. This is the only way, you hear his voice in your head as clearly as your own. This is the only way to stay together. The only way to survive.

Geta mistakes your fear.

“Don’t worry about him, little dove,” he coos, and taps the bottom of your chin with his fingers — as soft and petaled as your own. He smiles when your attention turns to him again, speaking loud enough for the General to hear. “He’s only the guard dog. And good boys get scraps, don’t they, Acacius?”

Marcus’ face screws like he’s tasted something sour. He’s grateful the Emperor isn’t looking at him to see it. “They do, your majesty,” he monotones.

“So you will watch. And report to my uncle how his lovely present fared,” he calls to the older man, though his eyes remain locked with yours. You tense when his pale hand reaches suddenly for your face. He holds your cheeks in his fingers until your lips jut in a soft pout. “Let’s hope I don’t have to send him back your head, little dove.”

He says it with an absentminded effortlessness, as though it’s something he’s done before. 

Still, you manage a small smile and blink up at him with innocent eyes. “What good is a dead whore, your majesty?” you quip.

Geta’s grin widens.  “Precisely. Now undress.”

You reach for the singular sleeve of your slip with trembling fingers. Your right hand sweeps across your left shoulder, skin blazing with fear and anticipation. The fabric trails down down down your arm before falling to your feet in a puddle of milky white silk. Your bare body glows silver and gold between moonlight and flame. 

Goosebumps pebble over your skin despite the humid summer night as Geta circles you like prey. His eyes trail slowly down your form in time with his rhythmic steps. The sound of his sandals scrapping the stone floor, crackling candlelight, and subdued breathing are the only sounds in the quiet room for several long moments.

The Emperor disappears behind you, and you forget how to breathe. Your wide, wet eyes find Marcus once more — pleading, though for what, you cannot say. His face reveals nothing but wrath burns in his gaze.

Geta reappears at your right side. You smell grape wine on his breath when he nears you, breathing heavily through his mouth as he reaches out to touch you. His ringed hands smooth over your collarbone. Your breath catches in your throat. He smiles as though your fright pleases him.

“You’re skittish for a whore,” he muses, playful in a way that makes your stomach wrench. “Are you sure the General didn’t bring me a virgin?”

You swallow hard as his hand trails down your body. Over the swell of your breast, skimming his thumb over your taut nipple, before tracing the expanse of your ribs. His fingers run down your stomach and past the thatch of hair between your legs. They dip finally between your thighs. 

Geta hums a faint moan at the velvet feeling of your pussy. The way your lips part for his fingers, silky skin warm and wet to the touch. 

“I’m whatever you want me to be, your majesty,” you answer, breathing hard through your nose when he pulls his hand away — a warmth you find yourself begrudgingly grieving.

“I need only ask…” the Emperor coos, running his middle and pointer finger over your bottom lip. They shine with the honey you leak despite yourself. Your mouth parts, and he rests the pads of them on your tongue. “…Do I not?”

You nod wordlessly through the salty fingers in your mouth, trying to imagine their Marcus’.

Geta smiles when he parts from you. “Undress me,” he demands. 

You work at his tricky armor with nervous hands and bated breath. 

You unclasp his cape first. The white fabric, now free from its chain, falls heavily to the floor behind him. Your fingers have gone noticeably clammy as they struggle with the sleeves of his tunic. It takes you a beat too long to loosen the laces at his shoulders. The cloth falls finally and puddles around his feet, leaving his lean body on display before you.

His torso is lean and mostly hairless, save for splotches of chestnut on his sternum and stomach. His skin is smooth and flushed from the alcohol. His stomach is slim but noticeably full. The Emperor is well-taken care of, though his subjects outside the keep suffer from the consequences of war.

Your trembling fingers curl around the hem of his loincloth. His pale skin is warm to the touch, boiling with desire while you freeze over with fear. You crouch before him as you drag the garment down his scruffy thighs. You hear Geta sigh above you when his half-hard cock meets the cool summer night air. 

He’s paler there compared to the rest of his golden body, though the mushroom tip glows a faint strawberry-red color. A vein trails in jagged lines to the base of his heavy cock, fading as it reaches the thatch of dark blonde hair at his pubic bone. He’s not nearly as thick as Marcus, though not many people could hope to be — but he is long and thin and soft like velvet.

“How do I look?” Geta wonders as he steps out of his loincloth. He tilts his chin to his chest to peer down at you, on your knees to untie the intricate laces of his sandals. You blink up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “Without my armor,” he adds, then repeats. “How do I look?”

You realize, then, that he wants your praise. Though you’re unsure why, you’re not in any position to deny him of it. “You’re a— a very handsome man, your majesty,” you respond cautiously, with a wavering smile.

You hear his breath catch at the compliment. The corner of his mouth flickers upward, and his nostril flares as he takes a deep breath in. 

“Well, go on, then,” he insists suddenly, nodding his head to egg you onward. “Good whores don’t keep their masters waiting, do they? You don’t want to see me impatient, little dove.”

You wrap his stiff cock in a tentative fist, averting your gaze as you give an experimental kitten lick to the bulbous, strawberry tip. Your tongue swipes away the pearlescent pre-cum beading there. The salty tang is foreign on your tongue, sweeter and thicker than you’re used to.

You imagine your lover when you take the Emperor’s cock in your mouth. A practiced form of dissociation that comes naturally to you now. 

You focus on the way the stone floor digs into your knees as you cup his balls in your hand — a desperate attempt to finish him quickly. Geta shudders when you swallow him whole, burying your nose in the coarse thatch of hair at the base of his cock. His head tips back as he groans at the ceiling.

“You are a proper whore…” the Emperor moans with a delirious smile. He tilts his flushed cheek to his freckled shoulder to sneer at Marcus, then frowns when his eyes meet the back of him. “Are you distracted, General?”

The man keeps his back turned and his eyes trained on the wall, counting the bricks there to distract his racing mind. His mouth snarls at the Emperor’s words. His hands ball into fists as he fights to keep his composure.

“Just giving you your privacy, your majesty.”

“Nonsense!” Geta laughs, loud. “You should watch! You should observe— so you know what to tell my uncle.”

Marcus can hear the mischievous lilt in the younger boy’s voice. Like it’s all just a game to him. Like you’re just a whore to be played with, and like Marcus’ only hope of companionship is warfare. Both might’ve been true once, but not since you find each other.

The general smacks his lips against his teeth. “As you wish,” he deadpans and spins on the heel of his sandal.

He’s strangely grateful to find the Emperor’s body obscuring your own. Geta’s lean, pale form towers over your kneeling one — back muscles flexing, hips thrusting, fingers knitting in your hair.

But Marcus can still hear the sounds of your mouth on the other man’s cock. The room fills with heavy breathing, wet noises, and the Emperor’s unabashed whines. Embers of envy burn in the General’s empty chest. A wildfire of want and wrath rages behind his ribcage.

You swallow with Geta’s cock in your throat and squeeze softly at his balls. You hear his breath hitch just before a lengthy moan spills from his parted mouth. Several loads of salty cum spit down your throat a second later. The man shows you little mercy as he holds you by your hair, keeping your nose pressed to his pubic bone. You take shallow breaths through your nose and try not to choke.

You pull off of him when he lets you go. A string of saliva threatens to keep you connected. You take a deep breath in and swipe at your swollen mouth with the back of your hand, staying on your knees while the Emperor tilts his head back. He exhales a breathy laugh of relief at the ceiling. You peer up at him with wide, wet eyes, still so uncertain of your fate.

“Proper whore, indeed,” Geta muses, almost to himself, as he drops his heavy head once more. 

His flushed chest sparkles with a foreign feeling at the sight of you beneath him — eyes teary and fearful, lips swollen and rosy, features flushed with sweat and sex. His cock jerks, still sensitive but threatening to harden again. He grips himself with a loose fist.

“On the bed,” he instructs suddenly, then grins madly at your shock. “You didn’t think I was done with you, surely. Not until I mount you like a mare, anyway— Treat you like the bitch in heat you are…”

Geta cups your warm cheek in his free hand. His touch is strangely gentle as he cradles you there, right before he smacks gently at your jaw to urge you upward. 

Your bare feet pad towards the bed, then. Geta swats your ass as you go and laughs when you squeak in response. You fight the urge to look at Marcus, lest you see the rage burning in his eyes — lest he see the heartbreak swimming in yours. 

Marcus watches you crawl over the silken sheets, both of you sporting similar far-off gazes. He feels a bit like a ghost now. An empty, invisible thing, doomed to watch the rest of the world go on without ever being able to live in it. It’s dreadfully symbolic of how he’s lived most of his life, and how he’s spent the years loving you. Because even if a ghost is full of love, the only thing it knows to do is haunt.

The silk pillow feels cool under your burning cheek. The mattress dips under the Emperor’s weight when he kneels behind you. His ringed fingers smooth over your ass and down the arch of your back. He treats you with an uncharacteristic sort of tenderness, as though he were molding you out of clay.

“You are a pretty thing, aren’t you?” he whispers under his breath. “And timid, too… I like that…” 

Your pussy clenches at his words despite yourself. Geta’s chest swells with pride accordingly. “You don’t have to be scared, little dove. I’m going to take such good care of you.”

Despite his words, he does not bother to ready you for his cock when he positions himself at your pulsing entrance. You hadn’t expected him to, of course — not many men were as kind as Marcus in that way, who often treated your pleasure as if it were his own. But the slick sticking to your thighs has made your pussy more than pliant. Your velvet walls swallow Geta’s cock with a pulsing vigor.

The Emperor groans as he fucks into you, savoring every inch as he buries himself to the hilt. His ringed fingers dig into the plush of your waist, as though you were a toy he didn’t want getting snatched away.

“Look at the hound!” Geta giggles boyishly to himself. “He’s itching for a feel of you— I just know it.”

Marcus remains as still and stoic as the battalion trained him to be. He reveals nothing on his face, though his skin prickles with flames of envy beneath his armor. 

Marcus Acacius was not a jealous man. His love for you was a testament to that. He visited the brothel you boarded in and spared the same coins as every man in the establishment did. But it was different now. Because the Emperor does not deserve you, and he forces Marcus to watch as if he knows it, too.

Something within him seethes, like a feral animal trapped behind his ribcage, desperately clawing its way out.

“Look at him,” Geta snaps when he sees you staring at the wall, eyes glassy and glazed over. He’s grinning all over again when your gaze snaps to Marcus’. 

The soldier’s weathered eyes burn with tears then. General Acacius has faced death a thousand times over, but it wasn’t quite as heartwrenching as this. His wrath simmers to a boil. He swallows it down like fire.

This is her salvation, he tells himself. This is how she survives.

Your features twist with the anguish of being seen as the Emperor lays himself over your back. His slick chest sits flush with your spine, pinning you to the mattress. “I bet he can taste you now. Smell you,” he murmurs in your ear, chapped mouth brushing the shell of it. “His mouth is salivating at the thought of putting his tongue on you— Isn’t it, dog?”

Marcus swallows through the emotion threatening to strangle him. He blinks away stinging tears and feigns an air of nonchalance. “It would be… impolite to talk so brashly about something that doesn’t belong to me, your majesty,” the General responds. Obedient. Loyal like a hound.

Geta grins wide. “Good answer, Acacius.”

When the Emperor finally fucks into you, it’s with a sloppy sort of precision. There is no rhythm or care to his thrusts. He is led only by his blinding pleasure, like a man who has only ever fucked playthings and his own fist. He props himself on one forearm and curls the other beneath you, holding your breast in his ringed hand.

Geta’s flushed cheek presses against your own while he slides in and out and into you again. You hear his groaning as you feel it rumbling in his chest, still laid against your back. You stare at a framed portrait on the wall across the room and wait for it to be over, even as your body refuses to dismiss its simmering orgasm.

Your swollen clit ruts against the silk sheets with each of the Emperor’s sloppy thrusts. You can feel a wet spot forming beneath you, and your stomach twists at the thought of seeing proof of your own pleasure. 

His balls smack your leaking cunt, creating a symphony of lewd noises — moaning, whimpering, clapping, smacking. Marcus thinks the sounds of war were more merciful than this.

“Do you understand what that means, little dove?” Geta croons into your ear, words choppy through his labored breaths and irregular thrusts. “You belong— to me now… So whatever you used to be— whoever’s you used to be— no longer matters.”

He thrusts once, hard, and shudders above you with a choked-back groan. You grit your teeth to swallow down your own noises of pleasure. The assault on your clit, though unintentional, is still yet relentless. You feel the distant white-hot burning feeling begin to swell in the pit of your stomach. A coil about to snap.

“Fucking me— Making me feel good—” the Emperor pants, punctuated by his hips against your ass. “—Is your only duty now. Understand?”

You nod, cheek running over the silk cushion as you grip it in your fists. “Yes, your majesty,” you gasp.

Geta presses his smile to the apple of your cheek. He can feel you leaking around him. You’re enjoying this just as much as he is, to be sure. A proper whore, indeed.

“Now… Take my spend like a good bitch, and thank me for it—”

He fucks you harder, and your face twists with a pleasure you’re too weak to fight away. 

Your gaze falls instinctively to Marcus as your orgasm threatens to swallow you whole. Your eyes squeeze shut in a feeble attempt to hide. Your mouth parts with a silent moan as you cum around the Emperor’s cock.

“Thank you, your majesty,” you whimper obediently into the pillow as you tremble beneath him. “Thank you.”

Geta buries a whine in your neck when he cums again. He gives you only two pitiful, warm loads but still possesses more stamina than your Marcus. He stills, then shudders, then rests his unforgiving bodyweight on top of you when pleasure makes a puddle of him. And of you, you assume, as a mixture of your spend leaks out of your cunt and onto the sheets.

“Write to my uncle, Acacius—” Geta slurs into your skin, heavy through labored pants. “—A thank you for my nameday present.”

Marcus forgets, until then, that he can still be seen. He felt more akin to a corpse hidden in the walls, forced to spend his afterlife in a merciless purgatory. His heart has stopped beating, frozen over, and now sits dead in his chest. He will never be as gentle as he was with you. He will be bloodied knuckles and pulsing wounds. Rough and cruel and angry.

“Yes, your majesty,” the General nods, thankful that it’s over now.

Geta rolls off of your body and onto the empty spot beside you — not shy about his nude form or yours. The sudden lack of warmth makes you shiver. 

“And tell him to send another— To keep the General’s bed warm, too,” he says, patting your ass with his palm before smoothing tenderly over the skin. “One whore’s as good as any other, I’m sure.”

Marcus flinches at the thought of being with anyone other than you. He couldn’t hide the look of disgust if he tried. It makes the Emperor laugh loudly in response.

“Oh, did you— Did you want to try this one?” Geta muses knowingly, pointing to your limp body, still trembling beside him with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“No. No, no, no— See, this one’s mine,” he corrects the General as if he were a child. “And it would be impolite to touch something that belongs to me, would it not? It would be treasonous, even.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Marcus nods, lip flickering in a mere hint of a smirk as his plan finally comes to fruition. “It would be.”

The Emperor sees you now as his property, and no one hurts what belongs to him without meeting a certain death. Marcus is comforted only by the thought that nothing can touch you now. Not even him. But perhaps that’s the price he pays for love. Perhaps, in the end, love is grief.

“So best tread lightly, Acacius,” Geta warns with a crooked smile, petting you like a dog. “I’d hate for someone to get hurt.”