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smthino-odiffrnt · 1 month ago

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Marcus Acacius's daughter gets caught up in his attempt to dispose the twin Emperors.

9k words.

All smut, no plot. Threesome. OC (fem)

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*** Preamble***

Marcia was Marcus Acacius's daughter from his first marriage. She has been kept safe by her father and his second wife, Lucilla. Always at their estate or under the watchful eye of supervision. She could count the amount of parties she had been to on one hand, all hosted in her own home.

She learned not to mind, realizing how much effort her father made to keep her safe. What did it matter that she was a woman grown without knowing any man besides her father and their private guards.

Marcus Acacius's life has grown into being the top general of the Roman army.

Under the rule of the twin Emperors; Geta and Caracalla, Marcus Acacius's life has become hell. Sent off to fight war after war with little reprieve from the bloodshed. What had mattered to him became all the more precious.

When his wife suggests an end to his and the Empires suffering, Acacius takes the chance to rid the world of the twin Emperors not realizing how much it would cost him.

The plotting would not only cause his and his wife's life to be in danger and expose Lucilla's long lost son to those she meant to protect him most from, but throw his daughter into the hands of the greedy Emperors.

***The Night of Acacuis's Coup***

There was rustling and she knew something was wrong.

This wasn’t the usual rustle from servants beginning their day. No. There was a tension in the air. The same static charge one would feel before a lightning storm. Marcia’s hand crept under her pillow, feeling for the smooth ivory handle that she knew would be there.

There it was, the confirmation she needed, shuffled feet and mumble speech.

She gripped the handle tight, until she could feel her knuckles straining. She swung the pugio out as soon as she heard the leather sandals rub against the stone floor beside her bed. It landed square in the praetorian guard's neck. His hands reached up to his throat on instinct enabling Marcia to pull his sword from the sheath at his side. As he crumpled down she rolled across the bed landing opposite of the remaining guard.

To say she didn’t expect this would be a lie. Marcia had heard the hushed conversation between her father, his wife Lucilla, and the senators that shared their mindset. She knew what he had planned. Of his army making its way towards Rome’s gates. That the Emperors knew of it was a small surprise. She had expected one of the senators to betray them. Probably Thraex, he seemed the type. Killing his men would have been less of a problem, but now that she had the blood of a praetorian guard on her hands, there would be no good end to this.

Marcia took a defensive stance watching the remaining guard carefully. He started to shout so she ran for him using all her weight to shove her shoulder square into his belly. He grunted and staggered to the ground, but not before he managed to get out, “I need help!" in a loud baritone.

Shit, this was worse. She shoved the stolen blade into his throat watching him choke on his own blood before she had to withdraw and watch the door.

Maybe she could run. Jump out the window. No, she was on the second floor of a building with very high ceilings. That would be an equally painful death. Lucilla’s son. Yes, that gladiator that they kept talking about in hushed tones. Her father was supposed to be rescuing him tonight. Perhaps they didn’t know about that. Maybe she could find a way to them.

With a plan in mind, though a weak one, she ran out her chamber doors. Her bare feet slammed hard against the marble tiles as her eyes took in the chaos of her home. Slaves and servants herded together to be taken away and Lucilla being dragged off by two guards.

“Another one!”

She hears it, but doesn’t see who said it, still running, to focused on finding a way out. The servants' passages, that was the smartest.

She turned the corner only to have her chest run into what felt like a tree branch. Marcia landed against the stone floors. Her head slammed so hard that she saw stars for a moment. Her breath had left her, the gladius she stole clanging to the floor. She crumbled to the side as she clutched her chest, wheezing. Before she had even managed to take in air large hands grabbed her forearms and dragged her up.

They shoved her in with Lucilla, threatening to kill both of them if one of them tried to escape.

“I’m so sorry my dear,” Lucilla’s voice sounded as if she was on the verge of tears.

“Don’t be. You were only doing what you believed to be right, mother,” Marcia said as she leaned her head against the older woman, taking what comfort she could. Lucilla wasn’t technically her mother, but with Marcia’s own mother dying in childbirth, her father’s second wife was the only one she had ever known.

The pair of them traveled in silence. Both knowing there had been too much said already. Anything more would just be used against them.

The troop stops in front of the palace, dragging both women roughly into the massive structure. It was opulent to be sure. Part of Marcia wished she had gotten to see it in its full splendor. That she had been allowed to go to any of the elaborate parties or festivals that the Emperors frequently hosted. Instead her father kept her nestled away at his and Lucilla’s estate. Marcia had understood why. Powerful men were always a problem. No, was a foreign word to them, one that they rarely responded well to. Marcia was content with being kept away from such men, learning the art of war from her father and philosophy from Lucilla.

All Marcus’s efforts of protection were for not as they were dragged before the twin Emperors. The night was still far from over.

The praetorians let go of Lucilla allowing her to stand, with her chin held high as she made her way towards the others in the room. Their grip on Marcia however did not loosen. All she could do was watch the scene play out while they kept her a safe distance from the Emperors. The last thing the guards wanted was her finding another blade. General Acacius was behaving himself at least.

Emperor Caracalla, only dressed in a makeshift toga, hollered and swung his sword at them. He seemed erratic, near mad. If it wasn’t for his brother, Emperor Geta, Marcia was certain that they would have all been killed that night. But Geta’s white hot rage was no better. Devising the plan to have her father enduring the arena till his blood was spilled on the sand. At this Marcia could stand it no longer. The shriek from her came deep from within, at the horror of being left behind by her father, her only flesh and blood left in the whole world. She shifted her weight to her right leg, shoving that shoulder in the guard and pulling her left away from the other as he took in what was happening.

She ran for him, desperate with the need to touch her father again. She could hear the guards at her heels as she crashed into her father. His arms wrapped around her as he spoke to her. “Don’t cry my love. I have lived a long life. I would gladly give up my life for Rome,” he says in his calm stoic voice, managing to place a kiss in her head before she’s dragged back by the guards. They changed their hold so that they now had her with their outer arm holding her forearm and their arm closest to her grabbing her bicep, preventing her from repeating the move again.

Her sorrow now turned sour as she glared at the men responsible. They looked ridiculous. Caracalla, with his bedsheet draped around him while he swung a gladius around like a child playing soldier and Geta, with his open red robe and reminisce of makeup on his skin, he looked so feminine compared to how her father always presented himself. They were both so pale, Marcia wondered if the sun had ever even touched their skin. Her father taught her to have a distaste for men with too soft of hands, and theirs were the softest in the empire.

“Is this your daughter, dear Acacius?” Geta asked, though his eyes didn’t leave hers. At the lack of response for Acacius Geta knew it must be the case. He made his way towards her, taking advantage of how tightly his guards were holding her. “What a pretty little thing. No wonder you kept her hidden. Tell me, were you shipped off with your brother? Or did they send you somewhere else?” he questions with a sickly soft voice. The back of his hand stroked down her cheek as she shuddered under his touch, unable to keep eye contact with his cold black eyes.

“If you mean Lucius, he is not my brother,” Marcia manages to get out through gritted teeth as she stares at the floor. She wanted him to move away, to bring his focus back to her father. She couldn’t breathe with him this close, his musky perfumed scent filling her lungs.

“One less person to miss then,” he says. His black eyes stare at her before he finds himself again, pulling back.

“Your Imperial Majesty, what would you have us do with her?” one of the Praetorian’s asked.

“Just throw her in with Lucilla,” Geta sighs, flipping his wrist as if it was obvious.

“Emperor, she must pay,” the guard’s gruff voice shuddered through her.

Geta turns, sitting down on his throne to look at his Pretorian. “Why must she pay exactly?” he asks, the irritation clear in his tone. He had decided their fates already and wanted to head to bed, to get what rest was left of the night.

“She killed two of your men.”

This had him looking up, his eyes wider than before looking at the guard who had just spoken of the girl in their arms. She couldn’t be more than twenty, between her size and the fact that she was still unwed.

“Two of them?” he asked, his eyes narrowing on her.

“Yes, your majesty. An attack on your guard is an attack on you.”

“I know what it means!” Geta snaps, his voice becoming shrill.

His outburst drew the attention of his brother who pointed the sword he was playing with down so its tip rested on the ground, resting his chin on the hilt a little. “She killed two grown men?” his voice was surprisingly soft as he asked the question, tilting his head in query.

“Yes, Emperor Caracalla.” With each word out of the guards mouth Marcia felt her fate sealed more and more.

“And you would admit this publicly?” Caracalla asks him. He watches the guard shuffle around, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find the words. The Emperor couldn’t help but burst out into laughter. “Maybe we should throw her into the games too brother,” he jests with more laughter.

Fuck, this was getting worse by the moment.

Geta’s dark eyes looked to her again, his brows slightly pinched, taking her in. They did have to do something with her. It felt like a pity to kill off someone so beautiful, with her olive skin, warm brown eyes and dark hair. She looked enough like her father to make it funny to him. A small breathy laugh escaped as a vision crossed his mind. “No, I have a better idea.”

Marcus could see the wicked look in Geta’s eye. He had been through too many campaigns, seeing that exact same look on many a soldier’s face when sacking a city. “NO!” he shouts, stepping forward before he remembers himself. All the guards in the room had their hand on the hilt of their sword in a second, save for the two holding Marcia. His eyes flicked up to the twin Emperors, a vindictive look was added to Geta's previous lustful gaze. “Please, anything but that,” Marcus begs, his voice getting caught in his throat. He had faced death countless times, but this moment brought tears to his eyes.

“Oh definitely that,” Geta confirmed his worst fears. A maniacal grin spread across his face as walked towards her, keeping his eyes peeled on his once triumphant General. As he made his way towards her, his robe billowing in the wind, Marcia began to tug against the guard's tight hold, desperate to flee from him. She would pull her arms out their sockets if that’s what it took, but she couldn’t even make them budge as he stalked ever closer. She might be untouched, but she knew exactly what he was implying. Every warning her father ever gave her ringing through her head. The tall Emperor looked down on her with a face of indifference before his right hand reached around, gripping the hair at the base of her neck. Her hands, the moment the guards released them, flung up to where Geta held her. She tried to pull his hand away, to loosen his grip even just a little, but his hand felt as if it was made of iron. He dragged her over towards her father, ignoring the feeling of her nails digging into his wrist. Caracalla’s giggle echoes through the hall. Finally some entertainment. “I think becoming the Emperors’ whore is the perfect fate for her,” Geta says, tilting her head back, forcing her to look up at him. “She is beautiful,” his breath fans across her face causing her to shudder, in his grip.

“Why you-” Marcus begins, lunging towards them before Geta cuts him off.

“Praetorians!” he shouts. The guards quickly grabbed Acacius. “Take him away. Booth of them,” he says, shooing them away with his spare hand. He pushes her head up, moving it so it follows her family’s departure. “Look look look,” he whispers into her ear. “There they go. Any chance of saving is being forced out the room. They can not save you. No one can. Not for what we have in store for you.”

She hears Caracalla’s laugh echo through the room. She wants to cry but the feeling of Geta’s tongue licking up the side of her neck sends shivers down her spine. “Look at her quake,” Caracalla laughs at her. When she hears Geta snickering join his brother’s a fire is lit within her again.

She twists down and in, punching Geta in the gut. Marcia feels his hand release before hearing him grunt. She takes the opportunity and bolts as fast as she can. She can hear Caracalla’s maniacal laughter as she flees from the room. The halls are nearly empty with most of the praetorians leading General Acacius away.

“What are you doing? Go after her!” Geta groans at his brother as he begins to stand, the punch had more force than he expected from a woman.

Cara needed no more encouragement. He dropped the sword and took off in a sprint after her. Though he had little experience in running, the thrill of the chase coursed through him. A deranged laugh made its way out as he caught sight of her running down the halls. She was blind to where she went, desperate to find some kind of safe haven. Caracalla had to signal the guards to deter them from helping. No, this fun was for him and his brother alone.

When she skittered at a dead end he took his chance to pounce on her, tackling her to the hard ground. He made sure she took the brunt of the fall. Using her disorientation from the fall he pins her hands to the floor beside her head and uses the weight of his lower body to keep her down. He giggled while she writhed under him, kicking and screaming. It only made him laugh more.

It was this sight that Geta walked in on. Seeing his brother’s poorly done toga beginning to fall apart. It was a little funny to watch his younger brother try to fondle such an angry victim. “Brother,” his voice interrupted them. Cara looked up, making sure to hold her still. There was a glint to his eyes, the shine of his gold tooth. The same that he had when they watched the games together. “Grab a leg,” Geta sad as he leaned down and proceeded to grab one of her ankles waiting till Caracalla grabbed the other. Before she had the chance to fight back the brothers began dragging her on her back towards where their guards waited. They dropped her at their feet. Geta uttered, “bring her to my chambers,” before they walked off.

One of the guards roughly picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder, making sure to keep her legs pinned so that she couldn't kick him. He follows after the Emperors, dropping her when Geta prompts him upon entering his chambers. Once again she lands hard on the cold stone floor.

But this time she’s ready for it. She rolls with the fall, lessening the pain. Using the time she knew that she had, she sprung up reaching her hand out and clasping it around the praetorian’s hilt. She pulled it out, swinging it up in a fluid motion, the tip caught at his chin and scraped across his face. He clutched at it, rearing back in pain. Caracalla laughed at the sight, not wanting the entertainment to end, but Geta grabbed one of his gladius's, bringing it to Marcia’s throat. “Tsk tsk tsk. Drop it,” his voice was deadly calm.

“Kill me,” she utters, pressing her neck into the blade. The small sting felt like a life line distracting her from the dread she felt.

“You think dying would grant you peace?” Geta said with a smirk. “Know that if you die now your father will meet a worse death than in the colosseum. Crucifixion. Or maybe thrown off Tarpeian Rock?” With her eyes focused on the gladius pointed at her neck, Marcia failed to notice Geta’s hand tick in a quick gesture to his brother. Cara easily slipped out of her peripheral, making his way towards her back. Before she has a chance to answer Caracalla makes his move. Wrapping his arms over hers, getting her to drop the sword as he pulled them back. “If kill yourself, get killed or otherwise become too difficult…”

“Your father dies a most gruesome death,” Caracalla’s light crackling voice whispers in her ear.

“I’m just to lie back and let you have your way with me?” Marcia grits out.

Geta sks at her while Caracalla laughs. “Where’s the fun in that?” Caracalla questions her, tightening his grip.

“We have real whores for that. Ones who are no doubt better at it than you,” Geta teases. The sting hurt somehow, as if being pure was now a failing of hers. He comes forward, taking the opportunity to gently stroke her face again. He loved how she shivered under his touch. “It doesn’t matter if you resist or lie back like a good little girl. My brother and I will do exactly as we wish,” he said. His hand snaked through her hair making a fist at the back of her skull. The power of being emperor coursing through his veins. He tugged her down as Caracalla knocked out the back of her legs, Marcia’s knees thudding to the floor. Caracalla let go of her arms as she fell, enabling her to grab at Geta’s iron fist. “Now, open your mouth.”

Geta pulled open his robe revealing his engorged cock, suddenly feeling very awake despite it being the middle of the night. Marcia hesitates for a moment looking at the pale veiny thing in front of her face, glistening with precum. It was larger than statues depicted, but somehow looked more like stone than flesh. No doubt the hardest thing on the soft handed emperor. The idea of having something that large in her mouth had Marcia swallowing hard.

Geta tightened his grip and shaking her head roughly till her mouth opened ever so slightly. Cara laughs, only stopping to watch his brother push his cock against her mouth. The salty musk of him filled her senses as he pressed against her top lip. He hooked his thumb around her bottom teeth, pulling her mouth open enough to push his head against her velvet tongue.

Geta has had better. Much better. She kept her mouth around him, using her tongue to try and keep him back to prevent her from gagging. But the sight of her more than made up for it. Truly the female visage of her father. It felt as if he was mouth fucking General Acacius himself. It felt like power. The defiance in her eyes made it feel that much sweeter.

He pulled out for a moment, his spare hand slapping her jaw roughly. Her scowl drops as her eyes open wide in shock, she was under the impression that cooperation would be the less painful root. “Suck on it,” he says breathlessly. He shoves it back in groaning as he feels her hollow out her cheeks. It felt embarrassing and shameful and Marcia felt like she could hardly breath, but some part of her body started to betray her. A small thrum began in-between her thighs. Like a drum beat from the gods.

The pull of the suction causes a shiver to travel up his spine. His head lulled back as he fucked her mouth. It was the whimper of his brother that brought him back. Caracalla’s would-be toga discarded to the floor as he pawed at his own cock. Stroking himself at the sight of them. Geta pulled her off his member. “Now, my brother,” he says as he manhandles her head to face Caracalla’s erect cock. He has to pull harder on her hair before he can shove her opening mouth upon his brother’s throbbing cock.

The shorter length was easier to manage, though Caracalla thrust at a much faster rate. He hit the back of her throat several times causing Marcia to gag on him, nearly losing whatever was left in her stomach. Geta kept a firm grip on her, enjoying how he was making sure she took care of his brother. Caracalla’s hands joined his, holding her by the top of her head as he continued his brutal pace.

Geta looked up and saw his brother’s jaw begin to twitch and flex. He yanked her off his brother’s cock so hard that she fell backwards onto the floor. He didn’t want the fun to end too soon. Caracalla panted and caught his breath after being so close to cumming, though didn’t do his usual complaining at being forced to stop.

Marcia was getting too used to ending up on the floor. She scrambled up again. Maybe she could become just annoying enough that they would grow tired of her. Make them work a little too hard. Marcia plants her feet in a defensive position looking at the pair of them. Caracalla was completely naked now. A happy smile on his face as he looked at her. Geta’s red robe hung open, showing off his pale stomach and thighs. A devilish smirk spread on his face as he locked eyes with her.

“That’s it,” he coos.

“Play the game with us,” his brother taunts.

“What game you sick fucks!?” she yells at them. They looked far too pleased with themselves, having already taken her mouth.

“Cat and mouse. Run and chase,” Caracalla pauses, “predator and prey. Whatever you want to call it.”

“The one where you try to get away,” Geta adds.

“And what if I just give myself up?” she asks. Marcia could feel her fear trickling up her arms.

The joint Emperors laugh. Geta answers, “there’s too much fight in you.” He grins at her slowly walking to her right as Caracalla moves to her left. “So, much like your father,” he teased.

Not wanting to get pinned in, Marcia runs straight towards the large table at the far end of the chamber. She slides across it, knocking things as she made it to the other side, making it a barrier between her and them.

Glancing to one another, each brother grabs the edge closest to him. Pushing up together, flipping the table and scattering its contents towards her. Their twin laughs mix with Marcia’s shocked scream. Platters clattering and goblets smashing all around her. Marcia had to back up to avoid cutting her bare feet on the broken glass.

She spotted Geta first, rounding the right side of the massive table that now laid on its side. Marcia split left taking a wide turn, hoping to avoid Caracalla who was making his way to the corner closest to him.

“That’s it. Come on!” Geta’s voice echoes through the chamber. Caracalla’s laugh follows behind.

They liked this game too much. It wasn’t going to work. Clearly it only spurred them on. ‘If this is a game then there has to be a way for me to win,’ Marcia thought to herself. ‘So, how? How do I win?’

“How does the game end then?” she asks, trying to ignore her heart rate.

“We catch you and fuck you,” Caracalla says with a laugh.

“That’s if you win,” Marcia adds. She keeps slowly stepping backwards. Her eyes darted from one of the emperors to the other.

“We always win,” Caracalla’s cheery voice answers her.

“You can’t win,” Geta says. His eyes followed her carefully. She was backing herself into a corner. Excitement was bubbling inside of him. Picturing how she’ll look when she realises there is nowhere for her to run to. How her eyes will widen, her mouth will open and she’ll start pleading and begging, his cock twitched at the image.

“So, you both just use me and then I’m free to go?” She knew there was a table over here, but where was it? Why hadn’t she run into it yet?

“You go to the Praetorians next.” There was the shock he loved to see. “Your body as payment for the lives you took,” Geta explains. There it was the moment he was waiting for, her ass had hit the edge of the table.

But the wide eyes didn’t come. Instead her eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. Marcia’s hand reached back grabbing any object from behind. She flung the small metal cup she had managed to find, throwing it at Geta. He turned his shoulder letting the cup hit him in the side, laughing. Her next projectile was a fig wielded towards Caracalla. Who screamed as it hit in the shoulder, a little more surprised by the attack than his brother was.

He let out a small whimper as he rubbed his barely bruised shoulder. She threw another, taking advantage of the full bowl of fruit. Geta hit the next one targeted at him away, becoming agitated. The second one that hit Caracalla wacked him in the head. He whimpered again, rubbing the spot on his head as tears pricked at his eyes.

Geta couldn’t stand it. No one made his brother cry. Not any more. Least of all a traitorous bitch. “Enough,” Geta barked. His long strides brought him to her within seconds, ignoring the objects that hit him in the chest. Marcia hadn’t realised how fast he could be when he wanted. Geta’s hand gripped her throat before she could blink. “Say sorry,” he growled at her, squeezing tightly.

Marcia tried to breath in a ragged breath, turning her eyes towards the snivelling Caracalla. “I’m sorry,” she wheezed. Geta’s grip tightened. Her eyes felt as if they might pop out of her head.

Caracalla sniffled a few times before looking up at her, he wiped his eye with the back of his hand. His slightly teary eyes met hers. “You don’t really mean it,” he says, his chin having a small tremble.

Geta leans in close, his breath fanning along her cheek. His nose nudges the shell of her ear as he says, “go show my brother you mean it.”

He gives a quick threatening squeeze before releasing her. Geta watched her carefully as Marcia took slow tentative steps towards his brother. Caracalla looked so much like a boy when he acted this way. It reminded Geta of their youth and what they had to endure. Never again would they suffer by the hands of another.

“I’m sorry,” her voice cracks a little. It was hard to talk with her throat still tender from Geta’s harsh grip.

When Caracalla’s mood doesn’t shift she looks back to Geta. His face is unflinching. It was clear to her that he expected her to try harder. Marcia sucked in a deep breath a foot away from Caracalla now. Her hands tentatively touched his shoulders, settling in when he didn't flinch away. She bites hard on her bottom lip, letting the pain drown out her thoughts as she leans in. Being close in height she only has to press her heels up maybe an inch off the floor before their lips met.

Marcia didn’t realize how soft they would be. Somehow thinking they would be like stone. Caracalla returned the kiss with soft gentle movements, allowing her to drag him out of the fog he was in. As the world came back into focus he wrapped his hands around her back and neck drawing her in to deepen the kiss. Their mouths parted and Marcia could taste the slight metallic from his gold tooth.

She got lost. It felt like drowning as their mouths collided again. The first time she had kissed anyone and she never wanted to stop with the warm fuzzy feeling it gave her. There was a new tug in her hair, pulling her mouth from Caracalla’s. The two of them panting slightly, with reddening lips.

Geta looked down at her, scowling. “Brothers share,” he mutters, leaning down and open mouth kissing her already parted mouth.

His kiss was harsh and demanding. Nothing like how soft and sweet Cara’s were. His mouth worked against her, keeping her mouth wide open as his tongue explored her. It was overpowering. Consuming. When Caracalla’s mouth met her neck, licking and nibbling, her knees gave out, lust flooding her for the first real time.

The brothers, having her front pinned by Caracalla and her back by Geta, easily held her up as their hands began exploring her still covered body. Cara’s hands pawed her breasts over the thin silk of her night dress. Geta’s hand, that wasn;t holding her hair, traced down the side of her body and hip, curving in towards the tenderness of her inner thigh. It was as if she was under a spell. Perhaps Cupid had flown in and shot her with one of his arrows.

The moment Caracalla yanks the straps of her dress off her shoulders, leaving her breast to the chill of the night air, the spell breaks. Marcia once again becomes deathly aware of her predicament. The twins laugh, both drinking in the sight of her shocked face. Her hands fumbling to gather the fabric, trying to cover her breasts from their hungry eyes. Nearly all of her weight was being held by Geta, who had his leg between hers, propping her ass up with his thigh.

She needed to get away. Needed to clear her head. It currently felt like she had over imbibed in wine. That her consciousness was swimming and her body was a long lost idea. She needed to get away. Create some distance between her and the feelings bubbling up inside of her.

The second she goes to make her move, Geta feels it. The subtle shift of her ass against him. He grabs her wrists before she gets the chance to leave them, pulling her hands out from her body so that she has to struggle for balance, strung out for his brother. Marcia becomes erratic with the fear of becoming a caged animal racing through her mind. She wrenches against his hold desperate to get away. The ease of which it takes to restrain her makes Geta let out a cruel mocking laugh.

What she had managed to pull back up around herself had fallen back down leaving her breasts exposed. Caracalla gazed at them as they bounced with every pull, twist and tug she made. Unable to help himself, he latches his mouth to her breast, suckling at it as if he were a babe starved. A moan ripples through her before she can suppress it. He licks around the areola before switching to the other breast, beginning the feast anew. Marcia’s head landed against Geta’s shoulder. Her ass pressing against him as her chest arched uncontrollably, moaning from his brother's work. She looked perfect.

Geta’s laugh pulls her back to reality. An embarrassed blush bloomed on her face. No. She couldn’t give into them. Not now. Not ever. She looked down to see Caracalla devouring her left breast as his hand fondled her right. She needed to catch her breath. Marcia forces herself to focus on the cold marble floor seeping into her toes, at the burning pain happening at her wrists from Geta’s steel grip. Breathing in and out trying to bring her mind back. To focus on the other senses. The smell of incense in the room. The scratch of Geta’s robe against her back.

How could she get out though? She could see the door over Caracalla’s shoulder, but with his hands wrapped around her waist and Geta’s hands holding her in a vice like grip, how could she get to it? Stomping on one of their feet? Or maybe kicking one of them? Maybe she could head butt Cara and step on Geta’s foot. If she could tug her hands free she could shove Caracalla away and… And then what? Try to flee from all of the Pratoreans who are no doubt stationed throughout the whole palace now. They knew about Lucius. They knew which Senators were in on it. Even if she could escape the Emperors-

“You’ve just realized it, haven't you?” Geta coos into her ear. He feels Marcia’s body tense up against him, bringing a smile to his lips as he rubs them against her neck. “You’ve just realized there’s no getting out of this. You’re ours Marcia.”

She flexes against him, straining to get away, desperate for escape. Geta drops her wrists, quickly wrapping his arms around her ribs as she thrashes out, screaming, “no! Let me go! Let me go, you overgrown ape!”

A surprised Caracalla takes a step back. It takes him a moment to understand what his brother was doing. He watches Geta drag her thrashing body towards the raised platform that held his canopied bed. Caracalla happily follows going to the other side of the bed to help pin her in. Geta throws her onto the bed. He reached for the jambiya he had received as a gift, pressing it to her throat, before she has a chance to get up. Marcia stilled instantly, trying to keep the curved blade from cutting her throat.

“Come brother, you should be the first to try her since she hurt you so cruelly,” he says, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as his black eyes never left hers.

“Glady,” Caracalla says in answer before crawling onto the bed. He rubbed his face across her smooth skin as he brought his face to hers. “Turn around,” Caracalla whispered into her ear. Her eyes widened in confusion as she at last looks at him. He let out a chuckle before his hands started directing her body into the position he wanted.

Caracalla made her prop herself up on her hands and knees, her ass to him and face to Geta. Who was patently watching from the side lines. Only sliding the ceremonial dagger under her chin, tilting it up till she looked at him. Caracalla spat on her cunt, sending a jolt through her body. She desperately wanted to turn her face back to look at what was happening, but Geta’s blade was a constant reminder not to look away from his black cruel eyes.

She could feel Cara press the head of his cock against her entrance, circling it slightly, gathering what slick was there. The teasing sent a shiver through her. This was easily caught but Geta, who only smirked wider. With one swift thrust Cara buried his cock inside of her. Marcia’s head fell at the invasion, biting hard on her lip, like Orcus was she going to cry out in pain from his assault. She refused to grant them the satisfaction. A matching sting to what she felt from her womanhood simmered at her neck as the foreign blade cut into her.

The blade guided her face back up, but Geta’s eyes were on his brother. Watching him drink in the sensation of a tight virgin cunt. A small satisfactory smile crept across his lips as he watched his brother experiencing pleasure. Caracalla’s mouth had fallen open as he began slow pleasure driven thrusts, wanting to take in every inch of sensation he felt. Her warm damp walls sucking him in as she clenched at the intrusion inside of her.

Marcia felt breathless as Caracalla gradually started picking up speed. His hands grabbed either side of her hips, helping him bounce against her. She scrunched her eyes shut, trying to catch her breath as the sharp pain began to ease. That was worse. To be taken in pain was one thing, but to get pleasure from it was something Marcia didn’t want to face.

“Has a man ever taken you before?” Geta asks. She clenched her jaw tighter, refusing to answer him. When she doesn't even open her eyes Geta kneels down, switching the position of the jambiya so its point is pressing into the soft spot on the underside of her jaw. “Open your eyes,” he says with a calm sweet tone. Marcia clenched them tighter. Still too focused on finding her breathe. “Look at me,” he said through gritted teeth, pressing the blade ever so slightly in. It pricked into the soft tissue. Marcia’s eyes flashing open and she loses the control she had on herself. A soft moan escaping her lips, her mouth falling open, as she locks eyes with Geta. He looks like a mad god with the smile that he gives in response. “Why don’t you play with her?” Geta asks his brother while his black eyes bore into Marcia’s.

Her bottom lip quivers and she shakes her head, trying to stifle her building moans again. Her bottom lip was back between her teeth, chewing on it. Caracalla reaches a hand under her. His fingers delicately stroked her clit with feather light touches. She couldn’t take it. All the noises she was trying to suppress ripple out of her. Satisfied Geta pulls his blade away, allowing her to drop her head as she continues to moan. A pleasure she had never known coursing through her.

Marcia finally catches her breath, starting to hold moans back again, as Geta’s hand grabs her jaw. He forces her to look up at him again, squeesing her cheeks into her teeth so she opens her mouth once more. He shoves his cock into her agape mouth and then pinches her nose shut. She tries to draw in breath through her mouth causing her to suck hard on his cock. Geta pulls out for a moment, Still pinching her nose, allowing her to take a breath before shoving back in. He repeats this motion a few more times before pressing in deep and holding there. With no release in sight Marcia’s body starts reeling at the invasion, trying to get breath somewhere. Caracalla has to stop his thrust to focus on holding her down, a manic laugh coming out as she bucked against them.

Marcia starts to still with her chest growing tight, screaming for air. Her mouth starts to clench prompting Geta to pull out and release her nose. Marcia’s chest falls to the mattress as she coughs, gasping at the welcome fresh air. Caracalla’s laugh is joined by Geta’s as they watch her so desperate for something as basic as air. Caracalla pulls out and lets her hips fall to the bed. She lays there panting on Geta’s bed for a moment. Geta drops his red robe to the floor moving to join Caracalla on his bed. He grabs the jambiya, passing it over to his brother who eagerly begins to cut Marcia’s rumpled nightdress. The un-dyed silk falls to the side, leaving her completely bare to them.

WIth air returned to her brain panics at the knife so closer to her flesh and kicks her leg out, hitting Caracalla and knocking him off the bed a little. The noise of the knife clattering to the ground eases her a little. Retaliation is what she had to prepare for though. Marcia raises herself up onto her knees, eyes locking on Geta. The look on his face implied something closer to “really?” rather than any form of worry. Then he launched himself at her. His hands quickly grabbed her wrists, handing them to his brother to hold above her head. While she looked up to Caracalla, his gold tooth glinting in the lamplight as he grinned down at her, Geta lined himself up with her, burying himself into her the moment his cock meet her damp folds. A sick smile spread across his face as she cried out and clenched around him, furious at the new intrusion.

“She feels good, doesn’t she, brother?” Cara asks, easily keeping Marcia’s hands in place as she tugged on them.

A quiet groan of pleasure escapes Geta’s lips before he answers, “I can’t decide what feels better. The father’s victories or the daughter’s cunt.” He looks down at her, a mockery of a lover’s smile on his face.

“Let’s keep her. Dundus could use a new friend,” Caracalla says, sounding like a boy asking his parents for a puppy.

“Whatever you want brother,” Geta answers a little breathless, lost in his own sensations as he felt every shift she made trying to get away from him. His eyes start to look like black voids as they hood with lust, taking her body that was spread out under him. His mouth dived into her throat as his hands went to her breast massaging them with his long smooth fingers. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers into her ear, his thrust beginning a gruelling pace. “So, so beautiful,” he continues to whisper into her skin as he scatters kisses across her upper chest. He had wanted her the moment he laid eyes on her and finally he was inside her warm cunt. Her body shivering perfectly for him. She was his. “So soft and warm for me. Such a pretty little thing,” he coos.

A moan escapes her. She couldn’t help herself falling apart under his languid administrations. His smooth deep thrust shoving his cock in till it kissed her cervix. The sweet little confessions to her. His gentle touches all over her body. Acting as if he was her lover. Marcia didn’t even realise she had wrapped one of her legs around his hips as he at last captured her lips in a sensual kiss. She got lost to it. Caracalla released her hands, happy to watch how she became clay, molding to his brother. Her hands quickly weaved themselves into Geta’s ginger hair pulling his face closer in deepening the kiss.

She was fucked, completely and utterly fucked. She couldn’t help losing herself to it all. Geta sat up, pulling her up with him to have her on his lap as he thrusted up into her. His hand gripped the back of her head again, pulling it back gently so that he could feast on her neck once more.

His slow movements went unnoticed by Marcia, to0 lost to his touches and gradual thrusts. Geta had positioned them so that his legs dangled off the edge of the bed. Her back towards Caracalla who had been patiently waiting for his brother to finish his turn.

Geta moved his mouth back to her lips as Cara began to suck at the crook of her neck, a deep violet mark starting to bloom under his lips. When Marcia felt Calacalla’s hands pawing at her ass she froze. They had trapped her again and she was too caught up to have noticed. How had she become this dumb. Why had her mind abandoned her and left her only with a weak traitorous body?

“Brothers share,” Caracalla provided as explanation. Their hands tightened around her and Geta began his thrusts again, distracting her from his brother’s actions. Her mind became lost again as their mouths continued to work her over. Cara took the provided opportunity to gather and pour oil on his cock before pressing the weeping head against her puckered asshole. Geta’s hands spread her wide for him access. He thrust in. His whole cock sheathing itself into her virgin asshole.

A moan caught in Marcia’s throat twisting into a strangled cry as her body burned once again from such a fast invasion. Becoming devastatingly full with both of the brothers' cocks. Geta covered her mouth with his drinking in her cries of pain. Sick pleasure rushes through him as she whimpers into mouth. Tears trailing down the side of her face. From the pain, from the pleasure, from being overwhelmed by them.

She looked absolutely perfect in their eyes. A whimpering moaning weeping mess as they stuffed her full. Geta laid back, his hands still holding her hips to help keep an even pace. Caracalla’s hands around her, kept her up, happy to have her so close to him. Geta closes his eyes, enabling him to better focus on every little noise she makes. Her hands rested on his lower stomach, trying to keep herself upright. Cara’s hands reached up and grabbed at her breasts, pinching her nipples. Marcia let out another cry before it quickly turned into nonsensical moans. Lost in the twisted game of pain and pleasure that they were inflicting on her.

As Cara’s end crept up on him he pushed her down against his brother’s chest. One hand planted on the center of her back keeping her there as he fucked into her at a brutal pace desperate to come in her.

Geta let out a groan as she landed on him. Though he didn’t object, feeling his brother’s frantic thrust through her. His hands gathered the dark hair that had fanned out across his face blocking his sight. He held it tightly to pull her head up off his chest, getting her warm brown eyes to look at him. They looked like Acacius but not. His were tired and bitter where hers were excitable and hopeful. And now they looked pleading and lustful as his brother fucked into her.

“You’re ours,” Geta cooed to her.

“Completely ours,” Caracalla added as he spilt his seed deep inside her.

Geta wrapped his other arm across her shoulder blades before saying his next words, “you’re ruined.”

“Nooo!” rips from her throat as fresh tears spill out as she feels Cara’s hot cum inside of her. She tried desperately to wriggle free of them, both had too good of a grip on her to make that possible. Caracalla laughs and Geta grunts from her clenching him so tightly

“Shhh. Shhh,” Geta tries to calm her, “be still unless you want to bear my son.”

His warning had Marcia become as still as a statue. Caracalla pulled out of her, pausing for a moment to watch her stretched hole pucker a little and leak his white cum out of it. He grabbed her by her hair, dragging her up against his sweaty chest.

“Do you not want to grant my brother the honour of an heir?” Cara questions her. With one hand still fisted in her hair and the other wrapped around her waist he started to raise Marcia up and down on his brother’s cock. Geta’s hands dug into her thighs desperate for her to stop moving. Everything felt so tightly wound inside of himself that he could hardly think. Even his breath became tight as he tried to hold himself back from coming.

“Brother!” Geta says through gritted teeth, glaring at him. Caracalla threw his head back laughing at his brother as Geta laid trapped, struggling not to come. Caracalla drew her up and down once more at an agonizingly slow pace watching as Geta clenched his jaw tight enough it looked as if he might shatter teeth. The brothers were locked in a death stair with each other while Marcia struggled to feel her legs, twitching slightly on top of Geta, unintentionally flexing around him. Cara used her one more time to stroke his brother before pulling her up enough that Geta could pull his cock out. He strokes it a few times and comes hard, splashing on his own chest and her belly as relief washes over him.

Caracalla’s laugh pulled Geta back to the land of the living. “Give her to me,” Geta says, opening his arms to receive her. Cara gives an affectionate, almost childish kiss to the side of Marcia’s head before pushing her towards his twin. She crashes into him, her body slack from being used.

“Aren’t you done?” she whimpers out as Geta manhandles her, twisting her around so she lays with her back against his chest.

“We are, but you're not,” he explains. Caracalla joins them back on the bed, walking on his knees towards them. Marcia can only manage whimpers of refusal as Geta’s arms hold her down against him and Cara’s hands spread her legs open wide. Their twin laughs echoing through the chamber.

Cara’s tongue licks her cunt in long strokes. “She tastes like us,” he says with a grin. “Here,” he thrusts two fingers inside of her, before stroking it against her abused puckered asshole and then her cum smeared stomach. Marcia wiggles at the sensation wishing this humiliation would end. “Taste us,” he says to her, raising his white covered fingers up to her face.

“Open your mouth, beautiful,” Geta directs her, sweetly nudging his nose against her cheek.

Marcia’s jaw falls open, too little fight left in her. Caracalla happily rubbed his sticky fingers in her velvety mouth. A smile spread on his face as she responded to the tangy pungent semen coating her tongue, gauging slightly.

“Suck them.”

She closed her lips around Caracalla’s fingers sucking on them slightly till he pulled them out, leaving what he had gathered in her mouth. The thick substance sitting like a puddle on her tongue.

“Swallow it,” Geta commands. He watches her throat bob. His hand came up to caress her face. “Good girl,” he coos at Marcia, feeling her collapse into him in sweet submission. He couldn’t help the satisfaction that washed over him as his brother began working his mouth on her, causing her to fall apart in Geta’s hands.

Caracalla added his fingers back in crooking them to stroke her insides. Electricity sparked through her body. Tension formed in her gut. A sense of foreboding began to take over. “No, no, no, no, no,” she started to beg, not wanting to completely give in to them. For the Emperors to have all of her firsts.

“Yes,” Geta says in a hushed whisper, his breath tickling her ear and neck.

“Please. No,” Marcia begged, tears spilling from her eyes as her body betrayed her. Hardly even able to wiggle anymore.

“You’re going to come for us, and only us,” Geta’s whispers turn harsh, demanding.

Caracalla twisted his hand so that he could add his thumb to her cunt and slip his pinky into her cum slick hole. His pinky ring pressing against the outside of it. “No, no, no,” Marcia whimpered, barely able to contain herself.

“Come for us,” he coos. One of his hands strokes some of her hair off her face.

Her breath becomes erratic as she desperately tries to keep from falling off the edge. Geta’s hand slips down her body to her clit, flicking his brother’s face off it. Marcia catches her breath at the pause thinking they were done. That she survived.

“Yes, please come for us,” Caracalla politely begs before his mouth moves to suck one of her nipples while his spare hand squeezes Marcia’s other breast.

Her resistance crumples up into uncontrollable moans as her mind becomes overrun with pleasure. Her body overrun, full once again.

“That’s it,” Geta's lips tickle against her neck. He feels her tighten up against him. All of her muscles pulling taunt. “Let go of yourself. Let go for us.” She sucks in a tight breath. “Come for us Marcia,” Geta murmurs against the soft skin under her ear.

“Please.”

She shatters in their arms. Letting out a guttural moan as she comes on both of their hands. Her pussy pulsing around Caracalla’s fingers. Waves of unimaginable pleasure washing over her. Their hands stroking her through it till she twitched against them

Marcia’s body becomes limp against Geta. Caracalla pulls his hand out, sucking on his fingers. He pushes them back in roughly, causing Marcia’s whole body to shudder and a whimper to leave her throat. He pulls them back out and offers her juices to his brother. Geta opened his mouth for him, moaning at the taste of her on his twin’s fingers.

“Let’s keep her,” Caracalla says as he happily moves things around on the bed to make it easier for him to sleep.

“Fine,” Geta says in answer.

His hands never leave her as the twins manoeuvre Marcia to lay between them. Her nearly unconscious body was positioned so that her head was propped up by Geta’s shoulder, snugging her against his chest while Caracalla pawed at her ass before spooning her. Both the Emperors’ arms wrapped around her as the three of them, their bodies sweaty and exhausted from their activities, drifted off to sleep.

#emperor geta #emperor caracalla #gladiator 2 #smut #i don't know how to tag this

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elpeadro · 29 days ago

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If the writers wanted CaitVi to be their canon OTP so damn bad, they had two ways of going about it:

THE GOOD ENDING:

Caitlyn doesn’t turn to fascism in her grief and rage. Ambessa still takes advantage of the council bombing to goad Piltover’s elite toward supporting martial law, likely installing Salo as her puppet as she originally planned to, but Caitlyn is one of the few who protest and refuse to be swept up in the authoritarian fervor Ambessa stokes. Because:

1) there’s no way she wouldn’t notice how fishy the attack on the memorial was. This is the same person who pieced together the conspiracy surrounding Silco and his criminal empire without ever stepping foot in Zaun. She’s a great detective who has been shown to see through the surface level cover-up. Not to mention the list of potential suspects with both motive and means is very small. Add on Mel’s insight, who she would interact with as one of the other Piltover characters who resists Ambessa’s scheming, and they would definitely pin Ambessa as their prime suspect. The problem is that they have no proof. All of the attackers are dead. Ambessa covered her tracks well, a nod to Noxian subterfuge in the wider lore.

And most of all, and most horrifyingly, Piltover doesn’t care. They’re angry. They’re outraged. Their bigotry is being preyed on by Ambessa, but they hardly need a push to go from the indifferent oppression of Zaun to active, overwhelming oppression. They already saw Zaunites as a monolith: criminals, street scum, dirty people who need to stay out of Piltover’s golden streets.

That Jinx is the lone guilty party is irrelevant. Her attack threatens their status quo. It has disrupted the utopia of Piltover living in its ivory towers without a care in the world, and they will bring back that false sense of security by crushing any possibility of Zaun fighting back ever again.

and 2) even with the grief of losing her mother fresh on her mind, this is still Caitlyn Kirammen we’re talking about. The woman who gives up her rifle - not just a prized possession, but her means of self-defense and safety when she’s deep in the worst parts of Zaun - without a second thought to save Vi’s life. The woman who hugs Huck, a homeless drug addict with a cancerous-like growth on half his forehead, of her own volition.

Because she cares.

As we are reminded time and time again in season 1, while Caitlyn is an incredibly naive, privileged, idealistic woman with an exceptional ability to put her foot in her mouth and say the most tone deaf things, she has a good heart, and more importantly, is willing to learn. It isn’t easy at the start, but when confronted with the irrefutable proof of how awful Piltover’s treatment of Zaun is, she listens. She feels sympathy for Zaunites, even if they are drug addicts (Huck), convicts (Vi), or gang leaders (Ekko).

That same Caitlyn, the one we see a small glimpse of in episode 1 when she protests that innocents will be caught in the crossfire, would not stand for Piltover’s martial law and mass imprisonment of Zaunites. She would try to fight it alongside Mel, using her position and influence in the enforcers as Mel uses hers as a politician.

(While she still develops an obsession over Jinx and getting justice for her mother’s death, she doesn’t see collective punishment and chemical weapons as acceptable costs of achieving said justice.)

And if the writing stayed true to the themes of class conflict in season 1, then she would quickly be forced to confront the horrible realization that there is no fixing this. The faults are systematic, not individualistic.

It doesn’t matter if it’s Marcus or Salo or Ambessa or whoever. The enforcers and Piltover will always be corrupt institutions stepping on the necks of Zaun. Piltover’s society is rotten from the inside out. And if she isn’t going to stand by and let it happen (because she refuses to compromise her morals and enforce martial law, because she cares - not just about Vi, but about Ekko and the Firelights, Huck, all the innocent people who will be swept up in Piltover’s thirst for blood), then the only way forward is to fight against Piltover.

So she becomes a class traitor. She fights alongside Vi and Ekko in repelling enforcers and Noxian soldiers from Zaun, protects the innocent.

Her relationship with Vi develops healthily compared to the canon season 2 - or as best it can in the midst of fighting a war and given their personal issues (Caitlyn’s grief and rage; Vi's self-loathing and guilt) - and they are good for each other.

It becomes a loving, supportive relationship and a wonderful piece of queer representation.

It would be beautiful. Not just the love and trust they have in each other, but that such love can flourish even in dark times. That people are capable of being defined not by their class and the systems they are born into, but by their actions and morals.

(Would such writing be too radical for the higher-ups at Netflix, Riot, and Fortiche (i.e. writing a class traitor and class war)? Most likely, but that discussion is for another time.)

Part 2: The Bad, Tragic Ending

Will post and link part 3 (the disjumbled tonal mess of an ending we got) once written.

#arcane #arcane s2 #arcane season 2 #arcane spoilers #arcane critical #arcane criticism #caitlyn kiramman #caitvi critical #look the dictator arc wasn't a bad writing decision in a vacuum #in fact Caitlyn being “crowned” might be my favorite scene of season 2 #gives me this wonderful horrible sick feeling of dread in my stomach #but her arc to get to that point was rushed okay?#and then acts 2 and 3 don't follow through on the fallout #so then why the fuck do you make that writing choice?#you can't evoke Macbeth in Caitlyn's intro on the title card and not have her grapple with the weight of her crimes #but the writers did just that #haha...

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nachtai-ish · 1 month ago

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Grown People Business

pairing: black!femalereader x Terry Richmond

mentions of: a child (idk having a child might be triggering for some folks), mutual verbal abuse, cancer, cloaked mention of abortion. non-canon, terry might be ooc.

notes: despite the above mentions....it's not a dark story.

Your son was bouncing his knee, holding the football just under his little puffy jacket covered arms. Well, at least you thought he was bouncing his knee. Every time you would slide a look over to him, he would suddenly look very still and solemn. Serious, as if he was really contemplating the lyrics of Kokomo by The Beach Boys. You hid your giggle and continued humming along to the radio.

“Did you have fun at your dads?” You asked sliding another look at your son.

He nodded, as a smile appeared again. “So much fun. Me and Keke, and JoJo ate sundaes and we watched the football game on thanksgiving. Aunt Allison had some wine and she was dancing and she asked me to dance you know I had to show her how we do it now. You old people-“

“Old?” You scoffed. “Boy, who you think taught you those moves?”

“Old people. Anyway, we had so much fun. Christine bought me a ball and daddy and me, daddy and I, threw the ball so much. He said I have a good arm.”

You rolled your eyes and took a right at the red light. Yohan would not put football dreams in your son’s head but you couldn’t shake the joy out of his eyes. “Oh is that right. What about that book report?”

And there was the silence. You shook your head and chuckled. “…Cat got your tongue?”

“I forgot. But I can do it tonight. We still got the weekend.”

“Uh huh.” You shook your head again and pulled into your parking space in front of your town home. And suddenly your son was reaching for the door handle, rushing like he had to go to the bathroom.

“Slow down, what you got to pee?” You knew exactly what he was rushing for.

“I want to show Terry my new ball and see if he wants to see how I throw.” He nearly slammed the door hard enough to break the window. You laughed exasperated and your son’s energy.

“He might not be home Marcus.” You got out of the car yourself, straightening your slightly off-ivory sweater. Your words didn’t stop him from ringing the doorbell, bouncing on his toes. No more than a minute later, the door opened and Terry was standing at the door, bright smile on his face and blue eyes trained on your son.

It was enough to make you melt right on the asphalt you were standing on in the 55-degree weather.

“Marc, my man. Dang, you were gone like two months.” Terry said clapping hands with the much shorter boy, and then squatting to give him a hug. “How was your thanksgiving?”

Marc shrugged, and you rolled your eyes. Boys. “It was alright.” He said, voice suddenly calm conveying indifference.

“Just alright? What the macaroni wasn’t good?” He looked at Marcus then, eyes scanning his face quickly and then he looked over at you, concern in his eyes.

“He good?” He seemed to say, just with a slight shifting of his eyebrows.

You clutched your purse to your stomach, shaking your head and shrugging with a smirk on your face.

“Oh I see, you trying not to make me jealous cause you know I sat here and had a pot pie for dinner.” He shoved him a little and then looked down at the football in his hand. “What’s that?”

“Football, my dad’s fiancé got it for me. You want to see me throw it?”

“You ask your mom?” Terry looked at you then, and Marcus’ face soon followed, his face pleading with you to be cool and say yes.

“It’s cold.” You said, needling him a little bit.

“Ma, please.” He begged.

“Fine, but book report right after. And put your gloves on.” You said grabbing his suitcase out of the backseat.

“Aww Ma-

“Hey, football players wear them too. You want your fingers to be frozen and you mess up the throw? Do what your mom says.” Terry said, his deep voice gentle.

“You right Terry.”

You rolled your eyes again, and closed the backseat. “Of course, listen to Terry. Not your dear old ma, who only was in labor with you for 6 whole h-“

“Alright ma, we’ll be in the backyard.” Marcus walked into Terry’s house, knowingly heading straight for the back door that led to your shared backyard space.

“He a trip I swear.” Terry laughed. “You need help with that?”

“It’s just one suitcase. I’m not fragile.” You stood at your door looking over at Terry fiddling with your keys.

Terry smirked, “Never said you were. Just offering. …How was your thanksgiving? I didn’t see you.” He leaned against his doorframe. His eyes shifted a little lower. You ignored the rumbling in your lower half.

“I went out.”

“With who?” His voice was slightly deeper, his eyes snapped back on your face.

You chuckled looking up at the sky for help. Something, anything that would stop the tingles in your lower half. “30 minutes Terry. Have my child back in my house in thirty minutes.” And with that you walked in your home and closed the door, safe and away from blue eyes and pheromones.

You sat at your dining room table, windows facing the backyard open so you could see Marcus and Terry throwing the ball back and forth. Your laptop was open in front of you and the grading software had been idling for 20 minutes now as you watched the ball go back and forth. Terry’s form was impeccable, but you knew that. You knew that when he moved in.

Before Terry, there was Mrs. Mable. Mrs. Mable was a sweet older white woman who had moved into the town home after her husband had passed from cancer. She had lived in some big house about 20 minutes away, but once her husband died, she couldn’t stand the silence. When you moved into the Town home, she had been so excited, bringing over cookies and making sure that you knew exactly what school to enroll Marcus into. In the two years that you were neighbors, she had become a sort of surrogate aunt, even watching Marcus during moments where you needed to run out for whatever reason. When her daughter had another baby, she decided to move in with her to help and suddenly the Town home was empty.

Enter Terry.

You hadn’t even seen him look at the place. Only saw the moving van pull up and him, green shirt and tan cargo pants, moving his boxes in all by himself. He didn’t have much but what he did have, he moved efficiently and quickly. You knew he was a force when he picked up an armchair sofa by himself and moved it into his home…almost with no sweat. You noticed the trails of it running down his thick neck.

“Jesus.” You mumbled, hand clutching at your own neck.

“I think he needs help.” Marcus, six then, said. He was sitting at the door, putting on his little sneakers in a hurry.

“And you’re going to help him?” You smirked, watching your child spring into action.

“Yeah, I helped Mrs. Mable move her stuff in the van.”

“So, you’re a pro at it.”

“Duh, mommy.” He opened the door and you followed him, standing on your stoop as your son traveled the few feet over to the new neighbor. You leaned on your door frame, admiring the neighbor from behind as he walked into the moving truck, not even noticing the little 3 foot moving professional walking behind him.

“Can I help?” Marc asked after a moment of standing just at the edge of the truck.

There was a little pause and then a voice, “Uh…yeah you can…but where’s your mom and dad? They know you out here?”

“Ma’s right there. She said it’s okay.” Marcus pointed at you then and a face looked out of the side of the truck. Your inhale was sharp.

His face was devastating. Big features, big lips, wide nose, big blue eyes. On someone else it could be cartoonish, but on him it was almost movie star handsome.

“Damn…” You couldn’t help but say. Fuck, I hope he didn’t hear that.

He grinned slightly, and waved at you. “Hey, I’m Terry. Is it cool if your boy helps me?”

You nodded, your sanity coming back to you. “It’s…it’s cool. But if he breaks anything, just remember you said it was okay for him to help.” You joked and then cursed. Probably not a good idea to tell your neighbor that your son was a little destructive.

Terry laughed; it wasn’t a belly laugh but it was enough to brighten his face. “I won’t sue you. No worries.” He held out his hand for Marcus and helped him onto the truck. “Grab those lamps for me.”

“Be careful Marc.” You shouted.

“I am!” He shouted back, making Terry chuckle again.

You spent at least an hour and 30 minutes sitting on your stoop watching Terry and Marcus pull things off the truck. And during that time, you got a good look at Terry. He had to be at least 6’1 maybe more, and he was broad shouldered. His posture was ram-rod straight like he had been in the military or something. He answered Marcus’ questions calmly, like they had all the time in the world. Like he had no issue with answering the inane questions of a 6-year-old. He was not annoyed and if he was, he was amazing at hiding it.

You were watching them; they had stopped so Marcus could show Terry a Pokemon card he had gotten in a trade. Terry was squatted low to look at the card, giving it all the attention in the world as Marcus explained all of its features. You had urged Marcus to stop holding the man up, but Terry encouraged him to tell him more about the card, making Marcus even more excited.

“He good mama.” He looked at you, eyes focused on yours, voice still calm. Your son was not bothering him. He looked at him then, “I want to know what Bulbasaur does.”

Your stomach clenched. Oh god. You could not sleep with this man. You could not sleep with this man because she showed your son decency. Your phone rang in your pocket then, and the name on the screen made you drier than the Sahara Desert.

Yohan.

You stood up then, going to the furthest corner of your stoop. You didn’t turn your back on the two, but you did turn a little for privacy.

“Hey. What’s up?”

A pause. “I can’t get him this weekend.”

“Yohan, what the fuck. It’s your weekend. You said you were going to take him to the fair.”You kept your voice down as much as possible, not wanting to alarm Marcus.

“…I gotta work. I know what I said. I told you I’m trying.”

“You always say you have to work but then you end up in the fucking club with girls all over you.” You turned then facing away from the men who now were moving a table, Terry was of course doing most of the lifting. “Nigga, I always have to cover for you. I’m tired of lying to my son cause you don’t want to be a father.” You whispered.

“Who said I didn’t want to be a father? I’m fucking telling the truth. I don’t have to lie to your ass. I have to work. Put my son on the phone.”

You looked back and gasped. Terry was watching you, concern on his face. Marcus was heading towards the moving van, not a care in the world. You forced a grin and nodded. You were okay. Terry stood there for another second, before nodding once and walking towards the moving van.

You let out the breath you were holding and focused on the phone.

“Did you hear me Y/N? Put Marc on the phone.”

“No.” You simply said. “He’s busy.”

Another pause and then a chuckle. “…I am not doing this with you. Put my son on the phone.”

“I said no.” You were being unreasonable, sure but this man was always doing this shit and you had enough. “You are not about to feed my son no bullshit so you can feel better about what you’re doing.”

“What you want me to send you the schedule? I got to work. Fuck! This is why I left your ass-“

“Left me? Nigga I threw that ring and your fucking shit to the left-“

“-You don’t trust me.”

“Oh, cause you gave me so many reasons to trust you.” You laughed. “There was Brenda, Latisha, Linda, Felicia, about three Kims’-“

He chuckled, “What you DMX now? Fuck this, I’ll tell Allison to come pick my son up since you want to be stupid-“

You rolled your eyes, “You tell Allison if she steps her drunk ass on my porch, it’ll be the last thing-“

“Mommy.”

You stopped immediately, straightening up and wiping your eyes. You didn’t even know you had starting to cry. “Hey, you done?” You said turning around when you were straight.

“I just gotta pee, and you’re in front of the door.” Marcus was crossed leg and shifting.

You laughed. “My bad, go. And wash your hands.” You called after him.

You sighed when he was out of sight and put the phone back on your ear. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Good… So stop being stupid, and just be reasonable.”

“I’m taking you to court. Bye Yohan.” You hung up the phone, and turned it completely off, sitting on the stairs and putting your head in your hands. Your eyes wet your hands, but you were not crying. You would not cry anymore.

After a moment, there was movement next to you, and then warmth. You looked to the side and Terry was there, silent, not looking at you. Just there. It was oddly comforting although he was a stranger.

You chuckled, “You heard all of that?”

He shrugged and shook his head, “Heard what? …I’m just resting.” He said, still not looking at you. You shook your head.

“On my porch?”

“I’m tired. My porch is like…all the way over there.” He gestured to the right of you. “I’ve been moving all day.”

“Right.” You sniffed in, wiping your eyes. “I could spit the distance between your porch and mine.”

“1. That’s impressive. 2. Doesn’t mean I want to walk it.” He grinned then. “Let me rest, mama.”

“Fine, only because I know you’re tired.” You stood up. “And don’t call me mama. I’m not your mama.”

“My bad. …what’s your name?” He looked up at you. “You never told me.”

“It’s Y/n. My name is Y/n.”

It had been two years since then. And Terry turned out to be a pretty reliable neighbor as well, helping you when your tires were flat. Helping you carry in groceries. And entertaining your son’s every whim, including throwing various balls across your shared backyard.

“And you won’t fuck him why?” Keke said making you snap out of your daze. You were on a zoom call with her while working on your papers you had to finish grading. Keke might have been Yohan’s sister but she was also your friend, your best friend. “I know you ain’t still feenin for Yohan’s ugly ass.”

“Keke, please.” You said laughing. “Don’t nobody want your big head ass brother no more.”

“See that’s what you said before, then six months later there you go waddling around with Marcus in your stomach.” She laughed. “Listen, I love my bookie but I would have.” She made a sucking noise and crossed her hand across her neck. “Immediately. You know what I’m saying.”

“You stupid.”

“For real. Fuck the man. Get it over with. You know you want to. You know you going to. It’s been two years.” She grinned. “I saw how he was looking at you on the fourth. Like he wanted to bend your ass right over on that picnic table. Yes god! I would have LET HIM. You hear me?”

“Keisha.”

“I’m for real. I know he fuck good. When he over you with all that weight, and he-“ She clapped her hands in a rhythm that reminded you of an intense session of love making. “You can grab onto all that back he got and just let go. Just EXHALE GIRL. Woosah bitch.”

“Keisha.”

“I know he gone talk you through it too. …you gotta tell me all about it. Or hell move out the way and I’ll give it a go.”

“You’re married.” You nearly laughed but kept it in.

“Damn you right.-“

You laughed then.

“You gotta do it, for the both of us.”

“You don’t sleep where you…well sleep. He’s my neighbor and if things get messy, then I can’t escape it.”

And things always found a way of being messy with you. There was the guy from the supermarket, no you didn’t heed the warning that Troy shouted up at Robin in Waiting to Exhale, nor the warning from the cannibal movie from Hulu. He ended up having a girlfriend, who would go on to flatten your tires.

And then there was Kevin, the principal from your son’s school. You had only gone on one date with him, and it was HORRIBLE. So bad that you blocked him, and now ignore him at PTA meetings. And then there was…

Damn, maybe it was you.

“Yall are grown. If you tell him, hey big fine 6’3 ass man-

“He’s not 6’3.”

“Oh bitch, he’s 6’3. I know a tall nigga when I see one. Anyway, if you just tell the man, hey I just want to fuck…no strings, I know he’ll be cool with it.”

“I’m not a hoe, Keisha.”

“Who said you was! This is grown people business. Grown! If you set expectations in the beginning then no one gets hurt. Grown People business girl. Now…what you waiting for?”

You looked out the window, Terry and Marcus was still playing outside, neither one of them minding your 30 minute instruction that you had given earlier but you weren’t mad. It made you feel warm inside that your son trusted Terry so much, and that Terry was so warm to your son.

“Keisha…I don’t know.” You still were looking outside when Terry looked back at you too. He grinned, and you smiled. Someone could end up hurt…and more than likely it would be you.

“Girl…I told you. Set expectations up front, get what you want and if you don’t want it no more….no hard feelings. Grown.-“

You nodded, deciding to yourself.

“Grown people business.” -----

a/n: i don't know. this should be a series...but I'm not good at finishing stuff, so no promises. i hope you all enjoyed it. mwah. i can't remember the last time i wrote lol, so yeah...

#terry richmond x black reader #terry richmond x y/n #rebel ridge fanfiction #but not really...#non-canon

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david-talks-sw · 1 year ago

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How the narrative framed Mace Windu, back in 2002

So there's this 2002 book written by Marcus Hearn, edited by J.W. Rinzler, titled Attack of the Clones - The Illustrated Companion. It was released a month before Episode II was released.

AKA, before EU material and anti-Jedi fanon could publicly reframe the meanings of the film... and before more recent narratives could reinterpret the character of Mace as a robotic, protocol-worshipping stickler who never bends the rules (when evidence shows he's anything but).

So how does Marcus Hearn - "untainted" by all the above factors, armed only with the Prequel films and their screenplays - frame the character of Mace Windu?

MACE & ANAKIN

Fandom: "Mace hated Anakin from Day #1 and never trusted him. Mace was probably jealous as he always thought he was the Chosen One, not Anakin!"

Attack of the Clones' - The Illustrated Companion:

"Jedi Masters Yoda and Mace Windu lead the High Council in rejecting Qui-Gon's application to train Anakin, 'He is too old,' concludes Mace Windu. 'There is already too much anger in him.'

Hearn explains that the problem with Anakin wasn't that he was just too old, it's that because of that age he had become too filled with fear and anger to a point where taking on the Jedi training would be twice as hard for him as it already was for everyone else.

Hearn doesn't chastise Mace for this initial decision. On the contrary, he adds more context to it by using a line from the screenplay to explain where Mace is coming from.

He also goes further into Mace's view of Anakin throughout the book:

"[Mace] over-estimates Anakin Skywalker, paying little credence to Obi-Wan's protestations that the boy is too confused and disturbed to be dispatched on a solo mission."

"The Jedi Council is aware of Anakin's exceptional skills, and Mace Windu believes Anakin may fulfill the prophecy that says a being will one day bring balance to the Force. But Anakin still has a lot to learn…"

He's basically stating that Mace believes in Anakin, but that doing so is a mistake. Which, to be fair, considering how things turn out for Mace and the Jedi... is kinda true!

Mace's problem with Anakin is almost the opposite of what most of the fandom projects onto him.

It's not that he dislikes Anakin, on the contrary, he holds Anakin in too high of an esteem and is overlooking Anakin's glaring flaws because "hey, Anakin's the Chosen One. He's got this!"

That's not the only flaw Mace has, according to Hearn.

MACE'S (and the Jedi's) ONLY REAL FLAW

Fandom: "Mace and the Jedi had become too emotionally detached, they had lost touch with the common folk by spending too much time in their ivory tower. They focused so much on being selfless that they forgot how to care, they've become a bunch of elitist, righteous sticklers for protocol who care more about upholding laws than actually helping the people those laws are meant to protect!"

Attack of the Clones' - The Illustrated Companion:

"Although he is a senior member of the Jedi Council, little in Mace Windu's experience has prepared him for the looming threats of the dark side of the Force and Count Dooku's Separatists."

"Mace Windu's faith in the Jedi to protect the Republic is admirable, but it also blinds him to the true scale of the growing menace. He is aware that the dark side is growing, but still allows himself to be too easily reassured about the Separatists' ambitions. [...] Mace fatally misjudges Count Dooku, refusing to believe he could be behind any attempt on Senator Amidala's life. 'Dooku was once a ledi, he tells Padmé. 'He couldn't assassinate anyone. It's not in his character.'"

"Mace Windu's strengths are, in many ways, qualities shared by the Jedi Order as a whole - he is an accomplished diplomat and a fine swordsman. Such skills have served the Jedi well in their role as the galaxy's peacekeepers for a thousand generations. But such skills are not enough to save the Jedi from their own complacency, and the tumultuous changes that threaten to wipe them out forever."

Hearn perfectly grasps what the Jedi's only real flaw is, in George Lucas' intended narrative: they were unprepared, complacent, they were blind... and now they're stuck playing catch-up.

But when he's saying that, he's not blaming them for it. Because this flaw doesn't derive from some sense of elitism or superiority... it is an inevitable consequence of their qualities.

They've managed to stay out of politics as neutral diplomats... ... but that makes them vulnerable to the Sith's plot, which primarily takes place within the political arena, where they have no control or experience.

They are painfully aware of the corruption in the Senate... ... but as a result, they're too quick to trust the Separatist's talking points as well-meaning and genuine, instead of seeing the movement for what it really is: greedy big business trying to become the government.

They trust and agree with Dooku, believe in what he publicly stands for (after all this man used to be one of the wisest and kindest members of the Jedi Order, Mace's friend, Yoda's Padawan, etc)... ... but as such, they are blind to his true nature, that of a treacherous Sith who'd stoop to orchestrating assassinations.

The Jedi have their guard up, knowing that there's another Sith Lord still out there, orchestrating in the shadows... ... but they can't really find him, because the Dark Side has clouded everything, so only darksiders are able to sense the possibilities of the future! Them serving the good side is screwing them over, in this situation.

Flaws such as being too trusting or being unprepared, letting your guard down because you've established a 1000-year-peace, are flaws that kind, noble characters such as the Jedi are bound to have.

They may be flaws, but they aren't faults. And considering the way he describes Mace and the Jedi, it's clear Hearn grasps the nuance.

MACE'S RELUCTANCE TO JOIN THE WAR

Fandom: The Jedi joined the war out of arrogance, they thought they could swashbuckle their way through the problem and win, instead they didn't realize that they lost the very moment they joined.

Attack of the Clones' - The Illustrated Companion:

"Mace Windu believes in the Jedi as keepers of the peace - not as soldiers - but there comes a point when he reluctantly realizes that it is time to take affairs out of the realm of diplomacy."

Mace and the Jedi didn't want to start a war. If you read the script for Attack of the Clones, Mace and Bail keep grasping at straws to not engage with the Separatists up til the very end.

But when you consider that...

the Geonosians are about to execute Obi-Wan without a trial,

and the Separatists leaders have been unmasked as a coalition of unscrupulous corporate assholes who are willing to plunge the galaxy in chaos just to make more money.

... at some point, the Jedi have to come to terms with the fact that Separatist leadership (and Sidious) won't accept diplomacy because they want a conflict. A conflict will make them all richer. And the Republic, well, they're just dying to go to war too.

So the Jedi go save Obi-Wan and capture Dooku, hoping that in doing so, the conflict ends before it begins. They succeed in the former goal... but fail the latter one.

The Clone War has begun.

From there on, the Jedi are drafted to lead the war. Which is why - as Hearn points out - Mace was so reluctant to take action in the first place. The Jedi are ambassadors, they are not built for war... and now they've been forced into one.

Mace is by no means a perfect character... but he's someone doing his best. Just like Obi-Wan, just like Yoda, and all the other Jedi.

Overtime, Windu's character has been dumbed down to either "that one angry black man" or "the dogmatic emotionless dick who hated Anakin"... and I really think that that's not what we were meant to see him as.

The way Marcus Hearn (who also wrote The Cinema of George Lucas) refers to him is a much more charitable interpretation of how others (ahem Filoni ahem) do, nowadays.

#Mace Windu #mace windu appreciation #long post #jedi order #anakin skywalker #meta #in defense of the jedi #star wars #master windu #samuel l jackson #attack of the clones #aotc #star wars prequels #flashing gif #very long post

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tightjeansjavi · 2 months ago

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Et Auream - Act IV : The Girl

A/N: I just want to start off by saying that for this chapter and the next, please heed the warnings. Also, I have included one historical inaccuracy regarding the reasoning for Marcus to tell Aurelia his first name. His reasoning was because only those who were worthy could know a gladiators true identity, and since she is about to save his life, he feels that she is worthy. Historically, roman male citizens had three names: first name, family name and nickname. It would be seen as too intimate or disrespectful to address a male citizen by their first name (typically only if this male citizen was an emperor or someone in power). This is why Geta, Caracalla and others refer to Marcus as Acacius. Aurelia is the only one who has been granted the privilege to call him Marcus (thus far) Thank you to @sinsofsummer for betaing as always <3 word count: 4.9k Summary: Marcus opens up about his past to Aurelia, but does not divulge further than what he is comfortable with. Time is forever fleeting, but he hopes that their meeting will not be a one time occurrence. Pairing | Marcus Acacius x f!oc Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT! This chapter includes SA of a minor (not by Marcus) loss of virginity, hyper sexuality as a result of SA, slight stockholm syndrome (if you squint) sexual enslavement, domestic abuse, canon typical violence, angst, misogyny, minor character death, language, +18 minors dni! If I have missed anything, please let me know! series masterlist

When Aurelia was just a little girl, and the world was bright, shiny, and new to her innocent eyes, she begged her parents for a horse of her very own. A beautiful ivory mare, or a sunburnt black stallion. She was too young to understand the pecking order in society, too naive to recognize that her family was not blessed with riches from the gods above. No, her parents were poor common folk; farmers whose only duties were to produce enough crops to feed Rome and her noble pupils. She didn’t understand the means of power, wealth, and status.

Her parents prayed to the gods for their crops to prosper, and the gods answered, but a sacrifice would have to be made. her parents promised that where she was going, she would be rewarded with a thousand horses of all different shades and breeds. Instead, she was met with an iron collar around her delicate neck; a symbol of ownership. She was a slave to a Dominus, stripped down to an object to be bought and used in whatever means he felt necessary, and she had only just flowered.

Her parents abided by the god’s wishes for them to sell their only daughter, and yet, their crops shriveled and dried to dust. It was too late, the damage was already done, and she could never return to the home she once knew.

When Aurelia’s parents sold her off to senator Cassius, she had expected to live her life of servitude in a dingy cell, wearing tattered garments and begging for scraps. No matter how foul and unsettling Cassius was in her eyes, in a twisted way he did treat her better than she had expected. Atleast, she had convinced herself that he had. He ensured her that she would be educated in the arts and literature and all things a proper Roman lady should be taught. For that, she should be grateful, but only bitterness resides when she imagines the life she could be living had her parents not thrown her away so carelessly.

She was granted her own room and bed with silken sheets and a wardrobe with garments of every color. Handcrafted and threaded with the richest fabrics she had ever laid her eyes upon. Cassius prided himself in his appearance and so the same expectations were set upon her.

The first night of her new life, Aurelia found herself helping him undress and sink into the bath that she had prepared for him. He paid no mind to the obvious scald marks appearing on her small hands from the water being too hot for her delicate skin to handle. “You will tend to me in whatever manner I may request of you, Aurelia,” he said sternly, leaving no room for her to protest against his command. “Yes, my Dominus,” she responded quietly, her voice laced with nervousness. He grinned at her displeasure and ignored the fear that lingered in her eyes when he grasped her wrist, smaller than his own, and he dragged her hand beneath the steaming water to wrap around his hardening cock.

“I will make you happy, my pet. Just do as I ask and never fight me,” he hummed in contentment and his head tilting back against the fine porcelain as her wrist moved around his hardened shaft with shaky, insecure and unguided movements.

“Yes, my Dominus.”

He didn’t wait for her to be well adjusted to this new life. He was the type of man who would take as he pleased, no matter the consequences. “You will lay with me tonight in my chambers, Aurelia,” he said from the entryway of the bathing area. A linen towel was secured around his hips, and she took little notice of her hands trembling as she followed him down the dimly lit hallway and to his private quarters. After that night, she was no longer a girl. She was a woman. This was evident from the dry crusted tears that laid like canyons upon her soft cheeks and the blood that stained his linen sheets with the loss of her innocence and youth.

As time went on, the pain subsided little by little. It left her experiencing confused and conflicted feelings. It felt wrong to experience pleasure from the monster, a man that took her away from the only life that she knew. Yet, her body began to crave it; yearned for that forbidden touch and that crescendo of muscles spasming, and her cunt fluttering. She felt like a woman entering her divinity through the arousal of slickness between her thighs and tender breasts; a body graced with curves, swells, dips, ridges, and soft skin.

Like summer turned to fall, and fall to winter, her feelings began to sour; turned bitter like grapes that exceeded their fermentation period. Resentment reared its ugly head the further she strayed from girlhood and entered into womanhood. All those hours of studying had gifted her knowledge that she once did not possess, and she wanted more out of her life. She craved freedom above all. Her anger and resentment towards him manifested and she could no longer keep it at bay. Her youth, stolen from her, but she intended to gain her autonomy back in some form. This angered Cassius greatly that his once perfect, compliant, obedient, pet had begun to unabashedly disobey him. She was his. His property. her mind, body and soul belonged to him, and him only.

“You will never be free from your servitude. No matter how many fruitless hours you spend praying to the gods. You will always belong to me,” he hissed through gritted teeth, towering above her trembling, cowered body that laid upon the cold tile in his chambers.

Her cheek felt hot to the touch where he had struck her, and the tang of copper bursted along her tongue from the torn flesh of her upper lip.

She glared at him through her tears, vision blurred before becoming clear once again. His bedroom chamber was deathly silent. “I belong to no one.”

He swiftly yanked her up by the scruff of her neck dragging her at his will towards the crumpled sheets along his bed. “You will remember my once unconditional kindness after I have fucked the defiance out of you, girl.”

She knew no tenderness from him after that night and was only met with cruelness.

She took solace in Cassius aging faster than most men, but perhaps it was due to the constant stress of losing the bitter war against the Caledonians and being a trusted advisor to Emperor Geta. Any day Cassius could lose his tongue…or his head, and she found herself praying for his death every morning and every night to no avail.

When Cassius was away for days, weeks at a time, she found her freedom and solace through familiar faces. The brothel became her oasis along with its inhabitants. She lay with men, women and indulged in the simple pleasures. Her garments became tattered at her own doing, and she finally felt as if she owned a sliver of her autonomy once more, but she was not yet free.

The Ludus Magnus

“Marcus,” he whispered, “My name is Marcus.”

Time ceased to exist for both the golden one and the gladiator. He had never told a single soul his true birth name that his mother had bestowed him. No one in his twenty three years of life was worthy to know his identity–until he met someone who had shattered his psyche and stitched it back together all in one breath. He did not believe in soulmates–at least, he thought he didn’t. There must have been a reason why his mother came to him in his dreams and spoke the words she did. It made him believe that she was somewhere out there, watching over her son, and doing all that she could to lead him down the right path. Surely, this stranger would be entwined to his fate and him to hers.

“Sir…” her voice wavered, “I am unworthy to know of your birth name.”

Marcus gave her an incredulous look, one with furrowed brows and lips pursed in utter confusion. “What unworthiness do you speak of, my lady?”

“Your birth name is sacred to your creed and identity, is it not? Only those who are closest to a gladiator, such as a family member, or lover is worthy to know of one’s birth name.”

His lips pulled into a small, yet noticeable grin, and for a moment he forgets about the pain from his deep wounds in his back and the pulsing sensation in his shoulder “You are familiar with my creed? Then you speak true. Only a person of worth is granted the knowledge of my birth name, my lady. You are more than worthy. You’re about to save my life after which I will be forever indebted to you.”

“You are not yet out of death’s grasp, Marcus,” she reminded him.

“Then we must not waste another moment, my lady.” Aurelia positioned herself behind him so that she could easily assess the damage that was inflicted to his back and shoulders. The lacerations were deep, and she could only imagine how many times the biting sting of a whip was brought upon him. The tips of her fingers gently brushed an unmarked area of skin with careful tenderness. The scar that resided there was raised, and although it did not cause him pain, he flinched nonetheless. “I…noticed in the arena that you favor your left side,” she said quietly and sat back on her haunches before reaching for the pitcher of water and vial of olive oil. “You are very observant,” he said softly. “Is there a reason as to why you favor it?” He turned his head over his shoulder so that he could observe her briefly, before he faced forward once more. “I suffered an injury when I was just a boy.” She tore a strip of fabric from her stola and dipped it generously into the water. “This will sting,” she warned him preemptively. The soaked strip of fabric descended against one of the lacerations. The cooling touch is soothing, yet the pain intensifies. He lurched forward from the sensation, gnawing on the soft flesh of his cheek so that he would not cry out. “I fell from my horse,” he continues. “How old were you, Marcus?”

He did not immediately respond, and his mind began to drift to that fatal night where his entire world was turned upside down. He inhaled a shaky breath before continuing, “I was nine.” “It was the eve of my tenth birthday–and it was entirely my fault. I should have been more careful, but my own recklessness guided me. All it took was for me to lose my stirrup, and my whole life changed.” “What happened?” “What didn’t happen,” he muttered through clenched teeth. His entire body tensed up, and it had nothing to do with his physical wounds, and all to do with his mental ones. “If I had not fallen from my horse, my father…would still love me.” His words were laced with bitterness, sadness, and guilt at the forefront. “I–I don’t understand,” she whispered in confusion. “Your name,” he said suddenly. He was not yet ready to divulge in something that was deeply personal. “What of it?” “You have yet to tell me.” “Marcus,” she starts. “It is not of importance right now–” “Please,” he begged. “I must know your name, my lady.” “Aurelia,” she concedes in a whisper, “my name is Aurelia.” “Aurelia,” he repeated, testing the way it sounded on his own tongue.

“You do not have to reveal more than you feel comfortable telling me, Marcus,” she reassured him. “You would be the first to hear of my past in its entirety, but I am not ready to revisit it.” “I understand,” she said earnestly. Silence passed between them, the words of her name echoing in his eardrums, Aurelia, the golden one.

She worked methodically on tending to his wounds, and when they are fully cleansed, the pitcher of water faintly reflects a light pinkish hue. “Marcus, did you always want to become a gladiator?” she finally broke through the silence with a question that left him frozen on the spot. “No,” he muttered. “Had I been given the choice, I would have declined it, but the choice was never mine to make. My father–he sold me to a slave trader that was well-known for training gladiators for the Colosseum. The first time I grasped a sword, I was thirteen, and I had no desire to…kill. When I turned eighteen, and had proven myself as a valiant fighter, I was brought before the emperors. My Dominus was reluctant to sell me, at first, but Geta was persistent, and offered more coin than my Dominus had ever seen, and well…here I reside.” “And I presume that your reasoning to defy the emperors in the arena was because of the resentment you hold towards your father?”

“You ask many questions, Aurelia,” he said flatly, but intended for it to come across as lighthearted and teasing.

“I’m—sorry…” she trailed off. “I should not pry,” she bowed her head in shame

He turned around fully so he could face her and when he took in her appearance of shame, he frowned and gently brought the knuckle of his pointer finger to rest beneath her chin.

“Aurelia, do not feel shameful for your curiosity. Your questions do not upset me, my lady. Forgive me if my tone has expressed otherwise. It is…comforting to have someone to confide in. I have never experienced these privileges until tonight.”

She lifted her chin slowly, her eyes meeting his softened gaze in the dim light. “It is a privilege that most do not get to experience in their life.”

“Indeed,” he sighed and slowly dropped his hand from her chin and rested it on his bare knee instead. “I do not know what came over me in the arena today,” he admitted. “I have killed many men before without a second thought…but I saw the fear in his eyes, and I just could not bring myself to kill him.”

“Marcus, to not kill when you have been commanded, takes compassion and bravery. I have never witnessed such an act. It left my Dominus enraged and perplexed. It is the reason that I sought you out this evening. When we returned to our villa, I could not stop thinking of you.”

Heat began to rise to their cheeks in tandem and he swiftly averted his gaze to the wall behind her instead.

“I feared for your safety, and despite knowing the risks of traveling after nightfall, I…had to make sure that you were okay,” she continued.

“Emperor Geta did not command that I would be punished for my defiance,” he said as if he was capable of reading her mind and knew exactly what question was lingering there.

“He did not?” confusion etched across her face at his words. “Who gave the command?”

“Well—I am under the impression that he did not give the command, and his praetorians took it upon themselves to punish me. I imagine that sounds a bit…improbable, but I did not hear him utter the command,” he let out a frustrated breath as he himself could not wrap his mind around what had taken place hours prior.

“That does sound implorable, but I believe you.”

“You said that your Dominus is a Senator, yes?” he interjects.

“Yes, he is,” she confirmed. “He works closely with the emperors, but mostly Geta, or so I have overheard.”

“And you haven’t had the displeasure of acquainting them, have you?” He referred to the emperors.

“No,” she shook her head. “Cassius does not allow me to stray far from his side, or to be in the company of other men. He is unaware that I have left the villa, but he spends his evenings in the brothel for many hours.”

“Be grateful that you have not made their acquaintance, Aurelia. Nothing good comes from either of them,” he said gravely.

She nodded in understanding. “Your wounds will heal with time, Marcus. I have done all that I can to cleanse them. Olive oil contains healing properties. It will keep the wound moist, and repel debris from contaminating the surrounding flesh. If the gods grant you reprieve, you will not face an infection,” she murmured.

“You’re leaving?…”

“I must,” she said regrettably, and slowly rose to her feet. “Cato will still be expecting to return me to my Dominus, but I intend to slip away before he has the chance.”

“Cato will be asleep by now, my lady. He nurses a bottle of wine each evening, and sleeps till late dawn.”

“Regardless, I should leave you to rest,” she insisted.

The likelihood of Marcus ever seeing her again was slim, given the circumstances that they were facing, but something in his heart told him that this would not be a one time occurrence.

“Will I see you again, my lady?” his tone held a sense of hope, something he hadn’t felt in many years.

“If the gods allow it, then yes, you will,” she said with a reassuring smile. “I am grateful to you, Aurelia. If the gods do not allow us to see one another again, I promise I will hold onto your kindness in my heart. Go now, quickly!” he said hurriedly. “Ride fast and swift. I will pray that your travel is perilous, my lady,” he reached for her hand and brought it up to his lips, brushing the soft skin of her knuckles with a farewell kiss.

“Iterum visurus sum, Marcus. Promitto,” (I will see you again, Marcus. I promise) she whispered.

He dropped her hand from his embrace, falling back against the wall in exhaustion, “Adero, te exspectat, auream unum,” (I will be here, waiting for you, golden one)

Palatine Hill

The moon had since risen high in the starry sky when Geta returned to Palatine Hill.

The palace was quiet and he had expected that even Caracalla had retired to his quarters for the evening, but this was squashed when he heard a hushed voice coming from the grand triclinium (dining room). He investigated further, driven by curiosity.

“I advise you to cease your squirming,” Caracalla whispered against the ear of a servant girl belonging to Geta. “There will be a severe price to pay if a single drop of wine leaves my cup and does not end up on my tongue,” he warned her.

“Dominus, please,” she whispered in his grip. Her eyes were glassy with tears reflecting the soft glow that was emitted from the many surrounding candles.

“Do you know what happens when you struggle, my dear?” he posed the question in a seemingly non-threatening way, but his tone said otherwise. “I will constrict around you like a snake, and my coils will tighten and tighten till those pretty eyes bulge right from your head!” he cackled manically.

She struggled further, not heeding his warning and all hope seemed lost until she locked eyes with a familiar figure looming in the entryway. “Emperor Geta!” she cried out in relief.

Caracalla scowled and followed her gaze till it too landed on his brother’s displeased look written across his face. “And like a savior dressed in gold, he arrives,” the younger emperor said with an annoyed roll of his eyes, “You have quite the impeccable timing, brother.”

Geta gave her a reassuring nod, and granted her a moment of reprieve. “Why are you antagonizing one of my servants, Caracalla?” he walked further into the room and dragged his ring hand above one of the flickering candles. His eyes locked onto his brother’s in a staredown.

“I have all the authority to antagonize her, Geta. She came to my chambers on your orders, after all. I was actually quite touched at the gesture…until she tried to murder me!” he said dramatically to make a show of it all. He was a wild fan of theatrics and the eldest emperor didn’t bat an eye at his pointed accusation.

“He lies!” the servant wailed and Caracalla swiftly slapped her cheek with the back of his hand to silence her.

“Peace, brother,” Geta said calmly and took the seat across from him. “Your accusations are false. I was…attending business all evening. I would not have the time to confide in one of my own to carry out such a treachery.”

“Ah, business,” Caracalla wiggled his eyebrows suggestively in a light jest. “I even have the weapon she carried that was intended to kill me,” he dangled the small blade in his freehand as proof.

“That could belong to anyone, Caracalla. There is no proof that she was in possession of it. I demand you release her this instant.”

A deep set frown crossed over Caracalla’s features and he drew his attention back to the severant, whose name he wouldn’t even bother to remember. He pointed the edge of the blade against her cheek that felt hot to the touch from the phantom bite of his cruel hand just moments ago. “Can’t you just play into my theatrics for once?” he sighed in disappointment, but his eyes flickered with something truly sadistic and amoral as he drank in the terrified look painted in her irises.

Geta rubbed his temples with his ring clad fingers, the ruby jewel on his left middle finger reflected in the candles glow. “Perhaps if these…theatrics did not involve one of my own servants, I would be more willing to participate.”

“Iocum de omnibus suges, frater,” (you suck the fun out of everything, brother) Caracalla hissed.

“Immo ego, tyranne,” (Indeed I do, tyrant) Geta said coolly.

Caracalla dug the edge of the blade into the softness of her cheek. A bead of blood pooled at the surface of the shallow wound, causing her to whimper from the sudden pain.

“You will play along, Geta. Especially with her life so delicately hanging in my grasp,” he chuckled. “So, what will her fate be, hm? Will you be merciful like Acacius?”

“I will not have you spilling her blood so carelessly. There is no game to play, Caracalla. Now, I will ask you again, release her this instant.”

“Ah. Ah. Ah. That is not how the game is played! Pretend that we are back in the Colosseum and she is begging for her life!” Caracalla said gleefully and dug the edge of the blade further into her cheek. “That’s your cue, girl. Beg for your life and make it believable!”

“Mercy, I beg! Mercy upon me!” she cried out, but Caracalla was unsatisfied with her performance and proceeded to drag the blade down her jaw and to the column of her throat. He leaned in close enough that she could see his pupils dilate and grow darker.

“Your performance is quite…pitiful,” he snickered. “You can do better than that.”

“Caracalla,” Geta said in a warning.

The younger emperor simply waved him off and applied pressure to the edge of the blade against her throat and locked eyes with his brother with a sadistic grin plastered on his thin lips. “Beg for your emperor to be merciful.”

She cried out into the peaceful evening air, begging and pleading for her life to be spared and when Geta arose from his seat, Caracalla’s hand ‘slipped’ and the edge of the blade sliced through her throat fatally. He released her from his grip as she clawed at her neck, blood spurting onto the table below and all over Caracalla’s evening robes, staining golden hues to deep crimson. She made a chilling gurgling sound that emitted from the back of her throat and her body slumped across his lap, twitching before growing still.

“Oops. My hand must have slipped,” Caracalla said with a light sigh that was lacking empathy. He looked down at her deceased body, still warm in his lap with disgust and pushed her to the floor beneath his sandaled feet while she continued to bleed out.

Geta stood unmoving, his left eye twitched, but he did not advance towards his brother. “I quite liked that one,” he muttered under his breath and reached for the empty chalice in front of him. He snapped his fingers once and another servant appeared with a pitcher of wine trembling in her grasp. She quickly poured his wine and was careful to not spill a single drop. Before she could retreat, she felt the cooling touch of his many rings brushing against her skin as he gently grasped her forearm. “Peace, girl. Retire for the evening.”

She bowed quickly and turned on her heel to leave.

“Leave the wine!” Caracalla barked.

The pitcher was carefully set down in the middle of the table and soon the two emperors were alone.

“You’re too soft with them, Geta,” Caracalla muttered over the rim of his chalice.

“No, I just consider all those who serve me to be valuable. I don’t wish to see any of their blood spilled and wasted so carelessly,” he gestured to his dead servant on the floor.

Caracalla glanced down at her deceased form and to disrespect her further, he placed his sandaled foot to rest upon her cheek as if she was his own personal foot rest. “And what of Acacius? Does he still hold a great value to you even after his display of defiance?” he questioned sharply.

“Even in his defiance, Acacius is still valuable. He has always been strong spirited, and I will simply just have to tighten the reins a bit. He will soften to me eventually, but all in due time.”

“That is if he lives much longer,” Caracalla mused and swirled the contents of his chalice with a bored expression.

“He’ll live long enough to vex you, I am certain.”

Caracalla snorted under his breath at this. “And tell me, brother. How do you intend to tame a heart as fierce and defiant as his? How will he suddenly grow loyal to you, hmm? Furthermore, even if your plan is successful, he has no experience on the battlefield and zero strategy. Brute strength will not be enough to sustain our armies.”

“Our armies?” Geta snarled as he leaned over the table, narrowing his eyes at his brother. His upper lip curled in disdain.“You mean, my army?” His tempered demeanor had shredded away, and his claws were unsheathed.

“Your army? The same army that will be wiped off the map if you and I do not reach an agreement? Do you wish to see Rome fall to her enemies, brother? To be stripped of our titles and forced to be slaves for the rest of our miserable lives? You wouldn’t last five seconds having to serve someone outside of yourself,” the younger emperor snapped coldly and the tension brewing between kin could be sliced with the very same blade that was stained with the blood of the innocent.

“An agreement?” Geta snorted at his brother's blatant idiocy. “I will be the reason that Rome remains in power. When Acacius becomes the general of my army and defeats my enemies, you will be eating your words. How foolish are you, truly? Servitude? No, you amentis, (idiot) they will have our heads displayed on spikes for all to see if Rome is to fall.”

“Temper, temper, brother. There is no need to grow restless, we are simply conversing, are we not?” he cackled. “Perhaps your business did not quench your thirst entirely, hm? I cannot say the same for myself,” he subtly gestured to the dead servant. “She met mine quite well. Shame that she had to die…I would have quite enjoyed having her in my bed again. Which of your servants shall I kill next?” he leaned over his half of the table, his eyes dancing with mischief as he took another long sip from his chalice, teeth gleaming in claret over the golden rim.

“My business satisfied me plenty, brother,” Geta responded with a curt nod and rose from his seat.

“Oh, before you go,” Caracalla commenced and leaned back against the plush cushion situated at his lower back, “Perhaps for your next attempt at murdering me, you choose something…” he snapped his fingers as he tried to think of the word, “discreet,” he grinned. “Ah, Yes! Discreet. What about poisoning me?” he suggested. “You could slip something into my drink or food and I would never know.”

“That is the most wicked, Caracalla. I quite enjoy the mental image of seeing you claw at your throat as blood seeps from your eyes. I think that is what I will dream of tonight,” he tipped the rim of his chalice in Caracalla’s direction mockingly.

“And I will dream of cutting your vile tongue out and feeding it to one of your whores,” Caracalla quipped back.

“Indeed,” Geta mused. “Sleep well, brother,” he said with a subtle wink. He downed the rest of his wine before setting the empty chalice along the table, leaving the room without another word leaving his lips.

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