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queenvidal · 2 months ago

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The Golden Rose Of Rome

Emperor Geta x Reader

Chapter 1: Thorns

Chapter Summary: The Emperor is not used to being denied. He'll come to find even the most beautiful flowers carry thrones. Drawing his intrigue is dangerous and no prickle will stop him.

Wordcount: 4k.

A/N: Written inclusively, no race mentioned or implied.

Chapter Index: Chapter 1 / Chapter 2/ Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6

Masterlist

The air of the Imperial Palaces is buzzing with laughter and music. Expensive wine is flowing freely between Rome's Elite, a parade of wealth and charm where every guest is competing for attention in the glittering spectacle. From their golden dais, the twin emperors oversee the festivities, though each is engrossed in his own way.

Caracalla lounges lazily in his gilded seat, the lack of enthusiasm evident. He is barely paying attention, too focused on his beloved monkey that is sitting on the armrest. While taking long, careless sips of wine he occasionally fed Dundus with grapes.

Geta on the other hand is sitting upright but his face is mirroring the boredom of his brother, his dark eyes observing the crowd with mild interest.

These elaborate displays of power and wealth had quickly lost their appeal and soon became tiresome rituals of their rule. Necessary evils, as even Emperors have to maintain appearances.

Caracalla throws a grape in the air, watching Dundus catch it mid-air. His eyes momentarily move towards the crowd before returning back to his monkey. With a sigh, he breaks the silence, gesturing toward a group of dancers performing in the center of the hall. “Do you ever wonder why we bother with all this? I’d wager most of them don’t even remember why we are holding these festivities.”

Geta glances at his brother, with a hint of humor in his voice he asks, “Do you?” Caracalla narrows his eyes at the teasing but keeps silent, his attention back to the monkey.

“It’s necessary,” Geta continues, his eyes resuming to oversee the guests. “The spectacle reminds them of our power.”

“Power,” Caracalla echoes with a grimace. “If they were truly loyal, we wouldn’t need to remind them at all. Loyalty bought with wine and music isn’t loyalty. It’s theater.”

“Perhaps,” Geta shrugs his shoulders. “But the people thrive on theater. It keeps them entertained and compliant.”

Caracalla sighs, swirling his goblet, “We should have asked Macrinus to send some of his gladiators.”

Geta tilts his head, amusement coloring his features. “We can’t have people die at every festive occasion, brother.”

Caracalla’s grin turns wicked as he strokes Dundus’s fur, “Says who?”

That elicits a faint chuckle from his brother. Geta reaches for a new goblet of wine, with his lips curved into a half smile. “The night’s still young, Caracalla. Let’s see what this evening brings before you write it off entirely.”

As if on cue, the grand doors of the atrium swing open, catching both brothers’ attention. A new set of guests enters the hall. Another senator with his family, but something about them is different, their arrival causes a subtle shift in the room. Heads turn and hushed whispers travel through the crowd.

“More senators,” Caracalla releases a tired breath, his attention already elsewhere.

Geta is about to dismiss them as well but then the senator steps aside, revealing two young women trailing behind him. Geta straights in his chair lightly, his attention sharpening.

The elder of the two wears a pale bluish almost lavender colored dress that shimmers in the light of the chandeliers. Her hair is pinned up, exposing her neck and shoulders. An air of quiet confidence surrounds her as she walks, her head held high as she speaks with her father. The younger one, in a soft, rose-colored gown, clings to her sister’s arm. Her movements try to mimic the elder’s, though she lacks the sisters' confidence. They exchange a few words with their father before he drifts off with their brother, leaving the two to stand at the entrance.

Caracalla notices Geta’s interest and raises an eyebrow. “Something worth noting?” But Geta doesn’t reply right away. Caracalla follows his brother’s line of sight, observing the young women briefly before turning back to Dundus. “They’re pretty, I’ll give them that. But half the women here are pretty.”

“True,” Geta murmurs softly.

Caracalla has to smirk, to him they look like every other noble daughter. “Careful, Geta. You seem interested. Should I have them sent up?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Geta scoffs at his brother, before leaning back in his chair, his eyes moving over the crowd again.

Caracalla chuckles softly, tossing another grape to Dundus. “The night’s young, indeed.”

The air smells like flowers and honey. Your eyes dart between the crowd, as you take a deep breath, trying to steel your nerves. The practiced mask of composure quickly slips into place. With a pet of your sister's hand on your arm, you smile at her, “Shall we?”

Sabina nods, giving you a faint smile of her own. Her calm exterior is just an act and you know that. You can feel the unease radiating from her. The court is a beautiful prison, a place where every glance and every word carries meaning. Tonight, the eyes of friends and foes will be on you. A dance you’ve learned long ago but it's still new to your little sister.

With Sabina’s hand securely around your arm, you lead her through the hall, exchanging brief pleasantries with the various nobles and acquaintances you encounter. The conversations are fleeting and filled with hollow friendliness. Not wishing to spend the night with unhonest smiles alone, you two continue moving through the crowd.

When a servant approaches with trays of wine, you take two cups, handing one to Sabina with a quiet instruction. “Drink slowly. It keeps your hands occupied.”

Sabina accepts her cup, taking a quick sip. “It’s impressive how you do it.”

You cast her a small reassuring smile, petting her hand on your arm. “All practice, Sabi. Trust me, soon it’ll come as naturally to you as it does to me.”

She shakes her head softly, moving forward through the guests. “No, it’s not that. When you do it, it looks simple. Like you were born for this.”

With your eyes on the nobles around you, you say, “Thank you for the compliment, but I am born into this and so are you. Soon enough, you’ll handle it with ease. Just watch Marcus and me.”

Sabina nods silently, her steps quickening to match your pace as you lead her further into the hall. You come to stand before one of today's entertainments, beautiful exotic dancers. Their bodies move like water as they glide across the floor in a swirl of colors. As you two watch them, servants continue to offer delicacies, exotic fruits, pastries filled with honey, roasted meats sliced finely. You sample a bit of everything, savoring the fleeting pleasure of it.

As you take a small piece of a fruit you haven't heard from before, you nod subtly toward a woman standing near a pillar. "See Lady Amagus, the one in green? She’ll divorce her husband soon. He fathered a bastard with her youngest sister.”

Sabina’s eyes widen and she covers her mouth, momentarily forgetting to conceal her reaction. The shock fades quickly again. "By Jupiter... the humiliation."

You nod, your gaze following the woman. "I can’t imagine it. But she’s holding herself with outstanding grace despite it."

The two of you continue your way through the crowd, gossiping quietly as you walk. Eventually you stop near the archways leading to one of the many palace gardens. The fresh cool evening air is a welcome gift. You turn your back to the arches, enjoying the air brushing over your shoulders, your little sister quickly following suit.

Sabina leans in, her voice lowered as she speaks. “I’ve heard Julia Meranius will marry into House Heras. Not the son, but the father. Lady Heras just died and they’re already making wedding plans.”

You shake your head, your jaw tightening in disgust. "Tasteless. Makes you wonder if her illness was more than just a coincidence.” Sabina glares at you but you just shrug your shoulders. “Unfortunate, no less.”

The music changes and you allow yourself to breathe, savoring the cooling breeze that drifts through the heated hall. Unfortunately, the peace is short-lived, as from the corner of your eye, you catch Sabina’s gaze wandering, drifting upward to the side, to the golden dais.

The Emperors.

“Stop it.” You admonish her quietly, the calm mask on your face intact despite the warning in your tone. “It’s unwise to draw their notice.”

Sabina startles slightly, her eyes snapping back to the crowd immediately. “They look-” “Don’t.” You cut her off with a sharper edge, casting her a quick warning glare.

Your sister exhales softly, her lips pressing into a thin line as she lifts her cup, sipping in silence.

Shortly after your arrival, you’ve stolen a quick glance at them yourself, when moving through the crowd. You know what she was going to say.

That the twin emperors might as well be statues - cold, motionless, carved from arrogance itself. They can’t even bring themselves to feign interest in the spectacle before them.

You glance at Sabina, ensuring her focus remains elsewhere while your own thoughts betray you. War, death and bloodshed are known to be your ruler's true passions and it seems neither music nor wine can compare. True to their title, the mad twins. A name only uttered in the smallest of whispers in the darkest of Rome's corners.

With a slight shake of your head, you try to banish these traitorous thoughts. You’re not here to dwell on politics, that is reserved for your brother and father. You are here to enjoy the evening.

Sabinas' sudden firm grip on your arm quickly demands your attention. She leans closer to you. “Senator Domitianus just arrived.”

You take another slow sip of your wine, eyes flicking over to where the elderly senator stands. “Pay him no mind. He’s toothless. A few years left to live and even fewer alliances to call his own. In a few months, he’ll be nothing more than a whisper in the wind."

Sabina smiles faintly, her fingers tightening just slightly around your arm. It’s comforting in a way, this quiet understanding between you two. “Hold your head up high, Sabina. He will be soon forgotten, while we are still standing despite his efforts. We are proud and everyone shall see it.”

Up on the golden dais, the emperors still watch the growing crowd. Dundus is squeaking happily, performing tricks for his master, much to his delight.

Geta rolls his eyes, annoyed by the loud, little creature. Resting his head on his hand, he suppresses a sigh. This night really does feel endless, the music and chatter blending into a monotonous hum. His eyes wander over the dancers without much interest. He watches their performance for a moment, before a flicker of blue in his periphery catches his attention. At once his gaze shifts again, landing on the sisters he noticed earlier tonight.

The older sister stands out, not only in her appearance but in her demeanor. The woman in blue carries herself with effortless elegance, a composure that sets her apart from the peacocks who parade themselves before him and his brother. Unlike the other women in the hall, she seems unconcerned with drawing attention to herself, oozing quiet confidence as though she has nothing to prove.

“What do you think of them?” Geta asks, his voice low as he turns to his brother, though his gaze never leaves the sisters. “They seem out of place.”

Caracalla glances over at them, his face twisting into a smirk. “Which one caught your attention, the proud dove or the trembling chick?”

Geta’s lips twitch slightly but he didn’t look away. “The one in blue. There is something about her.”

“That so? And what would that be?” Caracalla asks, his eyes landing on the girls briefly again before looking back at the monkey. “She’s just some noble’s daughter, here to remind us that her family still exists. Probably hoping to secure a good match for herself or the skittish one by her side. And if you’re not careful, she’ll think you’re interested.”

As if sensing their eyes on her, the woman in blue turns her head slowly, her eyes sweeping the room until they nearly meet Geta’s. But before their gazes can lock, a familiar figure strides into the hall, stealing the emperor's attention.

“Fabius Verrinus.” Geta observes quietly, looking at his brother with a knowing grin. He straightens in lazy anticipation. “Finally, some entertainment.”

The brothers share a look of amusement. Senator Verrinus is infamous, known for his sharp mind and even sharper tongue. A man of the kind that thrives on attention and over the time the emperors have become eager spectators.

“Let’s see who he targets tonight,” Caracalla says, leaning forward with rekindled interest.

Verrinus exchanges a few words with a fellow senator when his gaze finds the two sisters. He pauses mid-sentence, his lips curving into a predatory smile. Geta's brows knit together, it seems the sisters haven’t only captured his interest.

The senator excuses himself, making his way towards the two women in purposeful strides. By the looks of it, the elder one notices him first, her posture tensing lightly in anticipation.

Verrinus' voice breaks though the music, loud enough to draw attention of the close by nobles. “Ah, the daughters of House Cassius! A vision, as always.”

The crowd parts slightly as he approaches the sisters. Fabius' voice is laced with honey but his smile fails to reach his eyes. “I must say it's quite surprising to see you in attendance tonight. I’ve heard your family is facing hard times. I heard your father struggles to keep his trading routes safe. Perhaps he should take notes from more capable men.”

His words are calculated, insults cloaked in feigned civility. The younger girl stiffens visibly, her wide eyes darting nervously between her sister and Fabius.

Caracalla chuckles quietly from his seat, leaning in to watch the exchange. “The little one looks like she’s about to cry.”

Geta ignores him, his eyes focused on the elder one. She is completely unmoved by Verrinus' words.

With a small step, she positions herself between the man and her sister, regarding the senator with a calm expression. “It is said that true nobility lies in enduring challenges with grace, my lord. Perhaps that is why my father commands respect, while others must resort to empty words to make themselves feel important.”

Geta arches an eyebrow, surprise evident in his face. Her boldness gains even more attention, subtle murmurs carry through the crowd of onlookers.

Verrinus' smile falters for a brief moment, his eyes narrowing at her. “Lady Y/N, surely you’ve heard about the rumors that your father-”

“Rumors,” she interrupts him, her tone smooth but direct. “Are like smoke, Senator. They may cloud the air for a time, but they vanish quickly when met with light. Only fools grasp at shadows in their search for relevance. It’s truly a blessing to know my family is above such things.”

The crowd’s whispers grow louder, encouraged by her eloquent retort. Verrinus opens his mouth to respond but before he can so much as utter a word, she silences him with a brilliant smile. “If you’ll excuse us, Senator. My sister and I would rather enjoy the tranquility of the garden than linger in such smoke.”

Without waiting for a response, she takes her sister’s arm and guides her through the archway to the garden, leaving Verrinus to stew in the bitter humiliation.

Caracalla bursts into laughter, clapping his hands once. “Oh, she’s good! Did you see his face? Like a fish gasping for air.”

Geta huffs a laugh, his gaze shifting briefly to his brother, then back to the archway where the sisters disappeared. Caracalla leans back, clapping his hands again. “That was entertaining. What did he say her name was?”

Geta gestures to a nearby squire. “The woman in blue, who is she?”

The squire bows deeply before answering. “That is Lady Y/N Cassius, Your Majesty. The oldest daughter of Senator Gaius Cassius. Their grandfather was a merchant who built the family’s fortune. Senator Cassius expanded their influence further before securing a seat in the Senate.”

“Merchants elevated to Patricians,” Caracalla sneers, his earlier respect dimming by the family's status. “Hardly remarkable.”

With his eyes lingeing on the archway to the gardens, Geta points out, “Remarkable enough to silence Verrinus,”

The squire explains further, “House Cassius faced challenges of late, but they are still highly respected by many.”

“Respected,” Geta repeats, deep in thought. “Yes, I see why.” He dismisses the squire with a wave of his hand. Leaning back slowly in his seat again, his expression turns unreadable.

He was no stranger to the name Cassius, the family isn’t unfamiliar but the woman herself is. Geta realizes now that he’s never truly encountered that woman before tonight. That in itself feels like a peculiar oversight on his part. How had he overlooked someone like her, surely he would have noticed her before tonight.

Caracalla's mind is already distracted again as he leans against the armrest, his little Dundus sitting on his shoulder. “You see that one over there?” He gestured idly toward a group of noblewomen, his voice dripping with indifference. “She’s been staring at me for the last hour. Desperate for attention, like the rest of them.”

Geta doesn't reply, his focus still drawn toward the garden. Verrinus' still standing off to the side, his face still flushed from embarrassment or rage, likely a combination of both. The man’s pride is clearly wounded and yet Geta feels no pity nor amusement. There is only a quiet, growing curiosity about the woman who had so effortlessly dismantled the most vicious man of the city.

“Are you even listening, brother?” Caracalla asks, tossing a grape towards him.

“Hm?” Geta responds absently.

Caracalla frowns at him, “Brooding about the girls, are you? Don’t waste your time.”

Geta’s expression remains impassive as he keeps silent, his mind still working. Their father is a senator and by the looks of it, his eldest daughter has more wit than half the Senate combined.

Eventually his eyes shortly move back to his brother before returning to the archways, “If her father’s political acumen matches her wit, House Cassius might prove useful.”

Caracalla laughs, loud enough to make a few nearby guests glance their way. “You always think in terms of politics, brother. Sometimes a woman is just a woman.”

“Sometimes, yes,” Geta agrees quietly. “But not this one.”

Caracalla laughs again, even louder this time. “And what of it? Haven’t you seen that little sister? That girl looked like a frightened fawn. I’ll take her, she seems easy to break. You can have the sharp-tongued one.”

Geta rolls his eyes, his tone dry. “How magnanimous of you.”

Caracalla only grins. “Her tongue will be the death of her. Verrinus won’t forget this. A shame, really. She’d make an entertaining court jester.”

“Or a useful ally,” Geta muses, swirling his wine thoughtfully.

“So? Are you going to sit there brooding all night, or are you going to follow her?” Caracalla teases lightly before tossing a grape into his mouth. “You look like a dog sniffing after a bone.”

“Unlike you, brother,” Geta finally tears his gaze away to meet Caracalla’s amused expression, “I don’t make a habit of chasing every pretty face. And I certainly don’t declare my intentions aloud in the presence of the entire court.”

Caracalla laughs, unbothered by the bait. “Oh, come now, Geta. Admit it - you’re intrigued. The noble merchant’s daughter, standing tall amidst the wolves. It’s practically a tale out of one of those tragic love poems you pretend not to enjoy.”

Geta ignores the jab about poetry, but his curiosity is undeniable. Caracalla's eyes met him again. “But don’t let it distract you from the reality of who we are.”

“And what’s that?” Geta asks, his annoyance clear in his tone.

“Gods,” Caracalla states simply, flashing a sharp grin. “And gods don’t chase mortal girls, no matter how clever they are.”

Geta drains his goblet, setting it down with a decisive clink. Rising from his seat, he adjusts the folds of his imperial robe.

“Oh, so you are going after her,” Caracalla drawls, leaning back with a smug grin. “Be careful, Geta. That rose seems to have thorns.”

Geta doesn’t spare his brother another glance, as he descends the dais. “I’d rather deal with thorns than another evening listening to you.”

The moon is rising behind the horizon, casting its brilliant silver glow across the sprawling opulent gardens of the imperial palace.

You dare to take a deep breath, trying to calm your rapidly beating heart. Verrinus is such a coward. Instead of searching the confrontation he so clearly wished for with your father he chose the assumed easier opponent.

A mistake, clearly. Your father was a good teacher and you an even better student. Still, the confrontation was nerve racking and unnecessary. The rivalry between your two families shouldn't be so open on display.

“That was impressive.” Your little sister beams at you, awe reflecting in her eyes. “He was stunned into silence.”

You two come to stand in front of a marble fountain. You lean against the cool stone lightly, before addressing your concerns. “Father will have a wonderful time in the Forum next time.”

Sabina looks at you with a small smile, petting your shoulder. “But what else could we have done? Ignore him? Surly Father will understand.”

Of course he will but that doesn’t make it any easier. Verrinus is a man who holds grudges. Father will not be thrilled. This will have consequences.

“On another note,” Sabina’s smile grows, “Did mother tell you about her recent encounter with Verrinus' ex-wife?”

Getas' feet take him slowly through the garden, following where the sisters had disappeared earlier. The feast is still lively, the music and laughter echoing in the distance but the Emperor doesn’t take notice. His eyes are set onto the two figures in the middle of the garden.

His pace slows down as he watches the sisters. The younger one is grinning brightly, gesturing wildly as she tells a story. The older one, Y/N as he has learned, listens attentively. The soft blue seems more lavender now, shimmering in the pale light. Her face, shining with a genuine smile, looks like a painting brought to life. Beautiful.

She seems to notice eyes on her, her head turning towards him. In an instant the smile is gone, replaced by the expression of careful composure he came to admire earlier tonight.

“Lady Y/N,” Geta greets, his voice smooth but edged with curiosity. “A word?”

You dip into a respectful curtsy, your heart taking on speed again. Sabina quickly follows suit, though her gaze carefully darts around, as though searching for potential onlookers.

“Your Majesty,” you greet him back, tone carefully measured despite the storm in your chest. “I hope you are enjoying your feast.”

“I was,” Geta lies, his expression unreadable. “But I couldn’t help but notice you earlier. Not many would dare speak to Verrinus in such a way. You have a sharp tongue, though you wield it well. It’s rare to see such grace under pressure.”

Your heart keeps pounding violently in your chest, fearing guests might taking note of this exchange. With a tight smile on your lips, you reply, “Your Majesty is too kind.”

Geta steps closer, his attention fully on the woman in front of him. “And now I find myself wondering why I have not seen you before tonight.”

“You have, Your Majesty,” you dare to correct him carefully, “I am a rare attendant to the court but we were introduced at the Colosseum some years ago, though I wouldn’t expect you to remember. There are many faces demanding your attention. It would be understandable if mine was forgotten.”

Geta’s brow arches, the response only deepening his curiosity. “I assure you, Lady Y/N, your face is not one I would forget.”

His tone is almost playful but there is a weight behind his words that makes you feel even more on edge. “I am honored by your kindness, Your Majesty, but it is likely true. After all, I am one of many.”

Sabinas' eyes move toward a group of men lingering near the garden entrance, Fabius Verrinus among them. She subtly touches your wrist, a silent warning.

Your expression hardened ever so slightly, as you caught the men in the corner of your eye as well. Quickly you return your focus back to the Emperor. “I am honored to have spoken to you, Augustus, but I don’t want to keep you from the feast for too long. Surely you have more pressing matters than to concern yourself with a mere daughter of House Cassius.”

Geta’s eyes narrow subtly. Why does he get the feeling she is trying to leave? At the realization, his voice hardens, “I decide what matters concern me, Lady Y/N. And at this moment, you do.”

Your sister shifts nervously and you place a reassuring hand on her arm. “I am flattered by your attention, but surely it is misplaced.” You attempt a soft laugh. “I doubt I am deserving of it.”

Getas' jaw clenches faintly, “I disagree. You’ve spoken of the arena, do you attend often?”

“Always.” You tell him, a genuine small smile cracking through your mask. “I have never missed a game since my father became senator. I find the games to be fascinating.”

“Fascinating?” The Emperor repeats, intrigued. “Most noblewomen I know prefer the banquets to the arena. Why do you favor the games?”

You hesitate, sensing the weight of his curiosity. “The arena is a place of stories, of triumphs and tragedies. It shows the strength and spirit of Rome and it reminds us of the cost of greatness.”

Slowly Sabina takes your arm, applying soft pressure. A few nobles decided to take a stroll in the garde as well, although they are out of earshot, their discreet glances don't escape the young Cassius.

Your back straightens instinctively. “The hour grows late and I fear we’ve already taken too much of your time, Augustus. With your permission, my sister and I will return to the palace to find our father.”

“You seem eager to leave.” Geta observes, his voice calm but with an edge of suspicion. He steps forward, blocking her path slowly, a silent challenge. He watches her for any crumb of reaction, anything that might shatter her controlled composure.

“Not at all, Your Majesty,” You sling your arm around your sisters, offering a casual smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “But my sister tires easily. It would be remiss of me not to see her safely back to our father.”

Sabina is about to open her mouth to speak, ready to elaborate on the excuse but you subtly squeeze her arm, silencing her before she can undo your carefully chosen words.

Geta’s jaw tightens as he considers the women, his piercing gaze flickering between the two. That little one didn’t look the least bit tired only a few moments ago. A very poor excuse, one Geta recognizes for what it is: a dismissal.

He is the emperor. He does not get dismissed.

Hot frustration blooms in Geta’s chest at her defiance. He considers insisting her to stay, forcing her to remain in his presence, but something about her makes him hesitate.

He has the power to make her yield, to bend her will with a single order. Yet, for now, he lets it go. With a controlled breath, he eventually steps aside, allowing them to pass. “Good night, Lady Cassius.”

The two sisters bow down again in unison, wishing him a good night as well, before walking towards the palace.

The moment you move past him, your grip on your sister’s arm tightens like a vice. With swift, elaborate steps, you steer her back towards the archways. She is about to look back over her shoulder but you tug her forward.

“Move,” you almost bark under your breath, the pressure of the night’s interactions finally catching up to you.

Sabina, despite it, leans in closer, her voice teasingly soft, “He’s handsome.”

With slightly hurried steps, you return to the Atrium, your grip is unrelenting, “I’ve noticed.”

Geta stands still, rooted in place with his mood souring as he watches the women leave. The bitter taste of rejection lingering on his tongue. All the women in the atrium would fall over themselves for his attention, desperate for any scrap of it, but not her.

She evadied him at every turn, so politely and as elegantly, it wasn’t just frustrating - this was fascinating. For a brief, aching moment, Geta is consumed by the thought. But then it shifts into something darker, something sharper. He knows he will see her again. And when he does, he’ll make sure she won't slip through his grasp again so easily.

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ebodebo · 1 month ago

Text

I'm dreamin' 'bout silver and gold

—getting jealous over dick talking to a girl at bruce's new year's eve party... MDNI

You stood in the corner of the Wayne Manor ballroom, quietly sipping a glass of champagne at Bruce's New Year’s Eve celebration.

The drink had an unexpectedly dry taste as you observed the scene unfolding before you. There was Dick, your charming boyfriend, effortlessly chatting with none other than a senator's daughter.

You shouldn't feel this way.

You trusted Dick completely, but that minx with her perfectly manicured fingers and captivating smile was a different matter altogether.

You just couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was off.

You felt the tight hands twist your insides like a relentless ivy, tightening with each lingering touch and laugh that wasn't meant for her.

Your last straw was when she lowered her head and casually mentioned her father's purchase of a new beach house in the Hamptons, suggesting he should come to stay for a few days loud enough for you to hear.

Christ's sake, did she just wink at him? She did.

Your feet are moving faster than your brain can process. As you glide past them, Dick calls your name, but you ignore him and keep walking. Suddenly, you feel a slight tug at the back of your dress, which causes you to lean back and spill champagne all over it.

"Oh dear. It seems you've spilled a little," the minx says, peering over her champagne glass, a slight smirk playing on her lips.

Dick speaks with deep concern, reaching out his hands toward you. “Baby,” he utters.

You feel tears welling up as you realize people are staring. Before more embarrassment sets in, you turn on your heels and hurry out of the ballroom towards the bathroom.

Dick is closely pursuing you as you speed toward the door, calling your name. You don’t look back, simply pushing the door open and slamming it in his face, twisting the lock to prevent his entry.

You run your fingers through your hair to calm yourself as Dick fiddles with the doorknob. "Dick, stop," you say, a little more harshly than intended.

“Let me in. What's going on, sweetheart?" He asks worriedly, still fiddling with the doorknob. "I'm not leaving until I see you.”

You remain resolute, grabbing a handful of paper towels and soaking them in water to try to remove some of the champagne from your dress.

He grunts while fiddling with the doorknob. "Jason and I have done ten-hour stakeout missions, Sweetheart. I can wait it out," he confidently states.

You let out a deep sigh as tears streamed down your cheeks.

Perhaps you were upset with him, but you were mostly embarrassed that one girl could have your head in such a tailspin. You needed some comfort.

You reluctantly reach for the doorknob and fling it open, revealing Dick standing on the other side.

“Oh, honey,” he coos softly, noticing your smeared mascara and swollen eyes. He steps closer, resting his hand on the back of your head and laying you against his chest.

"You’re going to ruin your suit," you say, referring to the mascara stains that will definitely be left behind.

"I'll get a new one," he says casually, his fingers running through your hair to comfort you.

You both stand there for a moment as he whispers sweet words into your ear, and you continue to cry on his chest.

You're the first to pull away, your eyes looking down at your now-stained dress. "Sorry, I, uh, ruined the dress," you awkwardly shuffle away.

“It wasn’t your fault. Don't worry," he reassured, threading his fingers through yours. "I'm sure Barb has something you can wear.”

"She won’t mind?" You timidly ask as he leads you to the guest room, where Barb keeps her overflow of dresses.

"She'd kill me if I didn't let you borrow one of them," he chuckles, leading you to the bedroom door.

Once inside, he helps you sit at the edge of the bed while he searches through Barb's gowns.

"What color?" He prompts.

You think for a moment. "Blue."

He hums. "Like music to my ears."

You chuckle softly, tugging at the hem of your dress as Dick selects a shimmering blue dress from the rack.

“So," he said encouragingly, "tell me what upset you.”

Your eyes lock onto his, and your lips purse. "Well, I—" you start, abruptly pausing and feeling bashful.

He tilts his head to the side, the corner of his lip quirking. "Since when have you ever been nervous around me? Tell me," he prods, laying the dress next to you on the bed.

“I guess I just felt a little... you know,” you say, raising your hands as if to dismiss the question.

He takes your hand in his. "No, I don't know. Go on."

You grip his hand tighter and playfully roll your eyes. "Jealous.”

He opens his mouth slightly but quickly shuts it again.

“I mean, can you really blame me? She wanted you, Dick," you ramble. "I’ve never seen a woman flirt so openly and blatantly with a guy already taken." Suddenly, you stand up and pitch your voice higher, mimicking her, “"You fill out that suit nicely, Dickie! Who says that? Who says that?"”

Dick laughs. He laughs.

"I'm upset, and you're laughing! Laughing!" you exclaim, crossing your arms over your chest.

He stands, his hands coming to rest on your elbows, gently rubbing them. "I'm only laughing because you have nothing to be jealous of. You're perfect, baby. I only want you. You're my perfect girl," he coos lowly.

You merely hum in response, turning your head away from him.

“Do you need me to show you how much I love you?" His voice dropped an octave. "Show you that you're my perfect girl?

You squeal as he pulls you so you're flush against his chest, his hands moving to caress the back of your neck, leaning his head down so his lips skim the side of your neck.

"Tell me," he goads. "Tell me, Baby."

"Dick...we can't. The party—" Your protest dies on your tongue as his tongue slides across your sizzling skin. Your hand moves to thread through his hair, hoping to gain a little stability.

"Fuck the party," he murmurs into your skin, nipping your sensitive skin a little with his canines. You let out a pathetic whine, gripping him tighter. "Let me show you," he almost begs, his voice hoarse.

"Please."

You pull his face from your neck, guiding his lips to yours to kiss them with firey intensity. "Show me, Dick. Show me," you mutter into his lips with much anguish.

He hums a sound of approval as he grips you tighter, tongue sliding in your mouth. You continue the fervent exchange, tongues battling, teeth clashing, and greedy hands moving to grip any skin they can.

"Get on the bed," Dick croaks into your mouth.

You hurriedly move to lay on the bed as Dick grips your ankles and pulls you toward the edge so your legs hang off.

"Gonna make you feel so good, Baby," he mumbles, dropping to his knees and pushing up the tool of your dress so it pools around your waist. His lips skim from your ankle, up your calf, to your inner thigh, where he plants deep kisses that have you squirming.

His fingers move to shove your panties to the side, moving his head to prod his tongue into your cunt. You whine at the action, bringing your hand to thread through his hair.

"Only want this pussy," he mutters into you, tongue lapsing around your clit. "Fuckin' made for me."

He grips your thighs so his biceps rest under the hinge of your knee, pulling you closer to roll your clit between his teeth.

"Dick," you moan out, writhing under him.

"What, Baby? Feel good," he grumbles, massaging your thighs with his hands.

You nod fervently, unable to speak.

He continues rolling and flicking at your clit until you grip his head tightly, pushing him where you need him until your arousal coats his tongue and lips.

He makes sure to leave you sparkling clean with the help of his tongue.

He pulls your dress back down only when he's completely done, moving to lay next to you, pulling you close so you rest on his chest.

It's silent for a moment before you hear the beginning of what sounds like a countdown.

3...

2...

1...

'Happy New Year!'

You hear the party downstairs yell.

You look up at Dick, whose eyes are already on you. "Happy New Year, Dickie," you murmur, smiling.

"Happy New Year, Baby," he smiles, pressing a kiss to your head.

Best New Year ever.

a/n: first dick fic feeling horny💔

reblogs & comments encouraged!

440 notes · View notes

megalony · 2 months ago

Text

Valuable To The Emperor

Here is a new Emperor Geta imagine, requested by my lovely @missdreamofendless I hope you will like it.

Thank you for all the lovely feedback on my first Geta imagine, I am in the process of writing a few more for him as I am hooked. Please let me know what you think.

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Main Masterlist

Summary: When certain people from (Y/n)'s past begin to notice how much she means to the Emperor, they start to wonder what he might pay if she were to be taken. When the Emperor finds out, he is less than pleased.

Enjoy.

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

With her hands curled around Geta's arm, (Y/n) leaned into his side as they approached the home in front of them.

She had never been here before. In all truth, there were many fine places in Rome that (Y/n) had never had a chance to go or be invited to. And with her humble, broken background, being invited to a Senate's home was never something (Y/n) had been given the pleasure to do and it wasn't something she ever thought would happen to her.

Her eyes took in the fine art that decorated the hall when they were welcomed through the doors. The art was something to take her mind off the desperate urge within her to shrink towards the back of the floodwave.

(Y/n) didn't feel worthy of this, of walking by the side of an Emperor.

Even the concubines and women of the night who often kept Caracalla company weren't walking by his side. They were more towards the back, walking behind the other Senates who were entering this home and the few Generals and high lords and ladies of court who had been invited.

But any thought (Y/n) had of shrinking away was vanquished when she felt Geta's hands move. He kept his left elbow bent so (Y/n) could keep hold of his arm, but he moved his left hand to grip one of (Y/n)'s hands.

His eyes cast down in her direction and the smirk that flooded his face was enough to make (Y/n)'s knees quiver beneath her gown. She loved the way those reddened lips curved and contrasted to the paleness of his face. She loved how his eyes would crease and zoom in on whatever he was studying and if it happened to be (Y/n) that he was focusing on, (Y/n) felt humbled and unworthy all at once.

His thumb stroked along the back of her hand as they walked through the marbled hall adoned with a few statues that (Y/n) guessed were of the Senate's family members. Their faces didn't resemble any of the great leaders of Rome and (Y/n), despite her background, had studied hard. It was one of the things that helped her gain what little power she now had.

Her attention was stolen away from the artwork to glance at the other Emperor who had quickened his steps to follow their host.

There was a skip in Caracalla's step and he seemed to be in one of his more joyeous moods. Being close to Geta meant (Y/n) was privy to information that was otherwise unknown to the people of Rome. She knew about Caracalla's ailment and how it would cause lapses in judgement and changes in mood. She knew it also tended to cause blemishes on his skin which was why he tended to wear make up more heavily than his brother.

Sometimes it was sad to bear witness to, but seeing Caracalla in one of his good moods like this was always endearing.

He had a certain stride in his pace and his back was straight as he followed through to the chamber that adjoined and led towards the garden.

"This should be entertaining." The way Geta leaned down and whispered the words against the shell of (Y/n)'s ear made her shiver and smile to herself. She wasn't sure whether he was referring to the gathering that they were attending, or his brother's attitude, but it didn't really matter.

She agreed with Geta on all counts.

The room they walked into was spacious and looked out onto the garden. There were many open windows and large doorways to let the natural light pour in and there was a table set up with delicacies and various vases of flowers and vines and roses dotted around.

"This way, my Emperors." The senate had a rather nervous smile and he seemed to (Y/n) like one of those people who would do anything to please the highest bidder in the room.

He ushered his arm towards the left corner of the room where there was a large lounge sofa laid beneath the high window where more light was streaming beautifully into the room. Small fires were lit in either corner to cast more light and give off heat where the cold dwelled along the old stone walls and it gave off a cosy effect.

(Y/n) wasn't sure where to move or what to do with herself, but she didn't have to worry. As soon as Caracalla placed himself on the right corner of the sofa, Geta followed suit and he didn't tear away from (Y/n). He barely moved an inch without her, making sure she kept up her pace walking beside him.

Geta gracefully sat down beside his brother and his head tilted up so his eyes could follow (Y/n), making sure she sat alongside him. There didn't look to be much space left for (Y/n) to sit down alongside the Emperors and she briefly debated where to sit as others filtered into the room.

One of Caracalla's concubines sat on the floor right beside him with her cheek resting on his thigh. A few other women stood behind the sofa and leered over like they were posing for a portrait and (Y/n) noticed one of them leaning over the arm rest to be closer to Caracalla. She was practically sitting on the armrest.

(Y/n) thought it would be safer to sit beside Geta in the small space he was clearly glancing at to make sure she stayed right by his side. She couldn't perch on the arm rest like the other woman was doing, it wasn't proper. Nobody should sit higher than the Emperors.

Once she was sat down between Geta and the armrest, Geta crossed one leg over the other and leaned back. He spread his right arm out along the back of the sofa and rested his hand on (Y/n)'s shoulder. His touch was delicate and so light that (Y/n) could barely even feel it, but the sensation of his fingertips lightly skimming across her arm was soothing.

She allowed herself to recline back just a little so she was leaning against his arm but still sitting straight to keep her manners. Her hands rested on her lap and she began tapping her fingers against her thighs to try and keep herself calm and content.

She never knew what to do with herself at events like these.

(Y/n) wasn't one of the ladies who were currently draped around the sofa like rolls of silk. She wasn't someone who hung around the Emperors for favours or money or to provide services.

She was someone who had scraped her way up through the classes to make something of herself. Someone who had nothing when she ventured to Rome, the same as both Emperors when they were children.

Geta saw that in her. He saw that part of himself that he wanted to forget, the part that had done everything to protect his twin and get them away from the gutter and the abuse they had suffered. He saw how hard (Y/n) fought for what she had and what she wanted and it was something that he could relate to. Something Geta wanted to worship.

What they had was something Geta wanted to protect at all costs. He had found someone other than his brother to love and protect in (Y/n) and he wanted her by his side at all times.

It was what set her apart from the other women who trailed along behind them like the women crowded around them right now. They were play-things to have around, they weren't loved or worshipped or protected and adored.

They weren't the one that Geta wanted to make his Empress.

His fingers continued their administration across (Y/n)'s shoulder while his other hand tapped against his knee like he was counting or keeping track of something. It made him look unamused but the small smile tugging at his lips showed he was pleased.

"What have you planned for our amusement?" The hint in Geta's voice gave away that he had an idea of what might have been concocted to please them. It would be something to do with the games that were install over the upcoming days, he was sure of that.

"My reigning champion, Emperor, against the barbarian."

Geta quirked a brow and nodded and from the quiet whispers he could hear murmuring around the room, he figured this had been planned quite suddenly. He could hear bets being placed on who would be the victor. Geta didn't like betting the odds. It didn't amuse him as much as being in the colosseum did because then, he had true power.

Betting meant taking the risk of losing, but in the colosseum, the people looked to him- and Caracalla- for verdicts. They wanted to see if their Emperors would be generous or ruthless, to see whether they would execute or let the gladiators live another day.

Holding life and death in the palm of his hand, that was true power, and that was what Geta loved to toy with. Just like a predator who stalked his prey and toyed with it before going for the kill.

(Y/n) stole her eyes around the room, taking in the other people who were rather crowded all around the room. People were stood with glasses of wine, others were picking at the fruits, sweet meats and delicacies laid out on the table at the far end. And some were simply gossiping. There were lots of people and a few faces looked familiar, but (Y/n) didn't have time to look around them all.

She felt the way Geta perked up beside her and sat forward when the two fighters were brought into the centre of the room. They scuffed along the cold stone floor, kicking flecks of sand and dirt up in their wake and their eyes were looking one another up and down, sizing up their enemy. Although (Y/n) could tell one fighter looked rather reluctant to be in this position. Maybe it was his first fight. Maybe he wasn't equipped to yield a weapon.

Just as their host stepped forward to announce the fight, Caracalla burst to his feet. He wanted to make this interesting. If he was watching a fight, he wanted one that would rise gossip and be worth their time. What good was a fight unless it was a fight to the death?

"A fight! A fight to the death! There shall be only one victor." Caracalla's voice boomed around the room and echoed off the large walls and the high ceiling. And the smile on his face was positively crooked. His teeth flashed through his smile, giving view of the golden tooth that sparkled in the same way his ruffled hair did and the open-mouthed grin gave away just a hint of devilish insanity.

He stepped forward from the sofa, moving his arms as if to make sure everyone understood he was being serious, but nobody seemed to have a response for him.

Not until the barbarian's master began to clap to show his approval and a smile filtered across Geta's lips.

He removed his arm from around (Y/n)'s shoulders so he too could rise to his feet and he placed his hand on his brother's shoulder to show his support. Geta reeled his twin into his side as if to tame him and make sure he didn't get too over excited.

(Y/n) watched the way Geta turned to face their host, an elder man who's hair was thinning him to the brink of being bald and his gaunt, hollow face had turned a rather worrying shade of pale grey. He didn't suit the colourless complexion, not like the Emperors did. They added no colour to their cheeks, in fact they painted their faces white as if to abolish any hint of a healthy glow and it only made them look more regal. At least in (Y/n)'s humble opinion.

She couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from Geta. Confidence rolled off of him in waves. Everyone knew he was the highest ranking person in the room, everyone saw that he possessed all the control and the atmosphere. If he smiled they would smile, if he grew angry then the crowd would follow his emotions.

The way Geta leaned forward towards his host showed just how much power he had. Someone wealthy and elder and experienced like him was shrinking away from a younger man who had been in control less than half this man's lifespan.

"What do you say? Are you prepared to bet the life of your victor?" Geta's voice was silky smooth and the crooked smile on his curved lips made (Y/n)'s heart jump into her throat.

She watched his head angle to one side like his neck had snapped and his eyes creased when their host nodded furiously.

"Of course. A fight to the death." He rose his voice to make the announcement, as if the room hadn't already heard the exclaim from one of the Emperors. And he waved his hand towards the guards, demanding that they arm the fighters.

If it was a fight to the death and blood was to be spilled, they needed weapons. Bare fists would take too much time and wouldn't create as much gore as everyone in the room was now pining for.

Both Emperors moved to sit back down and once Geta was beside her, (Y/n) leaned across to rest her hand on his shoulder. She squeezed lightly and felt encouraged by how quickly Geta moved a hand over to hold hers. He leaned his cheek against her arm as he lightly swayed from side to side, eager for the fight to begin so he could see some bloodshed and feel bursts of adrenaline liven his system.

(Y/n) began to glide her thumb across Geta's shoulder while they watched both men be handed swords.

She found it funny how the one labelled as the barbarian seemed to be bartering with the other man. He was trying to dissuade him from going through with it. Either he was pompous enough to believe he could easily win this fight or he didn't believe he had the capability to best his opposer.

Bargaining wouldn't do him any good. If he refused he would likely be punished or sent to the colosseum to be slaughtered. He had a higher percentage of dying than making it through the fight.

"I don't like the victor's chances," (Y/n) murmured into Geta's ear once the fight began.

The victor was older and he was sloppy with his movements, he wasn't the one (Y/n) would bet to win this fight.

"Nor do I."

The fight rose on and (Y/n) liked how both Emperors would lean to one side or straighten up and move along with the fighters. Each time they jumped to one side or clattered their swords and fell to the floor, the Emperors would move too like they were experiencing the fight themselves.

When the barbarian's sword was knocked beneath a table out of his reach, Geta leaned to the right and dragged his hand along (Y/n)'s thigh. He leaned closer until his head was almost laid on her chest and his left hand moved to graze along his chin and mouth, obscuring his smile as he watched the fight intently. The way he hunched forward made Geta look like a predator stalking his prey, as if he were about to pounce and join in the fight himself and it made (Y/n) smile.

Her eyes left the fight in favour of watching the Emperor who was almost laying across her lap. Her eyes focused on his hair that was almost set alight like flickering flames in the midday sun and the gold crown sunk beneath each tendril of hair was sparkling and glimmering like it was melting into his flock of hair.

(Y/n) couldn't help herself. She couldn't refrain from moving her hand across from Geta's shoulder until her fingertips were grazing along the back of his neck. She felt the way his skin shivered beneath her touch and when she dragged her nail up his neck and wove her fingers into his hair, he shuddered and fought the urge to close his eyes and groan.

He inclined his head back into her touch, loving how she tangled her fingers into his hair like she was either trying to scratch his scalp or carefully remove the crown from his head.

Her touch was enough to send him wild. No one else could have this affect on Geta.

He allowed his eyes to tear away from the fight that was starting to become interesting so he could sneak a glance behind him. His eyes caught (Y/n)'s and his grin widened before he was looking back to the fight when one of them crashed into a few of the guests near the far table.

Geta's hand tightened around (Y/n)'s thigh and he let out a laugh that was like melodic music to her ears. That was the trouble with fighting in such a small place like this which could not compare to the colosseum, there was very little room when fighting for one's life. Spectators were going to get caught in the middle if they were stood too close.

Geta liked that; he found it amusing that people were getting close enough to be caught in the way. Although he was glad that they were over here. He knew none of the guards would allow the fight to become too close to either Emperor or their guests surrounding them on the sofa. He wouldn't want to have to brandish a sword himself and end the fight, or fend either fighter off if they came to close to (Y/n).

He would do anything to protect her.

"Is that her? (Y/n)? Sat with the Emperor."

Could it be her? Could that be the girl they knew? The one who had lived on the outskirts of Rome with them, dreaming of a better life. Dreaming to be in the centre of things, to be allowed to have what was owed to them for all the hardships each of them had been burdened with from the beginning.

Could that be the girl who had fought to claw her way out of the gutter and earn her way in the world and earn herself a better life.

Had the Emperor truly taken that same girl under his wing? How could she be over there, and the rest of them be over here?

How could they be on opposite sides when they had all but grown up together, when they came from the same place?

"People say she is to be the new Empress."

The group of three spoke in hushed whispers, speaking around goblets of wine in a quiet corner to dispell any prying ears from listening to their contemplations. If that was the girl they had grown up with, then none of this was fair. They were skulking in the corner, unknown and already long forgotten by the peers around them. But (Y/n) was over there, being held and embraced by the Emperor as if she were already his better half.

She came from the same place as them. When (Y/n) left her hardships behind and found her way to Rome, she became one of them. She worked with them, she had sewn clothes and paid her way in the world and tried to learn to better herself.

But none of them had managed to make something of themselves. None of them were privy to the palace or being in the eyesight of either Emperor. How was that fair that she was over there, and they were stuck here?

"That makes her valuable to the Emperor… I wonder, what a man like that would pay for her safe return, if she were to be taken."

It was a bold presumption and a risky thought. If she were as close to the Emperor as she clearly seemed to be, that made her worthy and valuable of something. The Emperor was clinging to her. He had a possessive hand on her and he was leaning into her side and laughing at whatever she could whisper in his ear. That made her valuable to him. And the Emperors were the highest authority in Rome which came with the most riches in their great city.

They had the wealth to pay a high sum if anything were to happen to someone they cared for. Someone they loved.

"If she is to be Empress, he would be willing to pay a high sum for her to be returned unharmed… untouched."

***

Raised voices blurred and rose higher throughout the dark halls. The sound of boots hitting the stone floor echoed through the damp halls.

(Y/n)'s bleary eyes tried to open and adjust to the moonlight seeping through her room. She tried to make sense of the distant noises she could hear, wondering if this was another late night meeting or if there was possibly something wrong with Caracalla. There was a physician who lived at the Palace strictly to see to both Emperor's health and to treat any ailments they had.

Sometimes Caracalla's changing moods could turn into outbursts during the night, especially if he was paranoid.

(Y/n) pushed herself to sit up and her head inclined to one side as she tried to focus on what she could hear. The sounds were becoming distant and retreating which made her shoulders relax with relief. But the sudden jostling of her chamber door made her heart palpitate with fright and try to burst out of her chest.

Her shoulders hunched forward and her right hand scurried beneath her pillow, desperately trying to reach for the blade she always had with her for emergencies. The golden blade with studded red gems studded into the handle.

A gift from Geta.

He trusted the guards in the palace to protect all within it, but that didn't mean he wasn't opposed to some extra protection. The guards couldn't prevent any and every attack and possibility and when Geta brought (Y/n) to live at the palace, he gave her the blade.

It wouldn't do their reputations any good if they shared a room, and (Y/n) had worked hard for the reputation and status she had. She couldn't throw it away and have people claim her to be one of the mistresses or whores that frequented the palace. Not when that wasn't what she was and when Geta never saw her that way.

He wanted to marry her, he had been setting the plans in motion already and as soon as that was done, there would be nothing stopping either of them from sharing a room. And being together at every moment of the day.

(Y/n)'s fingers curled around the grooves of the blade and she whipped it from beneath the pillow, brandishing it in front of her just as the door to her chamber opened. She threw the sheets to one side and bolted to her feet, wielding the blade with determination and a firm arm locked in front of herself protectively. She may never have taken a life before, but (Y/n) knew how to arm and protect herself. Growing up in hardships and living on the outskirts of Rome, she had to defend herself somehow.

Deep breaths heaved past her lips when the dim light from the hallway flickered into her room and created an aura around the guard who blundered over the threshold and stumbled into her room.

A guard. In the middle of the night. Something had to be wrong.

"Lady (Y/n), will you come with me please?" The guard gasped like he had been running through the palace and the way he glanced around showed he knew it was improper to burst into her room like this. He knew the consequences of this, he knew how the Emperor would react if he found out. That much told (Y/n) that something had to be very wrong for this guard to burst in like this and try to usher her somewhere in the middle of the night.

"What's happened?"

"You need to see the Emperor my lady." That didn't sound pleasing. The tone of the guard's voice implied he was panicked and (Y/n) wondered if he truly understood what was going on or if he was simply following higher orders.

She wanted to refuse, she wanted to defy and stay here where she was enclosed and safe, but she couldn't. Sitting in her room and waiting was only going to double her worries and make her unsettled and it would enrage her curiosity.

The blade stayed firmly in (Y/n)'s grip as she tossed the sheets to one side and reached out for the gown draped over the back of the chair in the corner of the room.

Her eyes stayed on the guard, watching him closely as she shrugged on her gown and pulled it tight. She had no reason not to trust any of Geta's guards, but growing up in hardships had made (Y/n) wary of trusting anyone, even those seemingly here to protect her. The only person she could truly rely on was Geta. He was the only one she would trust.

Her fingers twitched around the handle of the blade that tapped against her thigh and when she advanced towards the guard, she nodded. She would follow him and find Geta. They had to know what was going on.

Her other arm wove around her waist, keeping her gown tightly pinned across her front and it helped her to remain calm and keep her back straight as she walked. (Y/n) suddenly wished she had stopped for a pair of sandals when she hurried into the hall and the soles of her warm feet hit the frozen stone floor.

It felt horrid to pad across the floor and jog down the dark winding stairs that were so cold it was like walking on a frozen river during winter. Each step was covered in flecks of dust and the soles of (Y/n)'s feet began to turn numb as she passed down the stairs.

At least with nothing on her feet, her steps were almost silent. No one would hear her coming, although they would undoubtedly hear the harsh, flat-footed steps of the guard in front of her. And his armour clattered and rattled with each hurried step he took.

The palace looked different in the dead of night. (Y/n) had often thought this, but as she headed down the corridor that was oddly silent, everything looked and felt unfamiliar. The shadows were murkier and seemed to grow tenfold during the night.

The walls stretched and the ceilings rose higher until she felt no taller than a mouse. The corridors dragged on into miles and (Y/n) felt disorientated in the dim light provided by the torches scattered along the walls.

Even the main hall looked strange when she followed the guard through the large oak doors and into the spacious room.

The tappestries lining the walls looked like dark omens threatening war and doom and with the light breeze fluttering through the open windows, they came to life. The gliding movements of the woven threads made them sway and made the animals bare their jaws and come alive in the most monstrous ways.

Everything looked worse in the darkness. (Y/n) found herself clutching the blade of her weapon tighter to her side and her other arm pinned into her waist like she was trying to give herself a comforting hug to dispell her unease.

Just as the uncomfortableness started to take over, (Y/n) looked ahead of her towards the other entrance to the main hall.

Geta. He burst through the doors like a storm raging war on the world. His bright flamed hair was askew in all directions, set alight by the dim glow of the torches around the room. His complexion was no longer deathly pale with no hint of colour or life but was now a pale shade of cream with just the slightest hint of pink to his cheeks and beneath his eyes.

But his expression was maddening. Those dark eyes were blazing with fury and narrowed like he was scrutinising the room for something. His nose was crinkled and his lips were parted as he ploughed towards the centre of the room.

He too was barefoot against the stone floor which was seemingly making him shiver and he had one hand deadlocked around his red and golden robes to keep them around his frame.

It made (Y/n) wonder if he wore anything beneath the robe or if he was as bare as the day he was born. The way he scrunched it up around his chest suggested he was bare and it was clear he had been woken up in haste the same as (Y/n).

She shook her head to rid the shameful thoughts from her mind and focused on watching Geta.

His sights set on the head of his guardsmen first, noting that the other man was stood with his hands clasped behind his back and a stoic expression on his face.

"What is the meaning of this?" There was anger laced into his voice but when Geta turned his head, a slither of confusion pooled within his eyes.

(Y/n) had been woken too. Why was she here? When there were urgent matters of state, it was the Emperors who were woken and very few else in the palace. One or two servants and messengers if the Senates needed advising or informing about something, but that was it. All others weren't bothered during the night like this, so for (Y/n) to be here it meant this was something very serious, or it had something to do with her too.

"What is this?" There was a desperate, whining tone to Caracalla's voice as he traipsed into the hall behind his twin, stomping one foot down while his hands balled into fists at his sides.

He didn't like being woken up during the dead of night like this, much less being dragged from his bed- and the women who accompanied him- for reasons unknown to seemingly everyone here.

Caracalla's hair was ruffled, his eyes were worn and tired and his expression was taut as he gruffly walked until he was stood close beside his brother. Turning his head from side to side to try and get someone to explain what was going on or let him go back to bed.

Geta looked between the guards that were filtering into the room like they were preparing for an attack or preparing to encircle around the Emperors in case of an emergency. Whatever this was, Geta didn't like it.

The moment he waved his hand towards (Y/n) to beckon her closer to him, she obliged. She sidestepped the guard who had woken her up and moved to stand with Geta instead. He made her feel better, he stopped her from panicking and calmed her down.

She let his hands find her shoulders and turn her so she was stood directly in front of him and his hands curled and tightened around her flesh like he was making sure she wouldn't dare take one step away from him. She let herself lean back into his chest a little while Geta tilted his head down and pressed a flushed kiss to the top of her head.

"Explain." One word was enough to make the guards shiver and nod and the guard in charge motioned his hands towards the opposite side of the room.

The hall was dark enough that none of them had noticed the presence of other people along with them in the room.

Both (Y/n) and Geta whipped their heads to the left at the sound of footsteps approaching and they watched as two guards pushed three figures forward, stepping out of the shadows. All three figures had their wrists and ankles in shackles, preventing any quick escapes which implied that they were prisoners of some sort. But Geta had no idea who they were.

"We caught these people trying to gain entrance to the palace and heard them plotting, Emperors." The guard lowered his gaze as he spoke, it seemed that most of the guards who worked in the palace never wanted to look either Emperor in the eye. It was too unsettling and provoking.

"Plotting what-"

"To slay us?!" Caracalla's outburst caught all of them by surprise and (Y/n) shuddered back against Geta.

She felt his hands begin to smooth up and down her shoulders and arms to try and soothe her and he kissed her head again, hastily, before he let her go. He sidestepped to the right and expertly grabbed his brother before Caracalla had the chance to rush forward and try his luck brandishing a weapon to attack the perpetrators.

Both Geta's arms circled around his brother's waist and he reeled him back into his chest while Caracalla shouted and thrashed to try and be let loose. He would show them. He would unleash Hell if they had been plotting against him and his brother.

With a deep, rumbling sigh, Geta twisted his brother to the side and muttered 'calm brother,' in his ear to try and lessen his rage. Geta was used to the outbursts. He was the only one who could talk any sense into his brother and calm him down from his fits of rage.

He glanced from his brother who was taking heaving breaths and glaring holes into the enemy across from them. And he looked back to the guard, silently demanding he continue to explain what exactly that woman and those two men had been plotting to do.

"No, Emperor, they were trying to find Lady (Y/n)'s quarters." The guard seemed very nervous to speak, rightfully so. He knew just how his words would rile up one of the Emperors and when he looked over at Geta, he saw the fury boiling over in his eyes.

Geta's arms removed from around his brother who had gone from enraged to confused. His chest heaved and his darkened eyes looked between these people and (Y/n).

Why would they plot to find her room? What did they want with her? How did they know her- did they even know her, or was this some pitiful game to them that they were playing? What possible reason could they have to go after (Y/n) and try to cause chaos by finding her in the palace?

Fury dwelled deep within Geta's gut and simmered inside his chest that started to heave as he stepped away from his brother and moved to stand beside (Y/n) once again. His hands curled around her arms and his chest pressed flush against her back while his eyes narrowed on the three men stood ahead of them.

There looked to be nothing special about them. Nothing regal. Their clothes suggested they weren't Generals or Lords or of any value in high society, they weren't from the upper classes. They were clearly no one special because Geta couldn't place their faces; if he had seen them before it had been brief, in passing.

"You know them?" Geta's hollow voice whispered into (Y/n)'s ear and he kept his lips tickling the shell of her ear with his cheek pressing against the side of her head. He pulled her back against his chest, keeping her moulded up against him in hopes that it would help in somehow protecting her and keeping her safe.

He felt the shivers that coursed through (Y/n)'s blood and made her raise her left hand to grip his wrist. When Geta looked down at her, it was as if he was looking at a ghost, a figment of his imagination with how still and shocked she seemed. She looked like she was about to fade before his eyes.

And when he looked down, something cut at his heart that was pounding against his ribcage when he noticed the blade in her right hand. She was gripping it so tightly that the circulation had to be cutting off towards her fingers and her grip made her hand begin to shake.

He traced his hand down from her arm towards her wrist and his fingertips ghosted over the back of her hand until he was holding onto her fingers. He gently uncurled them and slipped the blade from her now trembling hand, taking it so he could tuck it into one of the many pockets in his robe. She didn't need to arm herself any longer; he wouldn't let anything happen to her.

"I used to." Her voice was hollow and held no emotion but she could feel every thought raging through her head and every emotion dwelling in her blood until it felt like she was going to faint.

They were ghosts from a previous life.

People she used to know when she first found her feet on the outskirts of Rome. People who fought like (Y/n) to make their way into Rome, to escape their hardships and their past and make a new life for themselves.

They were people who wanted more, but people who wouldn't better themselves or fight hard enough to escape. They found lives on the outskirts and that had been enough for them. They didn't want the fresh start like (Y/n) did and once she fought to get her name and her place in the world, they made sure she knew she was no longer 'one of them'.

They were faces she never thought she would get to see again, people she never thought she would be around and who would want nothing to do with her even if they ever bumped into her again.

"Why would you come for her?" Caracalla angled his head to one side as he squinted at the group on the far side of the room. There was still an air of anger and madness surrounding his tone, despite the confusion pooling in his hazy blue eyes.

What was so special about (Y/n) that they would risk breaking into the palace to find her? To possibly try and take her?

The three of them seemed to share glances with each other. There was no point in trying to bargain or come up with a lie. The Emperors would see right through them. So would (Y/n). Telling the truth was their only option now, they knew that getting caught would seal their fate, but they took the risk anyway.

Both men shared glances with one another, wrangling with their shackles and stole glances at the accomplice who adverted her gaze to the ceiling, not willing to speak a word.

"To see how much you would offer for her safe return if she… disappeared." The shorter man arched a brow and let his head loll to one side but he chose his words carefully so the intent would be clear.

Doran's words made (Y/n)'s stomach churn and she tried to take a step back until she was flush against Geta's chest and she felt his hands glide down from her arms to hold her hips. As if he were keeping her in place and holding onto her to protect her. He would swiftly switch places and push (Y/n) behind him if either of those fiends tried to take one step towards her.

How could they do that? Tears welled up in (Y/n)'s eyes that couldn't look anywhere but at the three people she used to know. They may have splintered off into different worlds, but (Y/n) bore no grudge against any of them. Why should they bear one against her?

If they wanted help all they had to do was ask. If they truly wanted to make their way in the city- something (Y/n) highly doubted- they could of asked and she would have helped them.

But to stoop so low as to try and kidnap her, to risk harming her in the process, and all for a great sum. It was despicable.

(Y/n) didn't want to contemplate what Geta would have done if they succeeded. She wouldn't want him to pay a price for her safe return, it would be too risky and it was demeaning. And she didn't know if Geta would pay a price, he wasn't the type to give in to demands no matter who was making them or what they were threatening him with. He would sooner gouge out his eyes than give in to someone's trivilous demands.

He might not have paid any sum at all for (Y/n). He might have become reckless and searched for her himself. He might have bartered his guards, promising them the reward if they found (Y/n) and took the heads of those who tried to harm her.

In truth, (Y/n) had no idea how Geta would react in a situation such as that and she had no desire to find out.

(Y/n) didn't realise she was crying until she felt one of Geta's hands reach up to brush away some of the tears now cascading down her features. His touch was gentle but the tremor to his hand showed the violence building up inside of him, threatening to spill over the edge.

Within moments, his hands left (Y/n)'s skin and his body was no longer wrapped around her like a protective suit of armour.

The rage within him simmered to the surface and the pale expanse of his neck strained and tensed as he stepped forward. He felt a sudden and great urge to lunge like a tiger prowling in the colosseum. Geta felt like bearing his fangs and sinking his teeth into their necks for what they had planned to do.

If they had somehow managed to get (Y/n) out of the palace and make demands for her safe return, Geta might have slipped into a worser state of madness than his brother.

"You think I would allow you to take her? That I value her as an object that I would pay to have returned to me?" The callous tone of Geta's voice made each of them look at him.

Both Emperors were known to be skittish and ruthless. They laughed when people were slain, even if it was their own people on their own streets of Rome. They thrived in madness and decay and they seemed to hold no one dear to them except for each other. And (Y/n).

Yes. Yes, the three of them truly believed they might be able to extortion something out of the Emperor if they took (Y/n) and were willing to give her back to him. They would have kept her relatively unharmed and sent her back to him without a bruise or a scratch if the price had been right. And they believed he might just have contemplated the bargain if they had managed to get to (Y/n) before they were discovered.

Well he wouldn't. Geta wouldn't pay any price to have (Y/n) back because she wasn't something to be bargained over. Geta would have scoured the streets himself to find her. He would have burned all of Rome to the ground before he gave one coin to anyone because he knew it wouldn't be likely that he would have found (Y/n) unharmed if he paid these Cretans for her.

And that would imply that Geta thought (Y/n) was worth a reasonable amount, that there was a right price to pay for her. There wasn't. No amount of money or gold would be enough to show how valuable and precious she was to him.

When Geta took a step closer to the three of them, close enough that they could see and feel each harsh, froffing breath he took, the guards stepped closer to. No one was sure whether they were trying to protect the Emperor, or save the fiends from their Emperor's wrath.

Geta's hands balled up into fists at his sides and his chest rumbled as his reddened features tensed and twisted into a malicious smirk.

"I deal in blood. And all of you are now in debt to me." He sneered through gritted teeth and a twisted smile as his head angled to one side. "You shall join the games tomorrow, I want your blood painting the walls of the colosseum. I want you torn limb from Limb."

For what they had done, they had made themselves in great debt to the Emperor, and Geta wasn't going to rest until all the blood was drained from their bodies and not even the greatest physician in Rome would be able to piece them back together.

#imagine #gladiator imagine #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #gladiator movie #emperor geta imagine #emperor geta x reader #emperor geta #emperor caracalla #geta x reader #geta imagine #joseph quinn

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ekkkkey · 18 days ago

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there will be games! (chapter I)

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

chapter II

chapter III

chapter IV

warnings: 18+ minors dni, noncon, dub-con, when the emperor is a bit insane, he’s cute tho

word count: 9k

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

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

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

As a proper Roman matron, she trailed behind her husband’s broad back, head lowered, careful not to make unnecessary eye contact. Tiberius—three times her age—had only recently become her husband.

Once a great general, a member of the council, and a close companion of the legendary Maximus, Tiberius was now but a shadow of his former self.

The Senate had broken men far greater than him, and his appointment to the imperial court, along with their move from the provinces, had only deepened his sour temper and disturbed mind.

Her father, once a formidable man in his own right, had grown frail with age, which was why she obediently followed behind her husband. She had been given to his household and now belonged to him, for his success meant her family’s success—her father’s, her sisters’.

That was enough for her. After all, Cassandra had never craved ambition.

And yet, her heart pounded so violently that it seemed to throb in her throat. Fear wrapped around her, squeezing tighter with every step as she stood in the grand halls of Senator Thraex’s villa.

Nervously, she adjusted the folds of her white matron’s gown, smooth and chaste as tradition demanded, her palms damp with anxiety. But as she glanced around, a quiet bitterness stirred in her chest. Tiberius had insisted on white to emphasize her innocence and purity as a young bride, but what good was it when around her swirled women draped in crimson silks and glistening gold?

Her cheeks flushed as she met the gaze of a dark-haired beauty—bare-chested, unashamed. Tiberius noticed, too. She saw his lips curl into a sneer, and the grip on her wrist tightened, pulling her through the crowd.

"Senator!" Tiberius’ demeanor shifted instantly. When necessary, he could be charming—Cassandra knew this well.

"Has Acacius arrived yet?"

She knew better than to intrude on men’s conversations; her husband despised even the suggestion she might show interest. So she remained silent, observing. Senator Thraex, host of the lavish affair, was nothing like Tiberius despite their shared senatorial rank. Thraex was effeminate, painted, adorned in a way that seemed theatrical, and yet Tiberius smiled, nodding politely.

"The general does not attend such gatherings, alas, my friend," Thraex said, blinking theatrically. "But we have no less important guests tonight, Tiberius—the emperors are here!"

Her heart fluttered, a mixture of awe and terror. The emperors! In the midst of mere mortals! But her excitement was not shared by Tiberius, whose features grew harder. Since Marcus Aurelius’ death, no emperor had earned her husband’s respect. Though he was careful not to voice his opinion publicly, in private, his bitter thoughts often bordered on treason.

"Do emperors often grace your home, Thraex?" Tiberius asked coldly, his voice heavy with disdain. Thraex shifted uneasily.

"Well, no, my dear friend. But the return of General Acacius has stirred us all, hasn’t it? All of Rome celebrates—and the emperors, too!"

"It certainly looks expensive," Tiberius remarked bluntly.

"Indeed, but what can one do?" Thraex hastily changed the subject, his eyes landing on Cassandra. "Ah, what a delightful child! Tiberius, do introduce us!"

"My wife, Cassandra. You know her father," Tiberius muttered as Thraex took her hand, pressing a theatrical kiss to her fingers. The senator praised her beauty and virtue while Tiberius, clearly enjoying the flattery, beamed with pride.

"Please, come in, eat, drink—everything here is yours!" Thraex declared before being swept away by a dark-skinned man draped in luxurious robes.

Cassandra craned her neck, intrigued. Such sights were unfamiliar to her. In her homeland, foreigners were slaves, not men of wealth and power.

"A gathering of useless spendthrifts and sycophants," Tiberius muttered under his breath, steering them toward the exit. "Acacius isn’t here; we have no reason to stay."

"Let’s stay a little longer, I beg you," Cassandra found her voice, pleading for a few more moments in the glittering crowd.

She was young and curious, and their new villa in Rome did little to satisfy her curiosity.

Tiberius didn’t have time to answer before the dark-skinned man they had noticed earlier threw an arm around his shoulders.

"Tiberius, you old grouch!" The man laughed, clapping him on the back as if they were old friends. "Leaving already? You bring a young wife and then run off? Afraid someone will steal her?" He winked playfully at Cassandra, making her smile despite herself. His casual demeanor was refreshing.

"Macrinus! What brings you here?" Tiberius asked, his mood softening. To Cassandra’s delight, it seemed they would stay after all. Unlike Thraex, Macrinus appeared to be someone her husband genuinely liked.

As they strolled through the opulent halls, Cassandra’s eyes darted greedily from one decoration to the next, drinking in every detail to hold onto later when the gloom of their villa returned.

"The new fighter is something else, Tiberius," Macrinus said. "I’ll wager my right hand he’ll best Thraex’s gladiator, and the senator will owe me a hefty sum."

A gladiator? Cassandra’s heart sank. Could her husband truly be interested in such gruesome spectacles? Though he was stern, she would never have called him cruel.

"Stand here," Tiberius ordered, pointing to a spot behind him.

Obediently, she stood behind her husband, still listening to Macrinus’s chatter. The hall was already buzzing with the hum of a dozen voices, but even through the noise, a shrill, high-pitched laugh cut through like a blade.

She rose on her toes, straining to see where it came from. A little farther ahead, an even larger crowd had gathered in the center, blocking the source of the laughter. Cassandra craned her neck higher, and finally, she saw them. Her throat went dry instantly.

She had never seen the emperors before, only heard whispers of their youth, debauchery, and cruelty. But even without knowing their faces, she knew. No one else in Rome could look like that.

Red-haired, pale, surrounded by half-naked men and women, they stood out. They had to stand out. People called them twins, but it would be hard to find two people less alike. Only their fiery, curly red hair tied them together.

"Which one is Geta, and which is Caracalla?" she whispered to Tiberius.

"The one in silver is Emperor Geta, and the one in gold is Emperor Caracalla, my lady," Macrinus answered with a smirk, beating her husband to the response. Her excitement at seeing such noble figures must have been plain on her face.

Cassandra continued to study them hungrily, hoping Tiberius wouldn’t scold her later for inappropriate behavior; Geta was taller, broader—it was obvious even though they were seated. Caracalla, on the other hand, was shorter, all smooth lines and delicacy. It was his laugh she had heard.

For a brief moment, she caught Emperor Geta’s bored gaze, but he quickly looked away, his piercing dark eyes utterly uninterested. Caracalla didn’t glance their way at all. His gaze was unfocused, cloudy, as if he were staring straight through the crowd. From this distance, she could see the golden shadows framing his eyelids, making his blue eyes appear even more languid.

At his feet, a man smiled obsequiously up at the emperor, his hand gently stroking the bare knee beneath Caracalla’s toga. Cassandra’s cheeks burned, and she quickly turned away, afraid of being caught staring.

When Senator Thraex solemnly announced the wager with Macrinus, and two men were brought into the hall, everything fell silent, only to erupt into an even louder roar. She didn’t want to watch the fight—soft and gentle, as her father and husband had said, Cassandra hated violence, but now she was in Rome, where blood flowed every time the emperors snapped their fingers.

As if reading her thoughts, Emperor Caracalla lazily stretched his words, playing with them, as if he weren’t talking about human lives at all. Anxiously, she pressed closer to her husband’s shoulder.

"Swords! Bring them swords, and let blood be spilled!" the emperor commanded, sprawling on the couch. His brother didn’t object, only nodded.

And the spectacle began. She tried not to look at the fight, focusing instead on her breathing, attempting to calm herself. The crowd roared in delight, gasping and shouting encouragement to the combatants. The noise became unbearable. People swayed and scattered, dodging sword points or the splinters of a broken table where one man—representing Macrinus—was thrown.

She didn’t notice when the fighters came too close to them, forcing her husband to step awkwardly back, pushing her against the wall. Struggling to keep her balance, she leaned against a small side table, knocking over a porcelain vase. No one paid any attention, not even her husband, who was too absorbed in the spectacle.

A dull pain pierced her hand, and to her surprise, Cassandra realized she’d cut her palm on a shattered piece of the vase.

"A deep cut… it’ll scar," she thought absentmindedly. A shard had sliced across her palm horizontally, blood flowing steadily even as the pain subsided. She wanted to leave, to tell Tiberius about the injury and return to the villa; but then, the hall fell silent, and the air was suddenly heavy with the metallic tang of blood.

Too much blood for one day.

Her stomach churned as the body of a slain gladiator was dragged out by the legs like a sack of grain. Neither the presence of emperors nor the distinguished guests around her brought any comfort- even the bold words of the victor, who dared to argue with Emperor Geta, failed to impress her. All she wanted now was to leave.

She cradled her injured hand like a child, unwilling to stain her white clothing. Tiberius would surely be furious.

If the audacity of the barbarian didn’t move her, her husband and Macrinus were visibly enthralled. Quietly exchanging a few final words, Macrinus left the hall with his gladiator in tow.

"Let’s go. It’s time," Tiberius finally said, still oblivious to her wound.

She pressed her lips together and followed him.

"Senator!" They were stopped again, and this time, simply leaving wasn’t an option.

For a moment, she noticed her husband’s face pale, the hard crease between his brows betraying his fury. Yet when he turned to the voice, he was smiling. Emperor Geta’s smile was equally false.

"We were informed of your return, but seeing you here is truly a gift," his voice was low and smooth. "Surely, you weren’t planning to leave without greeting us?"

Her heart froze as she watched the emperor extend his pale hand, adorned with rings. Tiberius bowed, brushing his lips against one of the jewels. The emperor’s thin smile deepened, while his brother, standing behind, burst into shrill laughter. There was nothing amusing, yet the guests followed suit, grinning along with their ruler.

Caracalla, judging by his expression, barely grasped where he was. He swayed slightly, struggling to remain upright.

"You’ve always been like this, haven’t you? Even back when our father was around," Caracalla rasped, his voice hoarse, his gaze unfocused, and a faint smile curling his lips. "No fun, just work, work!" He laughed again, and the guests eagerly followed suit.

Cassandra felt a wave of fear.

Her husband’s pride was limitless, and even a teasing public remark—though lighthearted—could push him into actions with dangerous consequences, ones that would inevitably affect her.

"Join us, Tiberius," the young emperor taunted, still grinning.

Cassandra caught a flash of gold and soon realized—one of his teeth was gold. The emperor was practically drowning in luxury, and his wide smile proudly revealed the golden tooth. Hardly anyone in the empire could boast such a thing.

"Boys, girls, whoever you like! Let’s see if you’re as serious in bed as you are in politics!"

"Thank you, Caesar, but I am married and loyal to my wife," Tiberius answered with calm dignity.

It felt like a bucket of cold water had been poured over her when he mentioned her. Both emperors immediately looked past Tiberius, their gazes landing on her. She had no choice but to step forward.

Brown eyes studied her, more bored than intrigued, and Emperor Geta quickly looked away. Caracalla, however, stared longer. She thought to herself that it must be difficult for him to focus after drinking so much… but no, the piercing blue of his eyes wasn’t fixed on her face. His gaze lingered lower, where her hands clutched desperately at the fabric of her dress.

Distracted, Cassandra glanced down. She’d forgotten about the wound; blood had stained her white gown with a vivid red, the bright scarlet blotch marking the spot where her hand had just rested.

Her eyes darted back to the emperor, only to find him already watching her with a smile. Yet his eyes didn’t match the curve of his lips—they didn’t smile at all. They flicked back and forth between the crimson stain and her face.

She swallowed hard.

Caracalla licked his lips before turning to his brother, unsettlingly silent. Without realizing it, Cassandra stepped back. She didn’t know why she felt afraid, but the fear was instinctive.

A hand settled on her waist, steadying her and pulling her closer. It was Tiberius.

Both emperors broke into identical grins.

"Well then, enjoy your young wife, Tiberius," Geta said, his tone casual, though his words carried a veiled command. His eyes flicked between the two of them as he added, "We’ll expect you tomorrow. At the arena. The fights will be spectacular, and we want the senators there with us." He chuckled softly. "The young lady, too. General Acacius and his wife have already agreed. I think she’ll appreciate the company."

"With pleasure, my emperor," Tiberius replied smoothly, bowing his head.

For once, Cassandra fully shared her husband’s feelings—neither of them wanted to attend.

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Modesty and loyalty—these were the weapons of a noblewoman, her mother had taught her. But what if her modesty went unappreciated? What if her shy glances and lowered head brought only mockery?

The stands were alive with people eager to witness the bloody spectacle. The air was thick with excitement, buzzing with the restless energy of an audience awaiting carnage. Even the imperial viewing box, where the Praetorians had escorted them, was steeped in that same anticipation.

The moment they entered, Emperor Geta rose from his seat to greet her husband. Cassandra, ever modest, remained quietly in the background. Despite the luxury of the box, there was still too little space, and both emperors ended up uncomfortably close to her. Caracalla, however, didn’t bother to rise. His pale blue eyes stayed fixed on them, watching intently.

In the daylight, she could see him more clearly now: the powdered face, faint red marks scattered across his cheekbones, and vivid orange shadows encircling his eyes. His expression shifted—his gaze cold, almost hostile. Embarrassed, Cassandra quickly looked away, realizing she had stared too long, it seemed he didn’t appreciate being stared at.

Even with her back turned, she could feel his eyes lingering on her, their weight pressing against her like a physical force.

To her surprise and growing discomfort, Emperor Geta addressed her as well. He took her fingers in his cold hand and pressed his lips lightly against them.

"Your wife looks stunning, Tiberius," he praised her, turning to her husband. Cassandra felt a flicker of irritation. None of the men spoke directly to her, as if she were an object rather than a person. She quickly pulled her fingers from his grasp. Geta immediately looked at her, his dark eyes no longer smiling. Cassandra couldn’t help but think that, in that moment, he and his brother looked more alike than ever and she suddenly felt the urge to leave, to hide from the weight of his gaze, from the tightness of his lips and his clenched jaw muscles visibly twitching beneath his pale skin. Had her small gesture really angered him so much?

She never got an answer. Geta returned to his seat beside his brother, turning his attention to General Acacius, who was also in the box. Cassandra sat down next to her husband, right behind the daughter of the late Emperor Marcus Aurelius—Lucilla.

The woman leaned back against the carved chair and quietly spoke to her:

"I know your father, child, a good man. I’m glad to see you here."

Cassandra smiled, flattered. Finally, someone was speaking to her as an equal, especially someone like the beloved daughter of the great emperor. Catching her husband’s approving nod, Cassandra leaned toward the woman, continuing the simple conversation. Here, far from home, it was rare to have such a casual, kind-hearted talk.

The fights were already underway in the arena, and all the attention in the box was focused on the gladiators. Only she and Lucilla were not captivated by the battles. Truth be told, she was trying not to watch the arena at all, instead asking her companion about trivial things that piqued her curiosity.

When Lucilla didn’t answer her question, Cassandra grew puzzled, but then noticed that the woman was staring straight ahead, down at the arena, clearly lost in troubling thoughts. Another dangerous maneuver, and blood spilled across the sand, prompting a roar from the crowd.

Cassandra quickly turned away and caught the gaze of Emperor Caracalla. He was watching them over his shoulder, shifting his eyes from her to Lucilla. The red lips of the Caesar curled into a smile again, this time different—no longer cruel, but genuinely pleased, as if they had done something to please him. Still smiling, Caracalla turned away. Neither Lucilla nor Tiberius noticed the strange look from the young emperor, but she did. It wasn’t angry or annoyed. Maybe she had misjudged him? He seemed almost sweet now, in a way, charming. She immediately shook her head, pushing away the improper thoughts.

After the games, everyone was invited to continue the evening in the imperial palace. To Cassandra’s surprise, Tiberius agreed immediately when he heard that General Acacius would also be present.

The palace was nothing like Senator Thraex’s house. The luxury of the imperial halls made her mouth fall open and left her feeling like a country bumpkin. The guests here were even more distinguished than at the senator’s home, and she felt uncomfortable. Cassandra wanted to find Lucilla, to talk to her, perhaps then the evening would be more enjoyable, but Tiberius stopped her.

"Wait here, I have a little business to take care of."

She had no choice but to stand alone by the lavishly laden table. She didn’t feel like eating or drinking. Tiberius was gone longer and longer, and inside her, frustration began to boil. Some guests stole glances at her, quietly whispering among themselves. The young wife from a fallen house was hardly an important figure, but her husband—he was. Unable to stand it any longer, she quickly stepped out onto the wide balcony, holding her tunic and greedily breathing in the air, leaning against the railing.

The sun was setting behind the horizon, painting Rome before her in red.

"Beautiful, isn’t it?"

She quickly turned at the sound of the male voice. A respectable matron shouldn’t be alone with another man. And then she froze.

Red on red. The fading sun’s rays turned Emperor Caracalla’s red hair to flame, his clothes bled scarlet, and his jewelry shimmered. Too bright, too much red, with only his face pale, lifeless.

"My Emperor," she respectfully lowered her head, completely unsure how to act.

"Where is your husband?" He looked her up and down, examining her slowly, his mouth slightly open, before his gaze lingered on her face, not allowing her a moment to look away.

"I don’t know, Caesar. He promised to return any moment now," she lied.

"He’s been gone a long time, hasn’t he?" He lazily leaned against a column, continuing to observe her, a smirk exposing her lie.

Her cheeks immediately flushed, and she didn’t know what to say. She stood there, hands clasped in front of her. Caracalla didn’t seem cruel or frightening. In fact, she had imagined him differently before this meeting. The emperor was short, delicate, with no sharp angles—only soft, flowing lines accentuated by jewels and fine clothing. She could have sworn that if she got any closer, they’d be the same height. Apparently, this didn’t bother him in the least, as he continued to look at her with that condescending gaze, like she was a foolish child.

"How long have you been married?"

The question was tactless, but he was the emperor, and his questions could not be ignored.

"Six months," she replied reluctantly.

"Are you carrying a child?" His gaze immediately darted to her stomach.

Cassandra felt herself blushing more and more. It was not fitting for her to talk about such things. Moreover, the topic was indeed very painful.

"No. Not yet."

"Why?"

Caracalla approached her slowly, too close for a married woman. She was enveloped by the sweet scent of aromatic oils, powder, and wine. A dizzying mix.

Just as she was about to answer, he spoke again, leaning in too close, taking her hand in his. Gods! Was he flirting with her? What did all this mean? Her face, already red, burned with embarrassment and shame. What if someone saw them? What would they say about her?

Yet, Cassandra could not deny that she enjoyed this attention; it flattered her that the Emperor of Rome himself, the first among equals, showed interest in her. She truly melted...until she heard the next question.

"Does the old senator not fuck you enough? Or can he not do it at all?"

She froze, blinking in shock. What did he say? He looked just as innocent with a soft smile on his face and a curious gaze. Maybe she had misheard?

"I asked, does Senator Tiberius fuck you well?" His thumb pressed into the inner part of her palm, right where she had cut her hand the day before.

His soft white hands turned out to be surprisingly strong and tenacious. Cassandra tried to pull away, to reclaim her hand, but no, the emperor held firm, continuing to press on the wound, turning her hand so he could see the blood welling up from the barely healed cut.

She didn't dare object to him, didn't even dare open her mouth, though the pain was becoming unbearable. With his fingernail, he scraped off the scab, letting a bead of blood form. Cassandra saw how his pupils dilated, filling the blue of his irises with darkness, saw how his nostrils flared. It made her feel vulnerable, unprotected. That brief illusion she had about him shattered. He was cruel and insane, just as they said.

More than anything in the world, she regretted not staying home, safe in her chambers. The anxious realization that she had somehow become the object of his interest made her heart race frantically. Clamping her lips tight, she prayed to the gods for protection. But what use were the gods when here he was, right in front of her – the embodiment of Jupiter himself, father and ruler of Rome. Her lips trembled helplessly, holding back a whimper.

"Doesn't the obedient little bird arouse our stern senator or what? Who's to blame that your womb is still empty?" he purred, running his knuckles over her stomach.

She continued to pray silently for salvation, but who could stand against the Emperor of Rome?

"Brother?" - perhaps only another emperor.

Caracalla's eyes narrowed unkindly, his lips pressed into a line, he was clearly not pleased to see him. Yet he didn't back down, didn't even try to pretend everything was okay. Caracalla still stood inappropriately close, holding her hand in his. What if her husband had walked in? He would hardly have been more frightened by him than by his co-ruling brother. Cassandra swallowed hard.

"Emperor Geta, I…" - her words were ignored as Geta kept his dark eyes fixed on his brother.

"What do you think you're doing?" Emperor Geta whispered, as if fearful they might be overheard. Judging by how he nervously twisted the ring on his finger, Geta was anxious.

"What I said," Caracalla released her hand, giving it one last painful squeeze, but didn't step back, continuing to stand close, "I'm showing attention to the sweet wife of our beloved Senator Tiberius," his lips twisted mockingly.

It became absolutely clear to her why he had turned his attention to her. She was too young to remember those events herself, but from the gossip, Cassandra knew that Tiberius had opposed the boys' appointment as emperors after their father's death. The good relationship between the emperor and the Senate had ended with Marcus Aurelius's death.

"And do you remember what I told you? Or has your memory failed you again?" Caracalla bristled at his brother's words, his brow furrowing. "Why do you never listen to me?"

"And why should I?" The younger emperor's voice was no longer playful or soft, instead, it turned low and hoarse. "Or do you think you're in charge? Do you think I'm your dog?"

She wished she could sink into the ground rather than witness this confrontation. Cassandra took a step back as discreetly as she could, then another, hoping to slip away quietly.

"And who said she minds?" Of course, he noticed her, his blue eyes quickly shifted from his brother to her. Her hand was once again in his tight grip. “Do you mind?”

Oh, how much she minded, but Cassandra knew she couldn’t answer that way. Judging by the angry look in Caracalla’s eyes, she might be thrown right over the balcony.

"To serve the emperor is the highest honor for a Roman citizen," she said quietly, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

"See?" He wrapped his arm around her waist, turning her towards Emperor Geta. "She likes it, so leave us be."

"Go, find your husband," Geta didn't back down, this time addressing her.

"No, she stays!" The hand on her waist tightened, fingers digging into her soft skin. She was hardly that necessary to him, but Caracalla clearly didn't want to yield to his brother.

"You heard me, go, he won't touch you," Geta exhaled wearily, personally approaching them and removing his brother's hands, holding onto her wrist.

Caracalla shot her such a hateful look that she recoiled. Gods, he would kill her! If Geta was his blood, then she was just a worthless simpleton who had rejected an emperor. In terror, she almost ran from the balcony, melting into the crowd. She didn't want to know how the brothers' dispute ended, but she saw four Praetorians enter the balcony just as she left.

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Thoughts of the emperor's hate-filled gaze didn't leave her even at night, not even when she and her husband lay in bed. How could they, when, as a sign of "friendship and goodwill," the emperors had assigned them quarters right in the palace, insisting that the journey back to their villa was too long?

Here, amidst the gold and silk, she couldn't close her eyes.

Even when her husband was inside her, his hot breath scorching her neck, her mind was elsewhere. It never lasted long and brought her no pleasure. Each time, Cassandra prayed that the seed would take root and these absurd attempts at intimacy would at least pause for a while.

Tiberius, wrapped in a sheet, slept soundly. Her naked body was covered in goosebumps from the cold, but she didn't think to cuddle up to her husband. Knowing she wouldn't be able to sleep, she silently rose from the bed and pulled her husband's short tunic over her head to at least cover her nudity. At home, she could walk around naked, but not here.

The Praetorian at the door didn't surprise her, of course, they had been assigned a guard. Or rather, she had.

"May I go out?" she whispered, trying to appear submissive and innocent, though she was overcome by a strange nervousness and irritability.

He was young, barely older than her, and thus his eyes widened at her appearance, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously.

"The Emperor ordered to watch over your safety," the young man whispered back.

The Emperor. One of them. If it was Caracalla, this felt more like intimidation than concern. If it was Geta, then...it became even more frightening, since the protection was presumably from his own brother.

"You can come with me. I can't sleep," she pleaded.

Under the supervision of the Praetorian, Cassandra went out into a small garden located right inside the palace. She had been there during the day, after the clash with the emperor, but now, in the bright moonlight, everything looked different.

Weary, she sat on the edge of a small fountain topped with a marble statue of a naked nymph. The Praetorian stayed at the entrance, still flustered by her appearance, so she unhesitatingly stretched out her bare feet, dipping her toes into the sand.

The peacocks, sleeping nearby, rustled quietly, disturbed by her presence. Her mother had taught her that peacocks were a symbol of Juno, the wise and brave goddess.

"Grant me strength..." she whispered, looking at the moon.

"A strange place you've chosen for prayer, domina," a man's voice mocked from somewhere above.

She jumped up in fright, quickly pulling her hair from her back to her chest to cover herself. Her gaze darted around until it settled on the balcony directly above the garden.

Emperor Geta stood there, leaning on the railing with his arms, his head tilted to one side. For some reason, she couldn’t help but think of an owl, and almost let out a giggle. He looked different from how she remembered him. Without makeup, laurels, or rich clothing, just a red silk robe and unruly red curls. Apparently, he couldn't sleep either.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to disturb you," she said, lowering her head in shame, hoping Geta was as reasonable as he seemed. Although at one point, she had liked Caracalla too.

"Oh, no, the palace is at your disposal," he said, spreading his arms to encompass everything around. She relaxed.

"You are so kind, Caesar."

"It's the least I can do for you after what my brother did today," his voice grew quieter, more serious.

Was he genuinely concerned about what had happened? She lifted her head again, looking at the emperor and giving him a genuine smile this time. Geta smiled back, nervously licking his lips.

“Nothing terrible happened, but thank you… Thank you for your concern.”

He was still smiling, but his gaze had changed, becoming heavier, almost ominous in the light of the moon and torches.

"Yes, nothing happened…yet. But it will. So, I’ll apologize in advance. You’re no street girl, but what can I do? He’s my brother, and I love him."

She felt as if she'd been doused with ice water. Somewhere behind her came an animalistic screech, and in fear, she turned around, spotting a figure in the darkness. The scream continued as the figure approached. Cassandra already knew who it was. Geta turned out to be just like his brother after all.

The source of the unpleasant screeches turned out to be a small pet monkey perched on Emperor Caracalla's shoulder. Unlike his brother, he was still in his formal attire, minus the laurel wreath. Seeing her distorted face, he grinned as if she were greeting him with nothing less than a joyful smile.

Alone, in just a spacious white tunic, barefoot and with her hair loose, she wanted to cry. He wouldn't let her go just like that, she could see it in his face, his smile, his narrowed eyes - the bad thoughts buzzing in his red-haired head. Silently, he handed the noisy monkey, adorned with a gold chain around its neck, to a young slave, who bowed his head and left the garden.

Now she was his monkey. In his eyes, she had no more rights than that pet creature. Put a collar around her neck, attach a chain, and do whatever you want. The real monkey was luckier.

"What a delightful surprise, my dear," the emperor purred, his voice dripping with honey.

Geta watched from the balcony as if this were a spectacle in the Colosseum. Only she wasn't a gladiator. Cassandra stepped back, and he stepped forward. A cat and mouse game, where the cat would surely devour the mouse.

"Today you broke my heart, sweetheart," he said, closing the distance, "and I’m a bit sensitive, you know," with a couple of long strides, he caught up to her. His touch was like fire, his ring-laden hand caressing her cheek, making her freeze. "But I can also be merciful. Those who apologize properly deserve forgiveness, don't they, little bird?"

She swallowed hard. He didn't know her name, she realized. The humiliation was palpable. Caracalla lowered his hand and leaned in. In terror, she expected a kiss, but instead, he rubbed his nose against her cheek like a cat seeking affection. Her heart raced in her chest. She knew no man but her husband, and these intimate, bold touches terrified her. Once again, the scent of aromatic oils and powder invaded her senses, mixed with his hot, ragged breath. Unconsciously, she exhaled heavily in response.

"Please, no," she pleaded with her last shred of hope.

"No what, wifey? Do the work your senator can't? If the Senate fails, the task falls to the emperors, right, brother?" Caracalla laughed, addressing Geta, who was still watching.

"Right," the other emperor answered hoarsely.

"See? It's all fair. Besides, you told me yourself you were eager to serve Rome, didn't you? I am Rome, I am Jupiter," he breathed hotly into her ear, sending shivers down her spine.

"I am ready to serve you, truly, but not like this... Please!"

And her plea was a colossal mistake. His eyes turned black, all traces of amusement vanished. He seized her neck roughly, turning her back to him, pressing her against the fountain's edge, pinning her down, his body against hers from behind, whispering with malice:

"By the gods, I was merciful, but you test me," his voice breaking, the grip on her throat tightening, "if you try to resist out of some foolish wish to preserve your chastity, I'll kill you right here, and I'll kill that Praetorian too. Your bodies will lie side by side, accused of debauchery, punished for the insult to your husband. Your death will be a disgrace, your body won't even get a proper burial. Understand?"

This time, she couldn't hold back the tears. What was worse, the shameful violation known only to her or the eternal disgrace that would mark her earthly life? Sobbing, she surrendered, relaxing beneath him, and the grip on her throat loosened.

"There we go, cry if you want, but let’s not make a scene, hm? Or do you want the whole palace to hear about our lovely little meeting?”

She shook her head silently, tears flowing incessantly, shame burning her cheeks, as she felt the emperor press against her from behind. The humiliation was compounded by the fact that Emperor Geta still watched, and at the entrance, she was absolutely sure, Praetorians stood guard.

"Tell me, how does your husband take you? I've always been curious about what that old bastard is like behind closed doors," his tone shifted every moment, now, Caracalla was tender, nuzzling her neck so she felt his gold earring glide through her hair. His lips touched her earlobe, first softly, teasingly, then his teeth took over, sharp and greedy. She gasped, but didn't protest. "Stay silent and I won't be gentle," he warned.

"Listen to him, girl, you might enjoy it," Geta's voice cut through from above.

"So, does he take you from behind, like a bitch in heat?" He thrust against her, testing, grinding into her hips. A soft moan escaped his lips, and to her horror, that sound resonated warmly in her abdomen, spreading lower.

She had stopped crying and now just breathed heavily, feeling him grip her hips as he rubbed against her. She couldn't ignore the hot hardness of his body, especially when one hand pressed down on her lower back, making her arch more. The tunic shamelessly rode up, exposing her thighs.

"So how then? Tell me, dear," he whispered hoarsely, continuing to move.

"He...he's not very tender, and my pleasure doesn't concern him much. I just lie on my back while he does his thing," she blurted out. Why had she said that!? Cassandra immediately bit the inside of her cheek, cursing herself.

"Ah, the Senator doesn't satisfy his lovely young wife? What a waste!" She felt his hot tongue trail down her neck, his grip on her hips tightening, his nails digging into her skin, causing a slight pain as his hand went to her neck, squeezing...and felt a heat between her legs. May the gods curse her! He was a demon, sent to test her, to challenge her will!

"But don’t worry, I’ll take care of that" his whisper broke, his lips finding that tender spot where her neck met her shoulder, deceptively gentle before he kissed her, then Cassandra felt pain. He bit her, quietly growling and pressing his whole body against hers, thrusting his hips once more before he stilled. With her bare skin, she felt the fabric of his tunic dampen. Biting her lip, she dropped her head, trying not to cry again. That slight arousal she had felt receded.

To her tear-stained face, he responded with laughter, reminding her she was just a monkey on a gold leash. That he hadn't taken her today meant nothing. A humiliating slap on her cheek, and a sneering smile were his parting gifts. And in his cold, almost glassy eyes, there was no sign of amusement.

"Tomorrow we have more games, don't forget!" - and she knew Emperor Caracalla spoke not just of the gladiators.

#emperor caracalla #caracalla #caracalla x reader #caracalla x oc #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #emperor caracalla x reader #emperor caracalla x oc #gladiator #emperor geta #emperor geta x reader #emperor geta x oc #gladiator 2 smut #gladiator 2 fanfic #caracalla x reader smut #geta and caracalla #lucilla #caracalla x oc smut #geta

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emdapaladima · 4 days ago

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#padme amidala #padme naberrie #padmé amidala #padmé naberrie #aotc #attack of the clones #rots #revenge of the sith #senate address gown #homecoming dress #peacock gown #star wars #star wars prequels #sw prequels #polls

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sw5w · 1 year ago

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Honorable Representatives of the Republic...

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:27:47

#Star Wars #Episode I #The Phantom Menace #Coruscant #Galactic City #Galactic Senate Building #Grand Convocation Chamber #Senate Rotunda #Senator Sheev Palpatine #Eirtaé #Queen Amidala #Rabé #Senate gown #Naboo #Royal Sovereign of Naboo medal #escoffiate headpiece #Senate repulsorpod

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torbins-braid · 4 months ago

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Star Wars: Attack of the Clones (2002) / Padmé Amidala's Senate Gown -> deleted scene

#star wars #attack of the clones #aotc #padme amidala #padme naberrie #star wars prequels #sw edit #star wars edit #star wars costumes #sw costumes: padmé #leo's gifs #ough yeowch these were so hard to make bc no 4k videos exist of it. oh well!

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notjustjavierpena · 7 months ago

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Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia: Chapter I

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

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

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

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

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

Word count: 7k

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

Chapter I: In these tumultuous times

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Never mind that, Carissima…”

There’s that name again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s why I wanted to—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cassius…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn't matter anyway because it isn’t enough. Your vision isn’t the only one of your senses that he has taken as his own. The feel of his mouth lingers on yours, enough for you to let your fingertips trace over your bottom lip. It feels the same but then again, it doesn’t. Maybe he has left a mark on you that no one has dared to point out?

As well lingers a feeling of a spark that cannot be extinguished once it has been ignited. The sensation has you restless under the covers, the woven fabric scratching uncomfortably against your arms and legs until you have to throw them off.

It is a warm night tonight. The window shutters are still open to let in a night breeze that feels nice on your bare, burning, and untouched skin. You try to find sleep by listening to the usual chirping sound of the crickets but it is of no comfort this time. Marcus is still right there with you, his strong hand on your back and his eyes flickering down to your lips. In your head, he wants you and he lifts up your tunic to touch you where your pulse throbs and— By Jupiter, you need to calm yourself.

You open your eyes to stare up at the ceiling. Everyone has gone to bed, your parents, despite your protests, having come in and kissed you on the forehead while expressing how proud you have made them feel. Yet in the familiar surroundings of your childhood bedroom, everything feels foreign now that you’ve stepped into new territory of desire, unlocking something that separates you from what belongs to the mind of someone’s child. You don’t belong anymore in this room with walls that contain all of your childhood memories. You are grown now.

You should feel sorrow about this, about never coming back here but instead, your body buzzes like a hive of bees, tiny shivers of lust provided by Cupid flowing through you as teasingly as the softest butterfly wings flapping around inside you. It’s a forbidden feeling that stirs guilt in you but also a strange anticipation that has your hand slipping down your belly. Has your skin always been this soft?

You wonder if Marcus feels the same turmoil inside of himself, if he is lying awake just as you are right now and replaying the way your fingertips danced around his waistband but never got any further. The thought makes your hand slide down between your legs, reaching up under the hem of your tunic until your fingers slide over the wet skin there. You breathe deeply in through your nose.

You have done this a few times before but you’ve always gotten to a point where you have to stop yourself, afraid of what might happen when you feel yourself start to reach some sort of pinnacle that you are at a loss for words to describe. It’s natural, you remember Marcus saying about your body’s response. But doing it alone? Isn’t what you are feeling as you touch yourself reserved for your future husband? What would he say if he saw you explore yourself like this? Would he be disappointed in you? Or does he do it himself? Naked in his bed with his thigh muscles flexing as he feels what you are feeling right now? No, don’t think about him like that.

Your thighs fall out to the sides on their own accord. You find the spot that makes you gasp softly, the night way too quiet for you to be making such a noise when others are sleeping soundly. You tip your head back to open your throat, hoping it will make you quieter as you play with the sensation between your legs. Are the Gods watching you? Are they the only ones who can understand the complexities of your mortal longings? Can they tell you what will happen on the other side of this tightening in your gut?

Your breath quickens, shallow puffs of air coming out as you near the pinnacle quicker than ever. A noise close to the sound of a hurt animal escapes your lips and your fingers start to move in earnest, quickly back and forth over the little nub that you think is far too small to have such an effect on the rest of your body. How are you so soon covered in a sheen of sweat? How is your soul already teetering on ripping from your body, a mere vessel?

“Ah,” you moan a little louder, catching it in your throat by biting down on your lip. You feel the pleasurable buildup gradually increase in intensity and suddenly you’ve rolled around onto your front to grind your pelvis up and down on your fist.

Marcus. Marcusmarcusmarcusmar—

No. Clarity comes to you right before you lose it, fear too as it feels like your spirit might leave your body completely. You force yourself to stop your hips’ rapid movements against your hand, surprised at how quickly the sensation of something so unfathomable can ebb away from your grasp. It leaves both a physical and emotional ache. You pant against the bed, nearly creating a damp spot where your mouth rests against the linen.

You roll onto your back once more, wiping your slick fingertips on the sheets before pulling your tunic back into place around your thighs. You suddenly start to freeze, the air from outside your window starting to cool down the sweat on your skin.

It takes a few minutes for your heart rate to drop again. Tomorrow, you will marry Marcus Acacius and a new chapter will begin - a chapter where the tingling ache between your legs will belong to him - but for now, you let the fatigue of managing to hold off lull you to sleep.

You pull the covers up to your chin, feeling smaller like this but it doesn’t comfort you like it did when you were a mere child. You cannot stop the tears that spring to your eyes, starting as a tightening in your chest, a thick swallowing, only to come out in quiet sobs.

You feel the drops slide down your face, running freely down to the sides of your cheekbones and over your ears. Your hair dampens slightly, your nose grows stuffy and sensitive but despite all the telltale signs of your distress, there’s mainly relief as you let go to cry harder about your new life.

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milliesfishes · 7 months ago

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౨ৎ꣑ৎ(president) coriolanus defends you౨ৎ꣑ৎ fem reader x coriolanus snow (requested)

The domestic life had never been something Coriolanus had daydreamed about per se, but he'd known with the path he wanted it was nearly a given.

He'd known his choice in spouse would heavily influence the way this went. He'd aimed for someone pleasant, docile even.

You had been the best possible outcome. Though the marriage began as advantageous, he grew fond, and before he knew it, adoring.

Convinced you were sent by a higher power, he'd made sure to dress you in the best clothes, wrap you in the softest sheets, give you the best security money could buy. In addition, he gave what he had to you. His body was yours as well, and he made sure to remind you of the fact of it nearly every day.

His political pursuits only made him love you more, giving you an opportunity to shine in the spotlight. Sometimes he thought the public loved you more than he did, and he knew they loved you more than him. And he wouldn't have it any other way. You were a fine sight standing at his side at galas and dinners, photographing so well he wasn't convinced you weren't ethereal.

When you became pregnant, he rejoiced not just for the look of it, but for how miraculous you were. The sight of you carrying his child was a vision. And not that he cared as much, but it did wonders for his image to have a beautiful, glowing wife at his side, belly rounding with a baby.

Coriolanus marveled at the child after it was born, a son who was nothing short of a carbon copy of him. Motherhood suited you better than he could have dreamed, and the brightness you'd gained during your pregnancy made a home in you. He could hardly keep his hands off you, and he found you didn't want him to either.

The result of which was another bouncing baby boy, conceived less than a year after your first child was born. At this point, Coriolanus was in higher offices, and he had taken more time to be by your side, not wanting to miss a single second of anything.

Headlines far and wide praised the young, up-and-coming politician and his beautiful family, plastering the yearly portraits you commissioned across the front of magazines and newspapers. It was Panem's ideal, the four of you, and he used that image to propel him further and further up in politics, until he was up for the highest position in the country.

Presidency had been the end goal, of course, but he hadn't expected to reach it so soon. Once a boy with hardly a coin in his pocket, now a savvy, charming political powerhouse with a wife who was just the same.

The night he won his presidency, there were hours and hours of celebration, champagne and fireworks flowing freely. You hardly left his side, greeting dignitaries and senators, in a red gown he couldn't wait to unzip, dripping in diamonds he'd gifted you for the occasion. You looked every bit the perfect First Lady.

When the party had died down and he'd decided he wanted you all to himself, Coriolanus scooped you into his arms and whispered something to you that made you blush prettily. He started to kiss you once you were in the car and didn't stop all the way back to the mansion, up the stairs and into the bedroom. The children were long since put to bed, and he was excited to be alone with you.

"We did it," he whispered before he captured your lips yet again in a searing kiss. "You and me, darling. We'll run this country. We've got the world at our fingertips."

You traced his jaw delicately and slid your hand up to his hair, mussing his hair that'd stayed so perfect all night. "It's all you. You can do anything."

"Not without my wife," he murmured against your mouth. Coriolanus' hands grasped your hips, making you sigh and tug at his tie to loosen it. He ducked his head to your neck, lips trailing a tantalizing trail down to your collarbone. "My First Lady."

The way he said it made you shiver, and you pulled him by the shirt collar to the bed, pushing him down so you could sit on his lap, knees on either side of his thighs. He grasped your waist, leaning back slightly as you kissed him slowly, almost teasingly.

Your lips parted for a moment, and he opened his eyes to watch you breathe, your smooth fingers unhooking his top shirt buttons. He nearly turned liquid when your hand lingered there, tracing his collarbone. The way your face was so serene, he knew you were thinking about something intently.

Then you smiled, taking his face in your hands, your eyes flickering between his. Leaning forward, you gave him the softest, wispiest kiss, and whispered, "I'm pregnant."

Coriolanus pulled back ever so slightly, searching your face. When he found you were serious, a grin split across your features, and he fell so his back hit the bed, rolling over so he was hovering over you. His lips touched every bit of your face he could reach, conscious of your delighted giggles. The night truly couldn't have gotten any better.

Fresh off celebration, he leapt straight into his presidential duties, finding himself more productive than he'd ever been before. Of course, he kept a close eye on you as well, sticking to his usual routine for your pregnancies. If he had a particularly long day, you'd come up to his study and crawl into his lap despite his protests that you needed to rest.

"Can't sleep without you," you'd murmur, knowing that would make him come to bed. He was nearly conscious of what you were doing, but he allowed it to happen, defenseless against your wide eyes and soft touches.

Pregnancy didn't stop you from your responsibilities as the First Lady, and he was in awe of it. You hosted regular dinners and parties as easy as breathing, attended charity events and actual charities, from soup kitchens to schools, animal shelters to women's homes. Coriolanus was amazed by you, how you truly cared to use your position to make things better

You discussed your experiences with him as well, casually mentioning things he may want to take a look at in terms of conditions and laws. He was touched by your goodness of heart, and even though as president he didn't have the final say in everything, you inspired change, encouraged him to truly make things better, not just maintain order.

As the months in the first year of his term progressed, Coriolanus had made the acquaintance of quite a few figures in the Capitol's tree of politics, making nice with them for the sake of diplomacy. They were all eager to cozy up to him, of course, and he kept it in mind as he chose who to be seen with.

There were three senators in particular, who had wives, and children the same ages as yours and Coriolanus' two boys. He cautiously allowed them to become closer. The men were amiable enough and their wives were...well, he wasn't fond of them but you, pure sunshine in physical form, had nothing but good things to say about them, and he thanked the stars for your sweet disposition.

You suggested he have them over for tea one day, saying it would be good for all of them. The boys could have a few more friends their age, you could entertain the other wives, and Coriolanus could talk business with the men. An all-around win, you'd called it.

Of course he'd agreed, your hold on him influencing his decision as usual. He wouldn't dream of fighting your sway, as it'd always produced wonderful results in the past. Coriolanus had long learned to trust you.

The day of you were stunning in a soft red dress that accentuated your rounding belly, and he made sure to tell you how beautiful you looked several times before everyone arrived.

Ever the gracious hostess, you greeted the other wives gracefully, settling on one side of the room with them and the children, allowing Coriolanus and the senators to have a modicum of privacy. As well as this, it made it so he didn't have to interact with the women with whom, he'd confessed to you secretly, he wanted as little to do with as possible. It was like you'd read his mind, and he made a mental note to thank you later.

It began smoothly. The senators were friendly, and their political proposals were fine ideas. He took note of the better ones, already plotting a joint strategy in his head. Whenever he glanced to the other side of the room, you were smiling, and the children were content.

About an hour in, however, he noticed you stand and exit swiftly out of the corner of his eye. That was unusual. He didn't pay it any real mind though, until it had been ten minutes and you still hadn't returned.

Coriolanus got to his feet and excused himself, making his way into the hallway and scanning the space for you. He heard sniffling around the corner, and when he went to investigate, he found you with a hand over your mouth, eyes closed as tears streamed down your cheeks.

His face fell, and he immediately took you into his arms, folding you into his chest and holding your head there the way he knew you liked. "Darling, what's the matter? What happened? Are you feeling alright?"

You let out a breathy sob, shaking your head. "Nothing, it's nothing. I'm just emotional. I'm always emotional."

A bold-faced lie. Coriolanus had heard stories of pregnant women crying at the drop of the hat, but you'd never been that way. Not with either of your sons and so far, not at all with this baby either, six months in.

"You can tell me," he decided on saying, smoothing your hair under his hand. "I don't care how little you think it is. I'll fix it no matter what."

"It's stupid," you breathed, your arms grasping around his middle.

"Easier to make better, then," he kissed the top of your head, trying ot coax you into confessing.

That softened your resolve, and you took in a breath. Maybe you could sense he wouldn't relent. Maybe you felt safe enough to tell him. Either way, or both, you started talking.

"The other wives..." you started, and he bit his tongue. His opinion was already low of them, and he had a feeling whatever they'd done would sink it to the depths. "They were making...comments. About how many babies we've had."

His brow furrowed. He hadn't even realized that was something to make 'comments' on. "What did they say?"

"Have you noticed none of them have more than one?" you looked up at him, your teary eyes piercing his. And he realized he'd never taken that into account, but it was true. "They impli- said that it was low class, district was the word one of them used, to do what we've done and have multiple children."

In shock, Coriolanus smoothed a hand over your rosy cheek, brushing another tear away. "That's ridiculous. How could the number of children we have determine our status?"

"Apparently because I'm married to the president, I'd be neglecting my responsibilities by portraying myself as a 'housewife'," you whispered, not meeting his eyes at that part. "It comes across as undignified." He was about to contradict you, when you said more. "And they were talking about my charity work, saying I do too much and I shouldn't be neglecting our boys-" your breath hitched on the word, and a fresh wave of tears ensued.

Coriolanus let you bury your face into his chest once more, not caring if you got makeup on his collar. This was more serious than something that could be rendered with dry-cleaning.

He was in disbelief that anyone would dare say such things to you, such things that were so blatantly untrue. And to your face, no less. He almost admired the boldness of it. The audacity of Capitol women truly knew no bounds. He knew jealousy when he saw it, having been an active devotee of it for much of his life. These women had put you in an impossible spot. You couldn't be a good enough mother, or a good enough First Lady in their eyes. His mind worked quickly, and he knew what he needed to do.

Lifting your chin, Coriolanus said, "Will you look at me, sweetheart?" You obliged, and his heart broke at the look in your eyes. He lifted his hands to cradle your face, the corners of his lips twitching when you leaned slightly into his palm.

"You are a wonderful mother," he emphasized. "Our boys adore you. And you do beautiful work for all your charities. Do you know how many remarks I get about how caring and selfless my wife is?" Your tears slowed down, and that encouraged him to continue. "You're perfect. Anyone who says otherwise doesn't know what they're talking about."

That made you smile, and he relished in how pretty you looked even after you'd been crying. Coriolanus kissed your hairline gently, and pulled you in for another hug, rubbing your back. "Why don't you go upstairs and rest for a bit? I'll join you in a moment."

"What about-?"

"I'll take care of it," he interjected firmly when you remembered everyone still sitting in the drawing room. Coriolanus leaned down and pressed a gentle peck to your mouth, enough to make you smile a little more. "Go on up."

You left him, and he watched you walk down the hallway to the stairs, looking so small in the vast, grand expanse.

Somewhat regrettably, the senator's proposals would have to be rejected. Although maybe there was a way to twist them, so they were just different enough from their specific wording to make them seem like his. Maybe they would protest, but it didn't matter. Their wives had disrespected you, the center of Coriolanus' world, and so they wouldn't reap any benefits. And besides, nobody would believe them.

Perhaps it was a little early in his presidency to have someone ejected from society, but he would certainly try. Anyone who dared question you, his sweet, kind, darling wife, would have hell to pay.

Coriolanus was the president of Panem. He could do as he pleased.

And he'd exhaust every last resource to keep you happy by his side.

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus snow fanart #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus fanfiction #coriolanus snow imagines #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus snow imagine #coryo snow #tbosas x reader #tbosas fic #tbosbas #tbosas #the hunger games fanfiction #hunger games fanfiction #the hunger games #milliesfishes coryo

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thnksfrthquinn · 1 month ago

Text

A Bond Forged in Shadows

Summary : As the daughter of Rome’s most trusted senator, you grew up alongside Emperor Geta and his brother, forging a bond of friendship in the shadows of imperial power. Now, as Geta ascends the throne, your world is thrown into turmoil when your father arranges a political marriage to secure alliances for Rome. Though bound by duty, you can’t suppress the growing unease in your heart—nor can Geta hide his own discontent at the thought of losing you. Amid the treacherous intrigue of the Roman court, stolen moments and unspoken feelings blossom into a forbidden love that defies the expectations of duty and empire. With alliances at stake and betrayal lurking around every corner, you and Geta must navigate the perilous divide between loyalty and desire, risking everything for a chance at happiness in a world that demands you sacrifice it all

WC: 1.9k

Warnings: No spoilers from the movie // Smut // Violence // soft!Geta // rough!Geta // Geta x Reader

a/n: I'm actually in awe of Joseph as Geta so I thought id make a fic lol :)

The marble halls of the imperial palace were as cold and unyielding as the duties that weighed upon its inhabitants. You walked them with practiced ease, your head held high as whispers of senators and servants drifted past like the faintest echoes of a storm. To the outside world, you were the picture of composure—the dutiful daughter of Rome’s most trusted senator, a symbol of unity and loyalty to the empire. But beneath the gilded façade, your thoughts churned. The announcement of your impending betrothal, carefully orchestrated to strengthen Rome’s alliances, felt like a noose tightening around your neck. As daughter of Rome’s most trusted senator you lived and breathed the palace since you were born, alongside Geta and Caracalla and their father whom ruled before them. You and Geta grew up fairly close, Caracalla on the other hand, you two didn’t seem to get along at all. You found yourself mindlessly roaming around the palace halls and gardens, finding new hobbies like reading or art. You were just a page in your fathers book, only there for courtship and alliances and to serve Rome. You learned from a young age how to handle yourself and how to act.

It was a cool summers day as you roamed around the palace gardens admiring the flowers. You had just had a stern talking too from your father and you needed to cool off. The gardens were like your safe place, you always came here for solitude. You sat and a nearby bench and took a long breath, taking in the air around you. You hear rustling behind you and turn. Geta is watching you, a cheeky smirk on his face, he walks up behind you and suddenly speaks.

“All alone again are we?” He stands with his hand behind his back looking down at you, eyes focused on yours.

“My lord, good afternoon” You stand and curtsy, ruffling the creases in your gown as you stand. His eyes trace your body up and down as he nods in acceptance, a small smirk still playing on his lips.

“Ive told you before, no need for such formalities when we are alone” You let out a soft sigh.

“I know, its just habit” Geta moves closer to you and you both begin to walk around the palace gardens.

“What are you doing out here alone for anyway?” Geta turns his head to you as you both walk together, his hand firmly behind his back still.

“Just wanted to get some air, before this afternoons senate meeting” You both waltz through the gardens, seeming to walk in circles around the flowers. Geta nods and stops for a moment, a small hum coming from his lips.

“Ah yes, the meeting” He stops. “This wouldn’t be about what you father has planned for you, would it?” He turns to you and raises a brow. You turn to him and clench your jaw. You know he knows why your out here, you decide to just come clean. You both had a good relationship and you know Geta wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.

“Yes.. yes it does” You confess, taking a big sigh and looking down to the floor. You cannot lie to Geta, he knows you too well.

“You don’t want to get married, do you?” He asks, his eyes still focused on you. You cannot look at him, you feel you like have betrayed him, betrayed Rome.

“No..” You say softly, the nerves getting the better of you. You stand in-front of him, still looking down to the floor. He takes a step closer to you and places a gentle hand on your chin, lifting it so your looking at him. Your eyes trace up to his face as he gently lifts your chin.

“Geta-“ He stops you, placing his finger over your lips.

“I understand..” He pauses. “You don’t want to marry somebody you don’t know, somebody whom you have no interest with or in” You eyes widened in shock, how did he know? He let go of your chin and tilted his head to you.

“If you don’t want to get married, why are you allowing your father to do this to you?” He spoke quietly, raising his hand slightly to let the guards know he wanted to be alone. The guards around all soon left. You look at him, your brows furrowed.

“Its my duty for alliances, for Rome” He met your gaze as you looked at him, noticing the expression on your face. He let out a scoff, turning away from you as he rolled his eyes. When he spoke again there was a sense of irritation in his tone.

“And what about what you want? You shouldn’t be married off to some pompous senator for Rome. Me and Caracalla can manage on our own” He scoffs, turning back to you.

“It doesn’t matter about what I want. This is what I was born to do.. I thought of all people, you should know that!” You snap at him, your hands shaking in frustration. Geta should know this is what you have to do. The irritation grew in Geta as you spoke, his jaw clenching and eye twitching. He quickly spoke again, a snap in his tone as he did so.

“You can plead your case to the senate, me and Caracalla. You cannot give up this easily” You chuckle in frustration, surely he cannot be serious. You stand in front of him, dumbfounded by what he’s just said.

“You know they will just push me to the side, Geta.” You pause. “Why do you care so much anyway? You should be telling my father no if you don’t like it as much as me, your the goddamn emperor!” You snapped, internally scolding yourself. You take a step back, clenching your jaw, trying to stand your ground. Geta stood up himself at your snap at him. There was something about your attitude that angered him, yet at the same time intrigued him. He took a few steps forward, closing the gap between you.

“Don’t you ever speak to me like that again, I am not just a ‘goddam’ emperor, I am your ruler. The one who rules over you, and I have been more than generous to you” The look in his eyes was frighting, but you stood your ground glaring back at him.

“What are you going to do? Kill me with high treason. Do it! I’d be much happier not here than marrying some senator for this godforsaken kingdom!” Your eyes never left his, he was surprised at how you were acting, nobody has ever stood up to him like this before, except for Caracalla, but that was to be expected. Geta was beginning to lose his temper with you, he had expected you to cower like everybody else, but you were not. You were starting to get him riled up. His eyes narrowed angrily at you and he stepped closer to you.

“Watch your tone with me, girl. Don’t tempt me to act rashly, this little outburst your having right now is already testing my patience” You were both fairly close to each other, you could see the sweat beading off his forehead. Your fists began to clench, you’d never been this angry before. The fear had completely left your body and it only ran on adrenaline, remembering the talk you had with your father and now this conversation with Geta.

“Do it! You’re testing my patience” The challenge you were giving him sent a fire through his veins. He felt a heat in hi like he had never felt before towards you, it was almost primal. He placed his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look at him. His tone was more firm and demanding now.

“I’m warning you, girl. Your testing my limits. Do not force me to do something we will both regret” You gritted your teeth as he held your jaw, trying to snap out of his firm grasp but failing.

“Let. Go. Of. Me” You spat out at him, breathing heavy and tense. He held fast as you tried to snap yourself out of his grasp, gripping your jaw a bit tighter as he spoke again, his tone firmer and more demanding.

“No, your acting like a disobedient brat. Im not going to ‘loosen my grip’ just because you demand me to. You’re acting like a insolent fool, you need to be put in your place!” You began to get more and more angry by the second, plus, you didn’t care what would happen to you. You just wanted this whole situation to end. You struggled more and more to get out of Geta’s grip, but he was too strong. Your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of fury and defiance burning in your veins as you glared at him.

“Put me in my place?” you hissed through gritted teeth, your voice trembling with barely contained rage. “You’re nothing but a tyrant hiding behind a crown!” Geta’s jaw tightened at your words, a dangerous glint flashing in his eyes. His grip on your jaw remained firm, his nails digging into your skin.

“A tyrant?” he repeated coldly, his voice low and cutting. “You think I enjoy this? You think I enjoy being forced to deal with your reckless defiance? Your insolent tongue is going to get you in trouble one of these days, and it seems like today is that day” Your blood boiled as his words pierced through the haze of your anger. With a surge of determination, you pushed against his chest with all the strength you could muster, his nails leaving a scratch on your jaw, blood dripping down to your neck.

“Don’t touch me like that!” you spat, shoving him back just enough to break his hold. Geta stumbled slightly, more from surprise than force, his expression shifting from anger to something unreadable. The cut on your jaw stung with the cool breeze that flowed through the trees. “You don’t get to manhandle me like I’m one of your mistresses!”

“You—” he began, but you cut him off, your voice trembling with righteous fury.

“Me and my father have done nothing but support you and your brother! When everyone else doubted, we stood by you. When others plotted against you, we were the ones who protected your name and your throne!” Your chest heaved as you struggled to contain the fire within you, wiping the blood from your face. “And this—this is how you repay us? By treating me like some insubordinate plaything? By using your strength against me?” For a moment, Geta was silent, his lips pressed into a hard line. His fists clenched at his sides, but he made no move to approach you again.

“You think I don’t see what you’ve done for me and my brother?” he said finally, his voice quieter, though the tension still lingered in his tone. “You think I don’t know the sacrifices you and your father have made?”

“Then act like it,” you snapped, the raw emotion in your voice cutting through the air. “I deserve more respect than this, Geta. My loyalty isn’t yours to abuse.”

The weight of your words hung heavy between you both, the silence stretching until it became almost unbearable. For the first time, a flicker of regret crossed his face, but you didn’t wait for him to respond. Turning on your heel, you walked away holding onto your jaw, your heart still racing, leaving him standing there in the presence of his actions.

#joseph quinn #josephquinn #emperor geta #geta x reader #joseph quinn geta #geta #gladiator ii #gladiator 2

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