#geta x reader
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telemachus-let-me-hit-it · 9 days ago
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Such a cutie I felt the urge to start barking
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multific · 8 months ago
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Love Beyond History
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Emperor Geta x Reader
Summary: All husbands must love their wives. The Emperor was no exception.
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In the magnificence of Ancient Rome, there existed a love story that defied expectations. 
It revolved around Emperor Geta, a notorious figure known for his insatiable thirst for blood in the gladiator games, and his beloved wife, a gentle soul who despised violence. 
As the sun cast its golden glow upon the Colosseum, Geta and his wife, you, found yourselves surrounded by a roaring crowd, eagerly awaiting the sensation that unfolded before you. 
Gladiator games.
The air was thick with anticipation and the scent of sweat mixed with the metallic smell of blood. 
While Geta enjoyed the brutality of the games, you struggled to moderate your own emotions with the darkness of said games.
Amidst the clamour and the rising heat, you felt a wave of sickness washing over you. You were sitting beside Geta, his brother watching from his own chair.
The sight of blood and the overbearing atmosphere became too much for your heart to bear. 
Your face paled, and your breathing grew shallow. 
As if sensing your distress, Geta turned to you.
With a concerned look, Geta gently took your shaking hand in his own. 
He led you away from the frenzy, finding comfort in a secluded corner where the noise of the Colosseum was muted and it was a bit colder. 
His voice, soft and soothing, whispered words of comfort and love into her ear. 
"My Darling. It is probably way too hot for you, and also the blood. I know how much you dislike it."
"Geta. I'm sorry." you whispered as you finally felt like you could breathe.
"No need for it. I only wished for you to share the same love for the games as I do. But I see it now, this really is not for you." 
"I'm truly sorry." Moved by his tenderness, you looked into his eyes, realizing the depth of his affection. 
At that moment, Geta sealed his devotion with a tender kiss on your forehead.
It was a gesture that spoke volumes, an affirmation of his love for you.
As the night arrived in Rome, Geta and you retired to your chambers after dinner. 
The flickering candlelight danced upon your faces, illuminating the room with a warm glow. 
It all filled your heart with such happiness.
You believed, that in this room, you were only a wife and a husband, nothing less, nothing more.
No Rome, no power, no titles.
Just a man and a woman.
Geta, captivated by the beauty and kindness in you, watched you as you peacefully slept. 
The Emperor rolled onto his side watched your face in the candlelight as you faced him.
Overwhelmed by the depth of his emotions, he was awestruck by the fortunate turn of fate that had brought you together. 
Even if it wasn't fate. It was all him.
His selfish nature declared you as his wife the moment your eyes met his.
But in that moment, he realized that his love for you had transformed him. Softening the edges of his bloodthirsty nature and revealing a gentler side.
With a heart full of appreciation, Geta whispered silent words of adoration into the night. 
He vowed to cherish you, to protect you from the darkness that lurked beyond the chambers. 
And so, your love story continued to unfold, defying the expectations of a bloodthirsty emperor and his gentle wife. 
It was the kind of love that exceeded history.
People the upcoming centuries learned about the brutal Emperor Geta and his beloved wife.
Truly a love story worth learning about.
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Taglist: 
@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou 
@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief 
@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen 
~Masterlist~
ˇAO3ˇ
/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/
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g1rlw1th0n33ye3 · 5 months ago
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Soft Spot I
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Pairing - Emperor Caracalla x Reader ( x eventually Geta)
Word count - 3.4k
Summary- Sometimes, being nice to the wrong person can change your whole life
Warnings- their Roman emperors in 200 AD... so like warning in general but for this chapter metions of enslavment and blood but nothing graphic
Soft Spot II - Masterlist
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It was a hot and windy night upon Palatine Hill, the air thick with the scents of the bustling city below. You lay in your less-than-comfortable bed of straw, the rough fibers scratching against your skin. The all-consuming heat wrapped around you like a heavy blanket. Suddenly, a loud crash shatters the stillness, jerking you from your slumber.
As the kitchen headmistress, you have been granted the privilege of private quarters, if one could truly call it a privilege. Your room was small and cluttered, its walls grimy with the residue of countless meals prepared in the bustling kitchen down the hall. The flickering light of a lone candle cast dancing shadows across the uneven floor.
Despite your title, you were no more happy than any other slave. The weight of expectation lay heavy on your shoulders. Any joy you once found in cooking had been long overshadowed by the responsibility of managing everyone around you. With each meal, you felt the pressure to ensure everything was perfect or fear facing the punishment.
Trapped between the chaos of the demanding patricians and the struggle to maintain order among the other slaves, especially when nobody was ever happy with their assignments. A kitchen master or two has met unfortunate ends in the past at the hands of angry slaves sneaking in during the dead of night to slit their throats and sometimes worse. To avoid such fates, it was simpler to give the head of the kitchen their own room, complete with a lock to keep out vengeful workers who, for some reason, blamed you for their circumstances.
Your job wasn’t so bad despite the constant dirty looks and threats to your life. You had your own quarters, and while most of the female slaves had to attend to the lady patricians upstairs, some of the more unlucky ones were sent to serve the males as concubines. Luckily for you, working in the kitchens kept you far away from any male patricians with wandering hands and bad tempers—or, gods forbid, the Ceasers.  Your days were filled with the clanging of pots and the sizzling of food as you supervised the preparation of meals for the entire palace. It was a demanding job, but it kept you away from the more dangerous parts of the palace.
  You groggily rise from your slumber after hearing another loud clanging. If someone was messing around in the kitchen and they weren’t caught in the act, you would be ultimately blamed for whatever was missing, and as much as you hated having to report it to the master of slaves, if you didn’t, it would be you in their place instead. On Palatine Hill, it was kill or be killed; it was the only way to survive as long as you had.
  Slipping out of bed, you throw on one of the tunics you’ve had for years. It’s falling apart around the sleeves and far too tight around your hips, but it’s the last thing your aunt gave you before she left this world, and you can’t bear to part with it. You slide on your sandals, which are also slowly falling apart, but you need them to avoid the dirt of the lower levels. Before you go, you reach under your mattress to grab the small knife you had stolen from the kitchen years ago and place it up your sleeve using your palm to hold it up and out of view; slaves in the palace weren’t allowed to have any weapons, but in a place like this, were everyone saw fit to just take whatever they wanted you needed something to protect yourself, gods, forbid the noise in the kitchen was an assassin sneaking through the kitchens to get the Ceasers they would have no problem cutting you down to get to the Ceasers and who were you in this palace in this world that anyone would save you over the ceasers.
If it was a guard poking around down there, He would take one look at the knife, and you would be punished or, worse, killed. The guard’s transgressions would be forgotten, all blame being put on you.
You shift the knife further up your tunic, the fear of being caught and swiftly punished haunting your mind as you make your way to the door, trying your best not to make a sound. As you open it, you can still hear the sounds coming from the kitchen as you creep closer, knife held close, the sounds becoming louder. You can almost hear a soft sort of muttering. You silently pray there isn’t more than one person. There was only so much you and the tiny knife you carried could do, and with no sense of training, they’d probably cut you down before you could even draw your blade; perhaps it wasn’t too late to run back to your room and hide till morning punishment be dammed your about to turn around when the gods make your choice for you as your foot makes contact with some chicken bones some fool left in the hall; The loud crunch echoed through the dimly lit hall, cutting through the muffled sounds of pots and pans clattering in the kitchen. Instantly, all noise from that direction ceased, creating an eerie silence.
There was no turning back now; whoever was in the kitchen had to be aware of your presence. With your heart racing, you cautiously crept forward, each step deliberate and silent, straining to catch any hint of movement or sound that might betray their location. The air felt heavy with tension as you navigated the hallway.
As you round the corner and step into the massive kitchens, you brace yourself for the sight of a horde of bandits ready to ambush you. However, to your astonishment, the kitchens are entirely deserted. The large stone hearths, usually crackling with the warmth of a fire and filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread, stand cold and silent. You scan the dimly lit room, each shadow dancing eerily in the flickering light of the few burning candles.
With cautious steps, you traverse the vast expanse of the kitchen, the echo of your footfalls a stark reminder of the absence of life. Large wooden tables, typically cluttered with pots and ingredients, sit untouched, their surfaces coated in a thin layer of dust. Not a single soul is present, and the silence is unnerving, as if the very air holds its breath, waiting for something to happen.
A chill runs down your spine, and you ponder whether the madness that often haunts the ancient castle has decided to linger a little too close for comfort this time.
Worried and restless, you decide it’s best to retrace your steps and head back to your room, hoping the familiar surroundings will soothe your spirit and shield you from the lurking darkness that seems to envelop the palace.
Then suddenly, a strange, quiet mumbling echoes from within the pantry, sending a shiver down your spine. With a shaky hand, you grip the small knife in your palm, readying yourself for whatever awaits you behind the door. Taking a deep breath, you take slow, deliberate steps toward the pantry, your heart racing.
Cautiously, you nudge the door open with your foot, instinctively raising your hands to shield yourself from an unseen threat. However, upon stepping inside, you’re met with an unsettling emptiness—just shadows and the faint scent of aged wood. Doubt creeps in, making you wonder if you are losing your mind.
You scan the space meticulously, eager for any sign of life that could confirm your sanity. As despair sets in, your eyes fall upon something unusual: a pair of golden sandals peeking out from beneath a wooden table laden with assorted cheeses and oils. The table is covered with a cloth, its corners lifting slightly as if disturbed. It becomes clear that someone had been here, perhaps reaching for a small wheel of cheese, shown by the noticeable bite mark taken from it.
You’re about to yell at the slave who has decided to take liberties with the Emperor’s cheese, putting you all at risk. But suddenly, a realization halts you in your tracks: only someone of immense wealth could afford to wear sandals in such immaculate condition.
If the individual below is indeed a Patrician, confronting them could spell disaster for you, as their status comes with considerable power, and they could punish you just for looking them in the eye. On the other hand, it might be just a drunken slave, desperate enough to steal the sandals, willing to risk their life for a mere scrap of cheese.
You find yourself at a crossroads, ready to accept whatever punishment awaits, which will probably be far preferable to some gruesome fate at the hands of a drunken patrician. You begin to resign when a soft sniffle echoes from beneath the table, catching you off guard. You freeze, unsure of how to proceed. Gathering your courage, you lean down slightly, peering into the dim shadows beneath the heavy oak.
“Uhm, excuse me, are you alright?” you venture, your voice barely above a whisper. There is no immediate reply, but you notice the foot, tucked in the expensive shoe, scrunch back as if it has become aware of your presence. Tension fills the air, mingling with the aroma of stale bread and kitchen spices.
“I mean no offense,” you continue, attempting to soften your words, “but this part of the kitchen is meant for the kitchen slaves only. If you need something, I can find a slave to bring it to your rooms.” Your voice carries the weight of concern as you await a response, but only silence lingers.
With hands trembling, you gather your courage and lift the edge of the tablecloth, revealing the cowering figure curled up beneath. He lies in a tight fetal position, body trembling slightly, head buried deep within the shelter of his arms.
A part of you screams to drop the cloth and retreat to the safety of your room, to erase this moment from your memory and pretend it never happened. Yet, no matter how hard you try, your empathy refuses to fade away. The turmoil within him pulls at your heart; despite the anger and resentment that Rome has instilled in you, you can’t bring yourself to feel anything but pity for this broken soul hiding away beneath the fabric.
“C-can I help you? Are you alright?” The figure shifts slightly, and you catch a glimpse of pale blue eyes peering out from behind the table, rimmed with tears that add a shimmering quality to his delicate features. “N-no... nobody can help me,” he responds, his voice quivering as he tries to hide his face from view.
“Perhaps I could try,” you offer gently, your heart aching at the pain reflected in his gaze. “If you tell me what ails you, I might be able to help.” He sniffles, burying his face deeper into the shadowy ground, mumbling something too faint for you to catch.
“I’m sorry, I can’t quite hear you. Maybe if you sat up, I could understand you better,” you say softly, hoping to coax him out from his hiding place beneath the table.
After a moment of hesitation, he begins to unfurl, slowly propping himself up but remaining hunched, his posture reflecting his despair. Now, with his full form visible, you find it impossible to neglect the striking beauty he possesses. His eyes, a haunting pale blue, are still glistening with unshed tears that create streaks against the pale makeup caked over his skin, struggling to conceal his blemishes. His reddish-orange hair, tousled and unkempt, crowns his head, giving him an air of chaotic elegance.
Atop his head rests a crown of laurel leaves, askew and slightly battered, hinting at a position of importance or honor. It’s a stark contrast to the turmoil evident in his countenance. His clothes, rich in fabric and style, suggest wealth far beyond what you could imagine, likely worth more than all the food in the kitchen combined. As he sits there, a beautiful but tragic figure, you can’t help but wonder what events led him to this moment, hiding under the table, burdened by an invisible weight.
You lock eyes with him, his gaze heavy with uncertainty. For a brief moment, it feels as though he’s trying to decipher something hidden within you.  You hesitate, unsure of how to break the silence, hoping he will find the words first.  Yet, he remains transfixed, his expression a blend of confusion and contemplation.
You feel the weight of his gaze shift, his eyes drifting down to focus on your breasts.  A wave of unease washes over you, prompting you to finally speak up before his thoughts take a more dangerous turn.
“Before you said something, dominus, I couldn’t quite hear.” Your words seemed to snap him out of his trance, truly noticing you now before going back to his glossed-over look, seeming to remember his troubles. “You wouldn’t understand,” he whines, putting a pout on his lips.
You let out a chuckle before you could stop yourself. “Oh, um... my deepest apologies, Dominus. I just... I forget myself,” you say, looking down. But it’s too late; he begins pounding his fists into the stone floor.
“See, you’re just like everyone else! They laugh at me! I can hear them all whispering about me. They all think I’m some fool!” he yelled, continuing to beat his knuckles into the concrete. Tears welled up in his eyes; he seemed more sad than angry.
Frightened, you shrunk back, preparing for his anger to turn on you, but he simply continued to beat his knuckles bloody while mumbling to himself.  
Terrified but unwilling to leave the poor man alone to beat his knuckles to the bone, you get up to find something to stop the bleeding. At the sight of you rising, he slows his assault on the stone to watch your movements.  You grab a bottle of vinegar and some cheesecloth before returning to kneel beside him.  He has stopped hitting his knuckles against the ground, his eyes following your every movement.
“Can I help you with that?” you ask, reaching out to take his bloodied hands. He shrinks back, pulling into himself.
“Please, I just want to clean and wrap it. These floors are filthy; they could get infected. We wouldn’t want that, would we?” you whisper, trying to convince him to let his guard down and allow you to help.  At your words, he seems to relax slightly and lets you take his hand.  You give him a small smile, hoping to offer some comfort.
“Alright, this might hurt a bit, but it will only be for a second,” you say as you pour the vinegar on his knuckles.
He winces as the vinger makes contact with his knuckles. You quickly wrap it up before tending to the other hand, his eyes never leaving you. “We’re all set. I’m no professional, but I’ve tended to my fair share of kitchen accidents, and I still have my hands, so that must be a good sign,” you say, trying to lighten the tense mood.
When he suddenly interjects with a playful, “What’s your name?” his voice lingers in the air, laced with a hint of curiosity. He looks at you with a dazed, crooked smile that seems to dance on the edges of his lips, catching you off guard with the abruptness of his question. Despite your surprise, you respond, revealing your name in a soft whisper. His smile widens at your answer, and he chuckles softly, “A pretty name for a pretty girl.”
He reaches out, gently entwining a finger around one of your loose locks of hair. The gesture is intimate, almost tender, making your heart quicken. “And you, Dominus, what is your name?” you ask, his eyes sparkling with mischief you had not seen in them before.
“You do not know my name?” he asks incredulously as if the very idea of you being unaware of his identity is the most astonishing thing in this surreal encounter. You shake your head, feeling a hint of embarrassment creep up your cheeks. “No, I’m sorry, Dominus. I’m the headmistress of the kitchen. I don’t ever serve, let alone leave the kitchen. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” you say, your voice softening as you instinctively bow your head respectfully.
Just as you begin to lower your head, his hands reach out to gently cup your face, stopping you mid-bow. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver through you, and his expression shifts to one you can’t quite place. “I think I like that,” he mumbles more to himself than to you.  You’re too nervous to pull away from his touch and make him feel slighted, but not wanting to spend a moment longer under his heated stare, you decide to try coaxing him out again.
“Would you like to come out now, Dominus?” you say, holding your hand out to him. He waits a moment, staring at your outstretched palm, before removing his hand from your chin to take hold of your hand. You carefully pull him out from beneath the table.
Pulling him to his full height and releasing his hand as quickly as you had grabbed it, he would be intimidating if he weren’t looking around like a lost, confused puppy. “I can’t remember my way out here,” he said, furrowing his brows in a pout as he scanned the area as if trying to recall the path.
“No need to worry, Dominus. I can lead you to the stairwell,” you replied, grabbing a candle from the tabletop to help guide your way through the winding passages. As you began to walk out of the pantry, you turned back to see him standing there with a solemn expression.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, stepping back in front of him.
“Will you walk with me back to my chambers?” he said, grabbing your hand again and holding it to his chest. You almost wanted to cave to those pleading blue eyes, but your logical side knew better. You couldn’t forget the wandering looks he had given earlier. Going anywhere near his chambers would leave you vulnerable. As tormented as he seemed now, you didn’t want to see his mood swing in the other direction.
“I’m sorry, Dominus, but I’ve never left the kitchens; I wouldn’t know the way,” you say, your voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in your stomach. You hope your words will be convincing enough to sway him. He gives you a look that mixes disappointment and confusion, but after a moment, he reluctantly drops his hand from your chest. However, he still holds onto yours, his grip a little tight, as if he doesn’t want to let go just yet.
Taking this as a sign, you gently begin leading him out of the pantry and through the bustling kitchen. The warm scent of freshly baked bread lingers in the air, a stark contrast to the late hour. You move slowly, careful to match your pace with his drunken, staggering movements. As you reach the base of the stairwell that serves as a passage for the servants to come and go.
You try to urge him forward with your hand, but he remains still, his gaze fixated on the archway above. “Everyone up there is mean. I want to stay down here with you,” he pouts, a hint of stubbornness creeping into his voice. You bite your lip, suppressing the urge to chuckle at his childlike demeanor, well aware that laughter might only frustrate him further.
Instead, you smile gently and say, “I promise you, the people down here are just as mean as the ones up there, and it’s quite late, Dominus. You really should get some rest.” You lead him up the creaking stairs to the landing, where soft light spills through the windows, illuminating the worn stone steps.
He pauses, contemplating your words, his brow furrowed in thought. After a moment, he drops your hand, his expression shifting to one of resignation. “Goodbye, pretty girl,” he whispers, a touch of vulnerability in his tone before he begins to shuffle drunkenly back toward his chambers.
As you watch him disappear down the dimly lit corridor, a sense of bittersweet longing washes over you. Once back in your bed, with straws poking you uncomfortably in the back, you realize that you never learned his name. A sigh escapes your lips as you try to shake the thought from your mind, knowing you’ll probably never see him again. You’ve never ventured beyond the kitchens, and for the strange man, this night will likely fade into a blurry memory, just another drunken escapade amidst countless others.
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Authors note ; this is like the second fic Ive written I stopped for a long while but my favorite freaky gingers and all the people writing about them have inspired me to get back to writing and trying to improve my craft so please be kind but constructive criticism welcome! anywho i hope you guys enjoyed this sorta set up chapter I have a whole storyline I want to play out that I haven't really seen in other storys oh and this wont really follow the galditor storyline but I swear if you stick with me I have a plan anyway I enjoy and lemme know if you guys want part two!! or anything you might like to see requests are currently open!
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lovebugism · 7 months ago
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✶ ┄ HOUNDS OF LOVE !
part one | part two
summary: you and marcus live lightyears apart within the city walls when emperor geta takes a greater liking to you than expected. you start to find a strange sense of understanding within the crazed emperor, while general acacius plots your escape. (11k)
pairing: marcus acacius / f!reader, emperor geta / f!reader
contents: established relationships, angst, hurt/comfort, cw for mentions of war, mentions of sex work, brief mentions of emotional abuse (geta has anger issues he's working on), swearing, smut 18+ (dubcon, unprotected sex, exhibitionism & voyeurism) (this is another dark fic!! please heed the warnings!!)
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“Meet me in the garden,” you pant against the General’s mouth as you kiss him with a desperate sort of fervor. It’s all wet and hungry and unforgiving, like biting into an apple. “At sunset, on the morrow. Say you’ll meet me there.”
Despite your delicate touch, you cradle Marcus in a most violent hold. You keep him impossibly close with one hand wrapped around his neck, tanned and taut with the strain of war. Your other twists in his hair, dancing through the greying curls of fine silk. You embrace the General within the candlelit crypt where, before now, only death seemed to roam.
Marcus stands as still as the statues of ghosts surrounding you. You lick into his mouth like you plan to breathe life back into his lungs, even while he withers into nothingness at your feet. A thin layer of your spit coats the scruff of his chin. He balls his calloused hands into fists at his sides and pretends a part of you isn’t glittering upon him. He holds onto plausible deniability like a shield.
“It is not safe,” Marcus murmurs in a gruff whisper when you pull back to take a breath. His lidded eyes dart over your kissed face — gaze heavied, lips swollen. Beautiful devil, fallen angel. “You know this.”
Not anymore, he wants to say. Not while you belong to Them.
“Why not?” you challenge, always so girlishly gentle in your stubbornness. “Everyone will be at the feast, Marcus— No one will see us, I’m sure of it.”
Your eyes flit between his kissed mouth and dark-eyed gaze. Universes shine in your irises despite the shadows of the labyrinthine tomb. Marcus feels a white-hot knife twisting in his chest as he resists the urge to hold you.
“It’s the world we live in now, petal. There is little use in questioning it.”
“But why?” you question, anyway. “Why must we live in this world, hm? The war is over— We could make our own, somewhere far away from the city. Somewhere no one could ever find us—”
You create heavens with your naivety.
Marcus burns them down with words.
“The Emperors would not stand for losing their general. For them, the war is never finished,” the General interjects in a sorrowful deadpan, aching when your face twists with grief. “And if they misplaced you? They… They would burn cities to the ground in their hunt… They would set the world aflame before they stopped searching for you.”
Marcus knows this because he knows himself — every star in the sky would burn out before he stopped looking for you. He knows this, too, because he knows the Emperors. Perhaps better than anyone else in the entire world. 
Geta and Caracalla were born with the belief that they possessed ownership over everything they touched. Anyone stealing from their Empire would meet a swift and tortuous demise. They were merciless gods who dangled life and death on their fingertips. Only those who kissed the ring would make it out of their rule alive.
And you knew it, too. 
That was the worst part of it all: you knew it.
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Tomorrow comes and passes like rolling summer clouds, slow and heavy and suffocating. You watch from the royal garden as the sky turns from a glittering sapphire to milky shades of peach and lavender. Another day gone by that you’ve spent grieving on your own. 
Though time marches mercilessly on, threatening to untie unbreakable bonds, it changes little of how much you and Marcus have grown together. Like cherry trees kissed with the promise of spring, with your roots tangled gracelessly together. It’s a knot that cannot be undone, not even by the promise of death. 
And for that, you figure you must be grateful.
Because as you sit on the stone steps of an artificial lake, twirling your fingers in the warm water of the koi pond, you wonder how dreadful it must be for the multi-colored carp. To swim in circles your whole life, to think the world is only as big as the bricks holding you hostage. 
At least you know what it means to grow up in the rolling green of an infinite countryside. At least now you have gardens to roam in the greatest city in the world. At least now you get to live.
A breeze sweeps suddenly through the garden, rippling the crystalline water and rustling the bright green leaves over your head. It carries the soft sound of footsteps scraping the stone trail. Your ears perk, your heart stops, and your head whips over your shoulder. You hope to see Marcus standing at the steps below you.
Your chest tightens and deflates all at once at the sight of Emperor Geta.
He’s adorned in his white-gold cloak, with his laurels sat atop his strawberry-blonde curls, and carrying a jeweled ring on each finger. The sunlight paints the man in flaxen rays of light. The rainbow-colored flowers seem to bloom with every one of his steps. All you can think is how beautiful he is — much too pretty to be so cruel.
“I did not mean to frighten you,” the Emperor concedes, eyes wide and palms splayed in surrender. His sandals scuff the cobbles with each hesitant stride.
“No, of course not,” you blurt with a rapid shake of your head, a quickness sure to give away your choked-back terror. “I just… I only thought you’d be at the dining hall with the rest of the court.”
“I was. Until the handmaidens notified me of your absence.”
You meet his wide-eyed expression with a narrowed gaze, lips curling into an unsure smile. “How can I be absent from a place I do not belong, Your Majesty?” you quip, though your voice threatens to shake.
Geta’s brows furrow. His ringed fingers twitch at his sides. “Belong?” he echoes.
“The feast is for nobility, and I grew up in a brothel,” you answer, giggling quietly under your breath. “I am certainly the farthest thing from royalty.”
You flash him a gentle smile and playful gaze, but the Emperor only frowns. 
He can hardly stomach the thought of it — of his most precious thing living in the countryside, surrounded by filth, touched by unworthy hands. He’s glad you’re now, where only he can touch you. Where he can make you clean.
“There is a place for you there, nonetheless,” Geta tells you and takes another step closer. He stands at the bottom of the stone steps and tilts his chin to his chest. His chocolate eyes harden as he presses more firmly, “And I will see that you attend.”
His sudden glacial disposition makes your stomach wrench. You’ve grown so used to him now, learned all the ways to keep him satisfied, that you’ve forgotten how quickly angered he can be. You don’t want to remember his wrath. 
You nod at the invitation with a wavering smile, knowing you aren’t at liberty to turn him down, and rise from your spot by the pool.
You hold your gown in both hands as you descend the stairs, flinching slightly when Geta rushes to help you. Sometimes, you think he can sense your worry, or that he regrets snapping at you the way he does. Either way, his efforts to pivot the situation are apparent to you — like he never learned how to apologize, so he’s forced to improvise in the matter.
His warm, petaled hand engulfs you to ease you down the tricky cobbles. 
“I only mean that… it is strange. Being without there… Or anywhere, really,” he admits, talking slowly like each word is foreign to him. His gaze darts from yours to the vacant path ahead. “I find that I am looking for you in places I knew you could not be. It’s foolish, I know.”
His gentleness is perhaps more striking than his rage.
“It isn’t foolish, Your Majesty,” you insist as you reach the bottom of the staircase. You peer at him through your lashes and fake another smile. “I just didn’t know you were such a poet.”
Geta doesn’t understand your meaning. Where was the poetry in his words? How did such burdensome feelings of tenderness make him a poet? 
“Neither did I,” he muses, guiding you out of the garden with his hand in yours.
Though still riddled with feelings of uncertainty, Geta is strangely moved by how you’re looking at him now — with the sun sparkling in your softened gaze, more gentle than anyone deserves to be looked at. So he figures he can be a poet for you, if he must.
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You bathe again in the rosehip oil Geta always insists you wear, and dress yourself in the fine silk gown you know he prefers. The pale blue fabric drapes off your shoulders and flows to your ankles, cinched at the waist with a jewel-encrusted belt of gold. Your skin and body are adorned, in this moment alone, with perhaps more money than you’ve ever seen in your life. 
The thought makes your head swim as you amble to the dining hall. 
The silent guards at your side make no effort to rush you for fear of the Emperors’ wrath. Still, though, the notion that they are commissioned to ensure your attendance is not lost on you. Any attempt to flee will surely be met with force — if not from the knights, then from Geta himself.
The feasting is long done by the time you arrive. Mingling bodies flit around the crowded manor in a blur. Live music swells distantly as rose petals fall from thin air to decorate the marble floor. You wring your hands nervously together as you weave through the bustling court, gravitating to the large open window at the back of the hall — where you know the Emperors rest on their plush, velvet chaises.
Caracalla notices you first.
The boy rises from his lounged position — laurels crooked on his blonde head and robe shifting up his pale thighs — and smiles at you with all his crooked teeth. His lone golden tooth glints in the sunlight. 
“You showed,” he announces to no one in particular, just before his wild head swivels to his brother on the other side of the couch. “See, brother? I told you there was naught to worry about. Did I not?”
Geta does not appear happy to see you. His features remain in an emotionless scowl while his smokey eyes rake over your form. “You did,” he responds distantly, if only to appease his younger brother.
Caracalla doesn’t seem to notice the tension caging him on both sides as he flashes you another toothy grin. “He threatened to send the Praetorians after you,” he lilts like it’s some kind of silly secret. 
The Emperors’ bodyguards line the wall behind them, as well as all the entrances and nearly every window. They were like your Marcus — military veterans, strong and sharp and ruthless — though you imagine the only soft side you’ll ever see of them is a fist. They are certainly not the kind of people you want sent after you.
“Well, you were right, Your Majesty,” you grin. “There was naught to worry about. I was simply making myself presentable for the court.”
Caracalla holds his ringed hand out for you as you near him. You bend at the waist to kiss the emerald on his ring finger. The motion is muscle memory to you now. “You look beautiful,” he slurs like a child. “Like a fairy, almost.” 
“You flatter me, Your Majesty,” you nod politely and rise to full height again. 
You feel his ocean eyes on your body as you pass him by, glassy and sparkling with a boyish sort of wonder. A stark contrast to the way his brother glares daggers at you. 
“You certainly took your time,” Geta monotones in place of a greeting.
You stand obediently at his side and twist your clammy hands into knots. “I was only getting dressed, Your Majesty. I wanted to look pretty for you—”
“Nonsense,” the Emperor spits and turns away. You’re always pretty, he’d say if he could get the words out. Instead, he softens his suddenly hardened edges and flashes you a gentler glance. “I thought you’d defied me,” he confesses, as though in lieu of an apology for his fleeting hysterics.
“I couldn’t,” you murmur with a quiet smile.
Not wouldn’t, he notices. Not shouldn’t.
But couldn’t. Like your body was fated to listen to his command.
A funny feeling sparkles like gold in his chest. It makes him fidget uncomfortably on the couch. “Sit down,” he instructs with a wave of his ringed hand before slouching back in his seat, pale arms splayed along the edge of it. His brows pinch when you descend onto the empty spot beside him. “Not there.”
You freeze in place. Your eyes widen and dart to his thighs, spread out and hidden beneath the skirt of his robe. You look to Geta once more and cower beneath his expectant look. You sink hesitantly onto his lap, feeling like your heart’s in your throat as you lean into his chest. 
Your unsure hands curl around his shoulders. His curls brush your cheek. He smells overwhelmingly of musk and wine and cinnamon. Something about it makes you dizzy.
You survey the room from your position in Geta’s lap. Most people aren’t looking, you find, too busy talking and flirting and dancing together. A few noblemen across the way leer incredulously at you, though, like they’re trying to gauge if they know you from somewhere. You presume you likely slept with one or more of their sons during the war, most of which are likely dead now.
A few women crowd behind the chaise — all dressed in muted shades of silk, all dripped in jewels and gold. They’re pretty, effortlessly so, as they talk into their goblets full of wine. Some looked relieved to have the Emperors’ attention off of them. Others sneer at you for it, having no idea you’d switch places with them in a heartbeat if you could.
Your eyes dart across the dining hall, almost instinctually so. They lock immediately with Marcus the moment he enters the room. 
The General wears his black-gold armor and a faraway look in his eye as he leads a group of foreign gladiators into the manor. A hush lulls over the crowd, which parts for him without thinking. Marcus navigates through it with an absentminded sternness, like every step is muscle memory. 
He softens only when his gaze meets yours. 
His puffed-out chest deflates with a wavering exhale at the sight of you, a lamb on the lap of a man who holds a knife to your throat. He blames himself for it most of all, knowing he’s the one that brought you to slaughter. 
“Finally!” Caracalla shouts into the silence, voice ringing through the hushed court. “Where have you all been— In the showers together?” 
A bout of laughter rolls over the crowd as the blonde boy leans over to you. You try not to grimace at the bitter smell of wine on his breath. “Who nearly missed the games, little dove,” he croons too close to your ear. 
The nickname makes you tense. You muster a smile, anyway, and remind yourself to breathe. “What a shame that would’ve been,” you lilt in response.
“The armor is tricky, Your Majesty,” Acacius confesses, voice deep like a cathedral organ. “Especially for those who have not donned it before. Such as yourself.”
There is a bite to his words despite their monotoned delivery. Caracalla pays it no mind as he lounges back on the couch, wine sloshing in the chalice he holds in a limp hand. “Get it out with it, then,” he slurs.
Each gladiator faces the other. One is tall and sturdy, like an oak tree. The other is shorter and lankier, much too young and far too pretty to fight in such gruesome battles. As Marcus’ voice booms throughout the quiet dining hall to introduce them — The Barbarian versus The Might Vincenzo — Geta presses his mouth to your ear. 
“Which one shall we bet on, little dove?” he whispers to you as his hand curls tighter around your waist. His other idles over your skirt, pale and jeweled and warm, though his long fingers threaten to dip between your thighs.
You blink hard to keep your head from swimming. “Hm?”
“Which one of these imbeciles do you think will win?” Geta repeats.
“Oh, um, I— I don’t know, Your Majesty,” you stammer in response. It’s hard to think about anything other than how close Marcus is to you now. How pretty and wartorn he looks. How desperately you wish to hold him.
“Just guess,” the Emperor presses, squeezing softly at your hip. “It’s only for entertainment, anyway.”
How could certain death possibly entertain you? your mind races as your mouth blurts, “The little one, then.”
“Really?” Geta hums in amusement. His dark eyes, smudged with brown liner, squint softly at your glossy profile. They flit across your features like he’s seeing you for the very first time, though you aren’t looking back at him to notice. “Hm. I would’ve picked the oaf.”
“Well, it is the most obvious choice, Your Majesty. Though, I find it’s often the smaller ones that surprise you—” 
You turn your head to look at him. Your breath catches audibly in your throat when you find the Emperor much closer than expected. He’s so close your eyes nearly cross to meet his gaze. So close, that the tip of his large nose threatens to brush the bridge of yours. So close, you get drunk on the alcohol tainting his breath.
Geta’s wine-stained mouth curls upwards in a cynical smile. “They do, indeed,” he croons quietly, raspberry breath fanning warm over your jaw. 
Chills pebble along your skin accordingly. It takes great strength from you to break his magnetic chocolate gaze. You turn away from the Emperor and focus instead on the gladiators circling one another. Vincenzo moves in seemingly practiced motions, unfazed by the brutality of such duels. The nameless Barbarian houses a great sadness in his young eyes — a hardened look of regret, perhaps, for what he knows he must do. 
“Let’s not entertain them for our amusement, brother,” the Barbarian mutters lowly to his opponent, blade hanging limp at his side.
The larger man charges like a rhino. A deep roar sounds in his throat as he thrusts his knife towards the younger boy’s neck. The Barbarian dodges the swing with ease, possessing all the swiftness of a snake as he ducks past his opponent and slices his muscular bicep with one fell swoop.
The crowd gasps in a mixture of horror and amusement as Vincenzo’s blood drips onto the floor like deep red wine. It stains the marble in fat droplets, blending with the rose petals littered at the gladiators’ feet.
You flinch at the sight. Your breath hitches as you turn away — eyes squeezed shut, brows tightly furrowed. Geta chuckles with merriment. You feel it rumbling in his chest as he murmurs, “Don’t be frightened, little dove. It’s only a game.”
Something in you aches when the Emperor reaches for the jeweled goblet at his side. Your fearful eyes remain fixed on his face while the hall erupts in a symphony of violence — of battle cries and laughter, of dropped blades and dull smacks. 
“Here,” Geta offers with the wine in hand. “Drink. It will calm your nerves.”
He presses the rim of the chalice to your mouth. His gaze never waves from your lips as they part to welcome the bittersweet raspberry. The wine pools like blood on your tongue. It tastes like guilt going down.
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Dusk falls over the city like a wounded swan. The velvet darkness outside your window makes shadows of everything it touches, only partially diminished by blinking stars and waning silver moonlight. The crescent shape of the bright white orb would fit just perfectly beneath Marcus’ jaw, you think to yourself. 
The thought alone sends a warm, melancholic feeling down your spine — with such an intensity only the tenderness of twilight could elicit.
You slide from the crimson satin of your mattress with a tight chest. You migrate towards the entrance — bare feet padding faintly along the floor, thin cotton nightgown trailing behind you. You stand before your bedroom door and rap your knuckles rhythmically against the wood. 
Twice, once, three times. 
And then you wait.
“It’s me,” you hear Marcus murmur from the other side.
Your heart swells like sunshine in your throat. You smile wide despite yourself, with no one else around to see it. “It’s been Romulus for nearly a fortnight,” you tell him, panting slightly from where you’d held your breath in anticipation. “I was starting to think you’d been banished from your post here forever.”
“You know the Emperor likes to torture me,” he quips, though his usual monotone never wavers. 
It might’ve been easier on you both, if Geta had shipped him off to lead another meaningless campaign. At least then Marcus could miss you from leagues away. Instead, he has to guard your bedroom door and miss you from the other side of it. Torture is an understatement.
“Well, I quite like it when you’re here,” you confess quietly, tracing shapes onto the doorframe with an absentminded hand. “Makes me feel safe.”
You wait patiently for a response.
“Good,” is all the General can think to reply.
Your face pinches with concern. Your chest does, too. “Are you angry with me?”
“Why should I be angry with you?”
“I don’t know… Our conversations together have grown so short— I worry you do not wish to speak with me at all.”
Though you cannot see him, Marcus flinches at your words. He stands like a statue outside your door, in the middle of the dim corridor, and glares over his shoulder into nothingness. “It isn’t true,”  he insists, voice low but honeyed still. “I wish to speak with you always.”
“Then why do you not?”
“Because it isn’t safe,” he repeats, though you never seem to hear him.
“Will it ever be?”
Marcus goes silent as he ponders for a moment. Quiet engulfs the bedroom all over again, filled only by crackling candles. “No,” he answers after a few long moments. “Not for a long while.”
You feel like he’s stabbed you with a freshly sharpened blade, right between your ribcage and into your bleeding heart. It would hurt less, anyway.  “Why?” you wonder aloud in a pained whimper, knowing the answer will do nothing more than twist the knife.
The answer sits ready on Marcus’ tongue, as though the question of why has plagued him long before you asked it.
“Because I… I ruined you. By bringing you here.”
“You saved me,” you correct.
“I destroyed you,” he retorts, voice heavy with choked-back emotion.
“I would be dead if it weren’t for you,” you remind him of the blatant reality, which threatens to consume you every time you see his face. You wish you were holding it now, cradling Marcus’ bearded cheeks in your supple palms, so that he might understand the weight of your words. “I would’ve lost everything if you hadn’t taken me with you. I would’ve been tortured, probably killed. But now I get to—”
The word gets caught in your throat. You swallow hard and fake a smile at nothingness. The pretending comes naturally to you now.
“Now I get to live. Both of us do.”
There is a brief moment of knowing silence. This isn’t what living is supposed to feel like — fleeting touches in dark crypts and whispered conversations through bedroom doors. Both of you know it, but it’s a truth too brutal to admit out loud.
“Marcus?”
“Yes?”
“You know… We aren’t unspectacular things, Marcus,” you speak slowly and with a strangled intention. “We’ve already come so far. We’ve survived so much— We can survive a little more, can’t we? Until it’s safe again?”
“I don’t presume we have any other choice.”
“We don’t,” you sigh. “Because I love you.”
“I know,”  Marcus nods, with an air of surrender in his words. “Because I love you, too.”
You fall into the heavy wooden door as though it were your lover’s body. You did not need to see him to feel held by him. He hadn’t touched you, and he didn’t need to. His presence alone affects you in such a way that it feels like he has been caressing you for a long, long time.
Marcus’ heavy armor clunks faintly on the other side of the door as he stands up straighter. Emperor Geta enters his line of sight, a shadow slinking down the candlelight corridor. He clears his throat. “Your Majesty—” the General announces, for you and you alone.
He hears your feet pad against the floor as you scurry from the entrance.
“Dog,”the Emperor greets in a cynical deadpan. 
His sandals scuff the cobbles when he stands before the taller man. The torches hanging on the walls bathe Geta’s face in flickering amber hues, highlighting his tired features where the makeup had worn throughout the day. He seems weighed down by a certain kind of grief. The kind that makes Acacius feel ten feet tall.
“Have you been guarding my Empress like a good little hound?”
Marcus nods politely, though the term of endearment catches him momentarily off guard. To be the Emperor’s whore was one thing, but it was entirely another to be referred to in such high regard. The General tries to contemplate what that must mean as he answers, “Of course, Your Majesty.”
Geta grins despite his visible fatigue. “Good boy.”
You’re already back in bed by the time the door swings open. You lounge along the expensive satin sheets and pretend you’ve done nothing but wait obediently for the Emperor, while simultaneously swallowing down any remaining feelings of longing and heartache.
Geta enters the room like a rolling storm cloud. He wears all the chaos of the day in his mussed blonde curls, smudged makeup, and wrinkled garb — a palpable sort of disarray. You scramble on the mattress to greet him, like you often do, until he dismisses you with a wave of his hand.
“No. Don’t,” he commands. “Stay there. Don’t get up.”
You obey, freezing partially upright, with your elbows holding most of your weight. Your face swirls with concern at his look of annoyance. Your heart drops to your stomach in fear.
“Are you alright?” you ask him, though the Emperor pays you little mind as he migrates to the table by the window. 
He pours himself a chalice of wine. The glugging flagon fills the heavy silence. You swallow hard and stare timidly at the back of him. “Are you angry with me?” you repeat once more — a question that seems to accompany womanhood, especially when bound by the innate violence of man.
“I couldn’t be,” Geta answers like it’s obvious, sparing you a fleeting glance over his shoulder. He turns away to down the full goblet in three lengthy gulps, then wipes his stained mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s only my brother,” he confesses through labored breaths. 
Your worry lessens, but only slightly.
“Is he alright?”
“He’s acting like a child,” Geta spits, angered all over again, as he pours himself another cup. “More so than usual.”
“Has something happened?” 
“Nothing that should concern you.”
“Well, it’s certainly bothering you, Your Majesty,” you coo in slow and calculated measures as you rise from the many cushioned pillows. “So, forgive me, but it cannot help but concern me as well.”
Geta is unaccustomed to such tenderness. He tenses beneath it, glances hesitantly over his shoulder like he plans to find a ghost sitting in your place — as though he’d only heard the words in the wind and not from your mouth. A foreign feeling swirls again in his hollow chest, like a blizzard of snow or a flurry of rose petals.
“He’s jealous of me. Just as he always has been,” the Emperor tells you as he stalks toward the bed. He gestures mindlessly with his hands, and the wine sloshes over the rim of the gold chalice until it hits the stone floor. He raises it to his mouth, tips his head back, and down the bittersweet pomegranate.
His neck is long and milky white. His protruding adam’s apple bobs with each languid swallow. A drop of deep red trails from his mouth and down his chin once he’s finished. He rubs it away with a fist. You forget to stop staring.
“Lay down,” he commands, chest heaving. 
Your body obeys without a second thought. You lie back on the velvet cushions, docile and willing, in a way that comes naturally to you now. You’ve been Geta’s thing for so long that a part of you has grown used to it. Needy for it. 
The mattress dips beneath the Emperor’s wait as he kneels beside you. Your mind starts to reel. 
Your brain seemingly anticipates an inevitable pleasure, which comes to you like clockwork most nights. It makes your mouth water like a drooling hound that knows when it’s feeding time. A funny feeling stirs in the pit of your belly and pools like honey in your undergarments. Your thighs clench together when a subtle throbbing begins to pound between them.
You should be grateful when Geta crawls beneath the sheets only to rest his head on your chest.
You’re shocked, most of all, by such a foreign act of tenderness.
Your breath catches when his cheek presses to your breast. He nods gently to rub his burning skin over the smooth cotton. A deep exhale fans from his nose as he rests his body weight against you. 
You cradle him with hesitant hands and remind yourself to breathe. Your fingers scratch lightly over his clothed shoulder while your others comb through his strawberry-blonde locks. It’s a warmth so foreign to the two of you that it threatens to bring you both to tears.
“He says he wants someone like you— my brother,” Geta admits after a few moments of long silence.
“A whore?”
“A paramour,” the Emperor corrects, face twisted in irritation at your use of the term. He focuses on the muffled sound of your heartbeat when anger threatens to consume him. A heavy sigh deflates his chest. His anxious fingers twist in your nightgown. “I told him he could have his pick— Between us, we have plenty of women to go around, but… He insists his mind is stuck on you.”
Your bated breaths come to you in trembling inhale-exhales. You hope he doesn’t sense how frightful his words have made you. 
Geta is cruel, yes, but he is at most times predictable. Though Caracalla may be kind, he is most of all volatile. And there is nothing more dangerous than an erratic, easily excitable ruler.
“And what did you tell him?” you wonder with a feigned sense of curiosity.
“That you were mine, of course,” Geta blurts like it’s obvious. “He offered to share, to which I told him that he should be grateful that I’m sharing the throne alone with him… And now he’s off with his monkey, crying like a child…”
You feel strangely comforted by his words. You breathe a sigh of relief through your nose and rake your fingers through his blonde-brunette curls. “Your brother is a fragile thing, Your Majesty,” you advise in gentle murmurs. “You must be gentle with him.”
“I don’t know how to be gentle with anything,” Geta confesses, half-muffled into your chest. “Least of all, with someone like him.”
“Shall I speak with him? Perhaps I can calm him— make him understand?”
“It’s my burden alone.”
“It is mine as well, Your Majesty. So that mustn’t be true.”
Geta turns slowly to face you, with all the hesitance of someone unused to such kindness. His chin rests on your clothed sternum and bobs with each word. “You shouldn’t have to carry it,” he whispers into the honeyed silence of the candlelit bedroom.
You muster a small smile. “I know. But I will, anyway,” you shrug. “When you care for someone, your brain has little say in the matter.”
Geta falters at your admission. A foreign emotion swims in his chocolate button eyes. He’d rather blame it on the flickering flames strewn around the room. “Is that what this is?” he mutters, almost to himself, when he finds the breath to say the words.
Your fingers in his hair slow to a stop. “What do you mean, Your Majesty?”
“This… This tenderness,”  the Emperor answers, spitting the word like it’s the first time he’s ever tasted it. His face scrunches distantly, as if it were sour on his tongue. “Sometimes it overwhelms to the point of tears. It’s a… a blinding radiance, like… a knife— lodged somewhere deep in the body…”
You cup Geta’s freshly shaven face between two, gentle hands. He swears he sees the sun.
“Why do you speak of love like it hurts you, Your Majesty?”
He swallows hard. “Because it does,” he confesses before rising from your body. 
You mourn his warmth as he swings his legs over the side of the mattress. He sits with his back facing you. His dove white robe hangs off one pale shoulder when he bows his head.
“I never believed in it as a child— the permanence of it all, of… love. And yet, I… I find myself longing for it anyway. Like a fool.”
You rise on one elbow and resist the urge to touch him. “Wanting to be understood by someone doesn’t make you a fool, Your Majesty.”
“I know that I… That I haven’t been the most gentle with you at times. But I am… I am sorry for it,” Geta tells you in near inaudible murmurs, flashing you a sheepish glance over his freckled shoulder. “I understand it must be difficult for you.”
“What, Your Majesty?”
“To be caught between all that was. And all that must be.”
Your stomach wrenches at his words. Your chest tightens beneath the weight of them until you have to fight for every wavering breath. You take a trembling inhale and rise so you’re sitting at his side, taking careful calculation in the following words you speak.
“We cannot… We cannot choose who we love, Your Majesty. We can fight ceaselessly against it, perhaps, but it doesn’t change fate.” 
You reach out for him with one tremoring hand. You rake a rogue curl behind his ear and hope he doesn’t know Marcus’ face is the one stained permanently behind your eyelids. 
“We love who we love, Your Majesty. And the rest stay ghosts.”
Geta’s eyes glitter with an emotion you’ve not seen from him before. His dark eyes flit between both of yours, as though searching for something in your gaze — sincerity, perhaps, or maybe an equal sense of longing. 
You blink, and his mouth is on yours. Geta kisses you back onto the velvet-satin and settles over you once more. It’s wet. Hungry. Unforgiving.
You kiss him back with a similar intensity, clutching his robe in both hands, desperate to understand him.
Marcus remains on the other side of your door — an invisible ghost, an unwilling witness. He hears all of it, as clearly as he would if he were seeing it with his own eyes. A hollow feeling of yearning and hunger gnaws at the pit of his stomach as he tries to imagine your pleasured form. The painting behind his eyelids is blurred and distorted with time.
He wishes he could see you now, even with Emperor Geta fucking you into the mattress.  He could pretend that he was the one fucking you, at least, and let the image alone bring his withered form back to life. 
You’re together in his head, entwined still, with your mouths bruised in a relentless kiss.
Marcus hopes you’re still together in yours, too.
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General Acacius spends most of his nights in the crypt, which he feels is rather fitting for a half-dead thing like him. When he is not surveilling your bedroom door, or being otherwise taunted by Emperor Geta, he finds a strange sanctuary in the dreary tombs. It is perhaps the only place where he is left alone. 
Caracalla is petrified by thoughts of ghosts, and Geta detests history, so neither is likely to show their face in such an ancient mausoleum. Which is ideal for someone plotting an insurrection.
You find him there in the wee small hours of the late, late night. He wears a deep red cloak over his white robe, perhaps to conceal himself, as he shuffles around the room to snuff out flickering candles. You wonder who he lit them for because you know he does not need them. He’s grown too used to navigating in the shadows.
Your sandals scuff suddenly against the damp cobbles. Marcus does not seem startled by the intrusion. He knew you were there by the sweet scent of your perfumed body alone. There is nothing about you he would not immediately notice.
“What are you doing here?” he wonders with his back facing you, voice low with a timbre that bounces off the tomb walls.
“I wanted to see you,” you answer sheepishly.
Marcus says nothing in response.
You wring your hands into knots and shift your weight on your feet. He extinguishes the torch on the far wall, and shadows engulf the windowless crypt — save for one lone candle flickering atop Emperor Commodus’ cracking tomb. Your eyes flit from the flame to Marcus’ silhouette, gaze swimming with uncertainty.
“May I ask you a question?”
“I don’t see why not,” he monotones and flits across the room like a ghost.
“What do you do down here?” you ask. When your voice inevitably trembles with distant alarm, you quip, “I only mean it mustn’t be healthy— Spending so much time in the dark.”
“It’s none of your concern,” Marcus insists with a venom that makes you flinch. He hooks his pointer finger around the hook of the candle holder, and the dancing flame paints his statuesque features in shades of amber. He softens immediately at the sight of you.
“I just do not wish to incriminate you,” the wartorn man confesses.
Your chest aches with an immediate concern. “What does that mean? Please do not tell me that you’re doing something perilous—”
“No,” Marcus interjects firmly, then amends. “Not yet, at least.”
“Explain it to me, then. Help me understand.”
“It’s best you do not know, petal. It’s safer that way.”
The word alone makes you cross. You wish he’d stop using it.
“But I will tell you when the time is right, I swear,” he assures you, though his voice threatens to tremble with wavering strength. His dark eyes flit between both of yours, heavy with an emotion you cannot place. “I will keep you safe no matter what, you know that—”
“It’s not me I’m worried about, Acacius,” you murmur with a stern glint in your eye, clutching the downy fabric of his robe in your fists.
“There is naught to worry about, petal. I assure you.”
Marcus takes a step closer to you despite the voice of reason in his head telling him otherwise. He lifts his free hand and swipes a callused palm over your cheek, soft and warm with sleep. You lean into his touch like a cat. A funny feeling blossoms in his chest.
“I’ve been thinking… About what you said some days ago… Making a new world for ourselves…” He talks slowly and deeply and nearly to himself. You nod against his palm to egg him onward. “You were right. We deserve better than this— Why should we have to live like dogs?”
Marcus swipes his thumb over your jaw and takes another daring step closer. You feel the heat from the candle he holds in his free hand, though your eyes remain on his face. You couldn’t look away from him if you tried. A part of you is hesitant to blink even, for fear that you might miss him for a millisecond too long.
He angles your gently head upward with his weathered palm. You can smell the musk on his tanned skin from here, as well as the ale and mint leaves on his breath. It’s dizzying. The ground seems to sway under your feet at the dwindling proximity between you.
“We love each other, don’t we?” he murmurs in a honeyed voice.
You nod without a second thought. Your mouth waters with the hopes of tasting him.
He nods with you. “So fuck the war.”
Marcus ducks down to press his mouth to yours. His lips swallow your own in a kiss, lingering and languid and deep enough to drown in. 
You melt into his touch with a heavy sigh exhaled through your nose. The warm breath fans across his unshaven cupid’s bow while your hands migrate to his hair. You twist the greying tendrils in your fingers, keeping him impossibly close against you. 
When Marcus goes to grip the fabric of your nightgown in both his hands, the candle holder tumbles to the ground. The gold clatters audibly across the cobbles. The wax light falls on his side, and the flame begins to dwindle on the murky stone floor. 
You wonder, briefly, if it will take fire — if the smoke will give you away, or if the tomb and all its history will burst into flames, or if the inferno will take you and Marcus with it.
Though it snuffs quickly out, bathing the two of you in a navy blue darkness, you figure you wouldn’t care if it did burn you to ash. Not as long as Marcus was there to kiss you into embers.
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Marcus’ face consumes your dreams. 
The details are blurred with the haze of sleep, but he was there — touching your face, asking to try again. You merged into one another like ghosts. Like drops of melted honey. Like lovers of Pompeii turned to ash. Every day, you tell yourself that it is unsafe to love him more than you do now. And yet he haunts your dreams, and yet you find more love in you for him.
And yet…
A violent hand pulls you from your gentle slumber. It jerks mercilessly at your arm, snatching you from your peaceful dreams and waking you into a nightmare.
“Wake up!” a strident and familiar voice bellows into the quiet bedroom, lit only by the faint blue of an early morning. The words are punctuated by another rough tug at your wrist. You awake to the sharp aching in your fingers.
“Wha—” you slur, trying to blink away the bleary mist as you lift your heavy head from the pillows. “What’s going on? What’s happened?”
“Up!”
You’re urged from the mattress by the unforgiving fingers digging bruises on your arm. You squint through the sleep and ebbing darkness to find Geta looming over you — blonde curls mussed on his head, swollen eyes wide and wild, velvet robe askew on his shoulder to reveal his pale chest. His skin there is flushed red with anger. You don’t know what you did to deserve his wrath.
“Geta?” you gasp through a faint whimper in your throat, trying to pull your wrist from his grip. He only holds you tighter. “What are you doing— You’re hurting me.”
“Liar!” is all he shouts in response, like he doesn’t even hear you.
The crazed Emperor drags you out of bed just to drop you to the cobbles. The thin sleeves of your nightgown slip off your shoulder; the skirt of it bunches at your thighs. You make yourself as small as possible as you shrink away from the man towering above you. 
“I don’t understand,” you squeak through the heart in your throat.
“Liar!” he shouts again.
His voice rings through the shadowed bedroom. You cower in response. He sobers at the fear twisting your features, but only slightly. His heart pounds hard against his ribcage, beating red-hot rage through his veins. He can hardly hear you through the rushing in his ears.
“What have I done?” you whisper, voice trembling.
“You have made…” Geta trails off, swallowing the emotion threatening to strangle him. He blinks away burning tears and spits, “A mockery of me.”
Fear ebbs into confusion. “I have not—”
“You lie!”
“I do not!” The volume of your voice startles even you. You blink up at him with wide, pleading eyes, searching for any ounce of mercy within him. 
You find none. 
Just a man made of towering orange flames, threatening to set you ablaze. 
“I have given up everything to be here,” you whimper. “To be at your side. To understand you—” 
“Make no mistake… Your lies no longer have an effect on me, little dove,” Geta interjects through a bout of cynical laughter. He shakes his head and grins despite the tears glittering in his eyes. “You think you are so clever. That you were brought here, to my Empire, to be cherished...”
The Emperor takes slow, daunting steps towards you. You shrink away from him and choke back a sob bubbling in your throat. Tears fall from your lashes in fat droplets down your burning cheeks. 
Geta grins like it pleases him.
“Let me be clear, so there is no longer any misunderstanding…” he tells you, speaking in slow, deep murmurs as he crouches before you. You can see the flecks of gold glimmering in his deep brown eyes from here. You can see the fire swimming within them, too, as he assures you, “You were created merely for me to destroy you.”
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The throne room is absent of its usual bright red roses and ornate gold decoration. The chandelier overhead has not yet been lit. Instead, the spacious room is illuminated by an ever-rising sun — which basks everything it touches in shades of melancholy blue. 
The servants light torches along the wall while you and Marcus stand together before the scowling Emperor. Something about it strikes a feeling of nostalgia in your chest, though these circumstances are much different than the ones you were brought here under. Geta no longer looks at you with lust in his dark eyes. He looks at you, instead, with betrayal.
“Thanks to the civic virtue of some good men…” the eldest Emperor quavers into the silent room. “…Your insurrection has been revealed.” 
Your stomach twists at his words. Your mouth falls softly agape with shock. Of any explanation you could’ve been given upon your sudden imprisonment, you couldn’t have expected this one. You thought, perhaps, that he had somehow found out about your meetings in the crypt with Marcus. You would’ve been able to stomach that, at least. Your love for Acacius is something you’d be willing to die by.
But not this.
Not something you were completely unconscious of.
Geta continues tearily. “The honor… The dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you— All this, you have forfeited by your treachery.”
“Emperor Geta, please,” Marcus sighs. His deep voice echoes through the empty throne room like a heavenly, sorrowful instrument. He bows his head and swallows hard, knowing now that he must beg for mercy. Not for himself. But for you. 
“Torture me, if you wish, but let her go. She had no part in this—”
“Forgive me,” Geta spits emotionlessly. “But I have no cause to believe you, General.”
Marcus turns to you then, tired eyes wide and pleading. “Tell him. Go on, it’s alright,” he urges gently, though your silence makes his chest ache. “Petal, tell him— Tell him you were unaware.”
You say nothing.
“Tell him!”he repeats in a shout that rings through the quiet throne room. His trained apathy splinters for the first time in front of Geta. He is perhaps more fearful now than he has ever been before. No war was nearly as frightening as the thought of losing you.
“What does it matter?” you mutter in response, voice fragile like glass. “He made up his mind the moment he found out.”
“Then take me if that’s what you want,” Marcus says, pleads to the merciless Emperor. His sandals scuff the stone floor as he takes a step closer in surrender.  “Put me in the Colosseum— Crucify me on the royal steps, if you must— But please, do not make her suffer for something I brought upon her. Do not punish her for my sins.”
“You are the Great General Acacius…” Geta croons bitterly. “What could one more splash of blood possibly mean to you?”
“Everything,” Marcus answers without a second thought, voice heavy with a predestined grief. “It would mean everything.”
Something in Geta shifts. You see it flickering in his dark, teary eyes. A surge of power, almost, like a stroke of bright white lightning. The corner of his pink mouth twitches as he tilts his chin upward. “Step back ten paces,” he commands suddenly.
Marcus’ brows pinch first in confusion, then relax a moment later when he inevitably obeys. His feet sound along the cobbles as he takes ten slow steps backward. He mourns the distance it puts between the two of you.
“Turn around,” Geta’s voice echoes through the vacant throne room.
You hear Marcus take a wavering breath in. He spins on the heel of his leather sandal until his back is facing you. His heavy eyes flutter shut as his chin falls to his chest. He searches for an ounce of hope within himself, knowing he’d lost all of it some time ago now.
The Emperor smirks. “Good dog.”
Acacius seethes.
Geta’s dark eyes, rimmed red with emotion, flit back to you. Something heavy settles in the pit of your stomach — dread, perhaps, or maybe acceptance for what’s surely to come. 
“Was it a lie?” 
“What?” you ask with bated breath.
Geta shrugs, then readjusts his robe when it falls from his shoulder. “Any of it.”
“No.”
“Tell the truth.”
“I am.”
Geta snarls at your subdued emotion. “I am the Emperor of Rome. I could have my pick of whores— You being here is a privilege. Do you understand?”
You nod once. “Yes.”
“You came from filth— to the greatest city in the world,” Geta spits the words like so many drops of venom. He waves his hands up and down your form, pale fingers now void of their usual gold rings. “You were just… some whore without a face before I made you better. I did this!” 
He gestures wildly around the darkened manor, voice breaking at the volume of his shouting. His robe falls askew to reveal more of his bare chest as spit coats his bitten lips. You remain in place while the Emperor inches closer. The fear has left you, as well as any instinct to cry — your grief is too violent for that now.
“I brought you here,” Geta convinces himself. His saliva splatters on your cheek in faint droplets. Tears glitter on his cheeks like stained glass windows. A fire flickers in the deep brown of his eyes. 
“I willed this— I cared for you with every bit of conscience as I was born with.” He takes a deep breath and steps back, shaking his head in disgust. “And yet…”
He turns away. 
You’re able to take in a deep breath for the first time in several minutes when he parts from you. The leadened weight on your chest remains.
“If you do not wish to be here, I certainly will not make you,” Geta rambles in teary blubbers. “One whore is as good as any other— Perhaps I can find one who is capable of pretending she cares.”
You step towards his retreating form. “Geta—”
“Go!” he shouts, looking back at you with a crazed look in his sleep-worn eyes. He wipes spit from his chin and quietens, strangled by an unavoidable emotion. “Now. Walk through those doors, and I promise no harm will come to you. Just do not stand before me and patronize me in this way, I will not stand for it.”
His promise makes your chest swell with hope. You remain frozen even still, stuck at an unnavigable crossroads. Such assurances of safety mean little to you when Marcus
has a sword to his throat. 
You look at the man over your shoulder. He has not moved from his spot some feet behind you. His back still faces you, though you notice his hands are balled into trembling fists.
Even if it were true — even if Geta really planned to let you go without a knight slitting your throat — it would mean little without Marcus. You would not know where to go without him. You would not be able to live with yourself if you left him here, not knowing what Geta planned for him. You would be away from the city, yes, but it would not be freedom.
Your instinctual will for survival is replaced by the primal need to keep Marcus alive.
To do that, you must reach for the bloodied hand of death.
You turn away from your lover — away from the opened cage door and the promise of freedom — and rush to the heartbroken Emperor. You clutch his cotton robe in your fists and tug at the gold trim to pull him closer. You meet him in the middle, entwining your mouth with his.
You kiss him. Hard. With enough ardor to snatch the breath from his lungs. His pink lips part for yours, almost instinctually so, and you swipe your tongue over the rough pad of his own. He tastes of sleep and honey and very distantly of wine. He gets heavy against you as he falls into your kiss. His hands cling to the skirt of your nightgown until his fists start to shake.
You pull away only when he’s melted for you all over again, when the red-hot anger has ebbed from his milky white body. A thin string of saliva keeps you connected until it splits against your chins.
“I know… I know you are hurt, Your Majesty,” you speak in slow murmurs, and through uneven breaths. Your fearful eyes dart over his face and find him utterly kissbitten — mouth swollen, eyes heavy, cheeks flushed. “And I know that it is difficult to forget pain. But I’ve found it’s harder to remember happiness. Glory.”
Each word from your mouth is stamped with intention. 
You speak of glory only with the hopes that he might remember his many useless wars, all of which Marcus has won for him without complaint. There would be no Empire to rule without the Great General Acacius, who dares not to sneak a glance at the two of you over his shoulder. He, instead, keeps his heavied gaze on the torch hanging by the door. The flame sears his vision until he can see you dancing within it.
“We have no scar to show from sweetness, do we?” you quaver with a forced smile, cupping Geta’s burning cheeks between both your hands. You swipe your thumb over a fat tear clinging to his cheekbone. “How can we allow ourselves to be blinded by anger when there is still so much love?” 
Geta snivels and rests his forehead against yours. His long lashes flutter against his glowing cheeks.
“I wept for you,” the Emperor confesses quietly, words weighed down by tears. “I had come to believe that… If I wanted something badly enough, the sheer strength of my desire would make it mine. I see now that it was foolish—”
“Perhaps it is true,” you whisper to him, breaths entwining and kissing both your cheeks. If he notices your voice shaking, you hope he confuses it with desire and not with fear. “Perhaps that is why I’m standing here now. Because I am yours…”
A moment of silence lulls over the blue hour. The quiet feels deafening in the large throne room, quelled only by the sound of heavy breathing. Yours hitches in your throat when Geta parts wordlessly from you. He sniffles once, then exhales hard through his mouth. 
Your gaze remains fixed on his face in an unwavering stare as you try to gauge his reaction. His features are emotionless, but his heavy-lidded eyes flit back and forth between yours — as though he, too, were trying to measure your sincerity. 
Your fate, in that split second, teeters on a knife’s edge. You hold your breath and wait for him to raise his hand. Not to hit you, maybe, but to sic his guards upon you like dogs — either to drag you into a cell or to be kind enough to kill you on the spot.
Geta lifts his palms only to cradle your jaw between them. His long fingers wrap around your neck like he intends to choke you there. He drags your mouth back to his instead. Your noses smush together with the intensity of his touch. It’s all teeth and tongue and spit. Desire and anger and grief. A billion things he licks into your mouth.
The weight of his hunger smothers you. Consumes you. He could kill you this way, if he wanted. There is little difference, you’ve found, between a bite and a kiss. It only matters how deep he buries his teeth into you.
Your chin shines with his spit when he parts from you. Geta’s chest heaves with labored breaths, flushed and swelling with proud. He hasn’t yet let go of your neck. You wonder if he can feel your thrumming pulse against his fingers.
“Show me, then,” he pants. “That you’re mine… Prove it to me.”
The Emperor goes to step back from you. Your hands dart for his wrists, holding him there when he threatens to pull them away. Geta’s eyes widen in shock.
“Don’t make him watch,” you plead in a delicate whisper.
His wide, chocolate eyes flit over your shoulder. He seems to forget about Marcus’ presence until that very moment. He looks back to you, at the plea swimming in your eyes, and nods once in response. 
“Take him,” he calls to the knights lurking in the darkness.
Their heavy armor clinks together as they comply without complaint. They lead Marcus to the door with their hands on the hilts of their swords. You watch him leave from over your shoulder, in the very corner of your eye. You hope he understands, but you wouldn’t blame him if you didn’t. You find it hard to forgive yourself even now.
Marcus always said that people find out who they truly are during times of war. Maybe this is who you are. Maybe you cannot kiss the devil without taking some of his sin.
The door closes with a heavy thud across the room. 
The weight of being alone with the Emperor washes heavily over you. Like drops of ice-cold rain. Like warm, melted honey.
Geta peers at you with a similar uncertainty. Head bowed slightly, wide eyes glittering from beneath his lashes. You do what you have always done — take care of this man the way he’s asked you to, placate his anger with your body. Giving yourself away is as natural as breathing most days.
“Sit down, Your Majesty,” you urge in a gentle whisper.
The Emperor listens as obediently as his knights. 
The sound of his sandals padding along the cobbles fills the suffocating quiet. He descends upon his throne like he was made for it, spreading his legs before him and propping his arms along the golden rests. He looks like a painting upon his seat of power, bathed in the deep blue of an early morning. An angel dragged to hell.
Geta watches you with an unwavering stare as you take slow steps toward him. His brown-eyed gaze goes glassy at the sight of you, an angelic thing all dressed in white. His thighs part to welcome you between them. He tenses under your palms when they smooth over his milky white chest, past the sparse chestnut hair littered there and down to the tie of his robe.
His stomach rises and falls in heavy, uneven pants under your touch. You unknot the string with bated breath, then brush the golden trimming to his sides. He’s bare underneath it, likely from where he’d been brutally roused from his slumber. His cock is on immediate display — resting on his fuzzy thighs, half-hard and glowing red at the tip.
You descend to your knees to take care of him on instinct. His hands dart to your shoulders to stop you. “Ride me,” he commands, though it sounds more like a plea as it spills his swollen mouth.
Wordlessly, you straddle his thighs. The cotton fabric of your nightgown bunches at your hips. You spit into your palm and reach between your bodies for his cock in a single practiced motion. He feels like velvet in your fist. 
Geta’s nostrils flare with a heavy exhale when your hand drags up the length of his cock. His head tips back onto his throne when your fist falls back down again. Your lips find the expanse of his long, white neck like a deep-seated compulsion. You kiss his pulse as though it were his mouth. He cradles the crown of your head and brings his lips to your ear.
“You love me,” he sighs within a moan when your thumb brushes the head of his drooling cock.
You can’t tell if it’s a command to repeat the words back to him, or an affirmation he repeats only for himself. Either way, you nod in response and line his stiff cock at your entrance. Geta’s mouth parts in a silent moan at the feeling of your silky cunt. 
“I do,” you whisper just before you mount him. 
There is a dull ache in your belly when he pierces you, though you’ve grown accustomed to his length with time. Your satin folds split to welcome every inch of him accordingly. Your hips rock back and forth over his supple thighs and your velvety walls pulse around him, swallowing him further inside.
Your breathy moans entwine and fill the air. You keep a white-knuckled grip on the back of the golden throne as you ride him, without break and without mercy — in spite of the burning sensation in your thighs. You tell yourself it’s to finish him quickly, though a primal part of you chases after your own pleasure.
Geta’s breaths leave his parted mouth in huffed exhales as you bounce on top of him. He mourns the sight of him disappearing in and out of your glistening pussy but fights to keep his eyes open to watch the rest of you. Your fucked-out face swirls in a mixture of concentration and pleasure as Geta lifts his hand for the collar of your gown.
He unties the dainty knot at your sternum and tugs the fabric down your chest, baring your breasts for him. His mouth waters at sight of your plush skin, moving in time with your rhythmic grinds over his lap. 
A strangled moan sounds in your throat when he takes your left nipple in his mouth. You caress the back of his head, twisting your fingers in his honey hair in an effort to keep him close. He runs the rough pad of his tongue over your sensitive tit and smiles when he hears you whimpering. 
“You love this,” he mutters against your chest. “You love when I fuck you. ”
You nod until the words catch up with you. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“God—” he grunts through gritted teeth, tipping his head back when one particular grind makes him twitch inside you. His hands grip your thighs over your skirt. His fingers threaten to sear bruises onto your skin. “Your pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it?”
You nod again.
His right hand parts from you only to come down a moment later. The dull smack of his palm against your clothed hip echoes through the throne room. “I don’t think I heard you.”
“Yes,” you squeak with your face scrunched, trembling when your clit drags across the thatch of pubic hair at the base of Geta’s cock.
“Who’s cunt is this?”
“Yours—”
His hand lifts again. You hear the impact of his palm against your ass before you feel it, a subtle stinging you find a strange comfort in. Geta laughs in maniacal, breathy chuckles when you keen for him. 
“I can’t hear you.”
“Yours!” you exclaim in a feeble gasp, clutching the Emperor to your chest. You shudder on top of him when an orgasm rakes suddenly through your body. It flows quickly and without mercy, but never quite ebbs. You’re left a whimpering, weeping mess while the aftershocks of your pleasure consume you. 
“It’s yours,” you squeak in nearly inaudible blubbers, pressing your kissed mouth to the shell of Geta’s ear, repeating the phrase like it’s the only one you remember. “’S your pussy… It’s yours…”
The words alone are enough to make Geta burst inside of you. 
He tenses all over. His dull nails press crescent shapes into the skin of your thighs. His rosy mouth parts to exhale a guttural moan. You feel his cock jerk with your drooling confines right before he spits several loads of cum inside you. Your cunt pulses around him, instinctually milking him for every drop of liquid pleasure, and a whimper sounds in Geta’s throat.
You feel it bloom in the pit of your belly like a flower — something soft and warm and seeping. As the two of you relax against one another with wavering exhales, you feel his cum leaking out of you like drops of summer rain. It pools on his lap and drips down to the throne underneath him, tainting the gold with a mixture of your sin.
It proves a point. Marks a territory.
Geta swells with pride.
Your back slouches as you melt into his body. You hide your burning face in his neck as his feverish grip on you loosens. Geta twitches beneath you when your cunt pulsates around his softening cock. “Mm…” you hear him hum, mixed with a laugh you feel rumbling in his chest. His head tilts back as a lopsided smile tugs deliriously at his mouth.
He runs a gentle hand up and down your spine, a reminder of his being there despite your feeble efforts to dissociate your brain from your body. You can’t ignore the warmth of his touch on your tingling skin, or the way your hearts press together and beat to the same rhythm.
A distant feeling of acceptance pools in the pit of your belly along with the Emperor’s cum. Your grief is a much more discreet thing, however, and you miss Marcus like an unstitched wound that won’t stop bleeding. Like a knife lodged somewhere deep in the body.
“I think… I think I’ve found an adequate punishment for the General,” Geta pants, the crooked grin audible in his words. “Perhaps he will learn his lesson when I’ve fucked a child into you—”
You tense when the Emperor’s palm splays over your stomach.
“—Perhaps then he’ll understand that you’re mine.”
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gay-dorito-dust · 7 months ago
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Hi! I recently watched the new Gladiator sequel and I’m so obsessed with the emperors, they’re absolute cuties<3 I was just wondering if you could write some headcanons maybe about being married to both of them, of course it’s fine if you don’t write about polygamy
Have a great day
My freaky gingers! Fred and Joseph did amazing as Caracalla and Geta in my opinion, my freaky little sadistic ginger emperors.
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Being wanted by one sibling meant being desired by the other.
Geta and Caracalla shared everything, for nothing could ever belong to one of them as the other was bound to grow envious and want the same thing for himself.
So let’s say you were originally planned to marry just Geta or Caracalla, but the pair would abuse their power as emperors and demand that you were to marry both of them instead.
‘It’s the will of the gods after all.’ Geta would say.
‘And we wouldn’t want to displease them now would we?’ Caracalla would add with a cackle.
You had no say whatsoever but to agree to marry the brother emperors, which many didn’t bother to bat an eye of how curious a case this was, but again they too were under the belief that this was the will of the gods for the emperors to share a spouse for the betterment of their rule.
Both brothers thrive for your attention to be on them and they’d do anything to have it wherever and whenever they can, and all you could do was give them the attention that they so desire.
Hold them close to your chest, cradle them there and let them hear your heart and your breathing to smooth them in knowing that someone did love them, for being there for them as a safe haven from the frequent scheming of the senate and the betrayals and the constant needed to look over their shoulders to make sure no one was going to stab them in the back.
So being with you and held so closely like they deeply desired when before ascending the throne, made it all seem worth while if it meant being gifted the love that they so sought after in those they considered a close confidant within the senate, or just in general approval from the public they rule over.
Marriage life with Geta and Caracalla wasn’t easy, you didn’t expect it to in the slightest as you were constantly seen between the two emperors, draped in the finest of silks and jewellery they could find as to signal your beginning to them both, to show that you were on equal footing as your emperor husbands as your counsel was the one they often followed more often then not.
Does this mean they are rid of the concubines? Probably not and whether or not this was an issue for you is up for debate.
If it is then you’d naturally be questioning the loyalty of your emperor husbands in a fit of embarrassment and shame, not wanting to look a fool within your own marriage, especially not in front of the Roman public nor the senate that would try to whisper words of infidelity about Geta and Caracalla.
‘Am I not your spouse? You forced me into marriage with the two of you and yet you both still seek paid comfort.’ You’d spat as though it was venom in my mouth.
‘My love-‘
You’d glare at Geta who stopped short in his tracks as Caracalla watched you both with eerily silence.
‘If you are to seek paid comfort, then don’t expect none from me should you continue this route of self indulgence.’ You say before leaving the room, not once looking back as you returned to your shared chambers. Again you wouldn’t want to look a fool when your emperor husbands run to the arms of concubines, you were above it.
Let’s hypothetically say you have concubines yourself in retaliation, they’d unfortunately all be dead on the orders of Geta and Caracalla in a fit of rage.
Your marriage isn’t pretty nor romantic in the slightest, and I’m not trying to make it out to be like that, just only that your marriage to them both could be full of hypocrisy and jealousy and sometimes accusations of cheating would arise also as a result.
It’s a mess and wouldn’t get sorted unless your three are clear headed and clam enough to talk it out like healthy lovers should. And when it does get sorted, you all act as though everything that had come to this point of peace didn’t happen at all, as soon enough you were back to holding the emperor brothers again your chest as they slept.
Due to being their spouse you naturally had a target on your back, so it would be of no surprise that you were to be the intended victim for an assignation attempt by shadowy figures hiding their identities in the background.
Shadowy figures that wanted you dead as to kill any sort of morale the emperor brothers had by taken what’s theirs.
Let’s say you survive the attempt, make no mistake that your emperor husbands would be by your side immediately, anger and fury written as clear as day across their faces as they had you pressed between the two of them, they’d whispered hushed words into your ears about finding who did this to you and killing them publicly to show their intolerance to attempts on their spouse.
Your emperor husbands would make sure you were constantly guarded no matter what afterwards, killing those who didn’t do their duty and replacing them with new guards that would keep you safe when they were with the senate, or in the study.
They become insufferably clingy and overprotective afterwards that it felt suffocating to be in the same room with them being so close to you, it was overwhelming and they’d even have people test whenever or not your drink and or food was tampered with as extra precaution.
You understood their worries to an extent but if it’s been a good while since the attempt, then you find it unnecessary to continue such tight and overbearing conditions they had put in place. So it’s best to speak with them about that for paranoia had overtaken them both with the ideas that you’d be killed or taken even if they were to even dare blink.
Being married to Geta and Caracalla was chaos incarnate, discord and mayhem disguised in gold, jewellery and expensive silks and lavished lifestyles; a perfect facade to cover the true nature of their own unravelling beneath the mask they’ve made to get by as rulers of a powerful empire ever known.
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mqrrstarr · 7 months ago
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CHRISTMAS SPECIAL!!
Gladiator Characters x GN! Reader
Feat: Geta, Caracalla, Commodus, Lucius, Maximus, Acacius, Lucilla, Macrinus!!
Christmas Day and Eve headcanons!
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Warnings: poorly edited, just a girl who loves these characters and the holidays, a bit short
A/N: MERRY CHRISTMAS!! don’t feel the same vibe as I did when a child, so I’m coping with writing. This will be a seven part series regarding Gladiator characters and Christmas and I’ll try to post them all BY THE END OF THE WEEK (?) but uhh don’t hold that against me. Enjoy!!
EDIT: the series has been canceled cause I can’t write. Wait until December 2025!! 💗
Summary: headcanons for all the gladiator characters and how they’d spend Christmas Eve and Day with their SO.
。゚•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• 。゚。゚•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• 。゚
Geta would spend Christmas Eve with dinner specially made for his SO, (he def has better cooking skills than Caracalla) and he’d lovingly give them a bonus Eve gift. It’s a beautiful moment, where the strong and feared leader of Rome and succumb to the one he loves.
“Enjoy it darling. The beauty of the holidays does not compare to yours.”
He’d watch you enjoy his meal, and drink the wine he picked out especially for the occasion. As much as music was needed, Geta refused to let anyone interrupt your moment together.
On Christmas Day, it would depend on what happened during the night. Was it a peaceful night, was it active, or was it bland? Either way, Geta would get up and prepare presents for you, a surprise for no one other than the love of his life. He’d do it quietly, and super early in the morning. He’d rarely sleeps in peace anyways, so why use the energy elsewhere?
It would also be a morning where you wake up gently, and be surprised by the lavish decorations Geta has placed. Gold and white silk decorating his room, and most of all, your Emperor was still yours.
- - - - - - -
Caracalla is in love with the holidays. He gets giddy, childlike, and excited every time. This is a period in the year where he can remember something good about his youth. He likes to keep himself happy, and now that you’re his? You’re included in all the traditions.
During your Christmas dinner, he’d bring out a bunch of dinner games, have slaves perform for the both of you (AMND reference btw) and it would be a wholesome night.
Before Christmas Day, the eldest emperor cried during the night. He laid in your arms, and caressed you in return.
“Sweets. I cannot express how much care…”
He looks at you like a puppy worshipping its owner.
“I truly care about you. And although these times are happy and remind me of things, I hope to make new memories with you.”
The night would pass, and the morning would come. You’d wake up in Caracalla’s embrace, and to be frank, none of you got the others gifts out. So you just opened everything together, and you had never seen the man so happy.
- - - - - - -
Commodus and Christmas. What an interesting mix. Take a emotionally damaged man with immense childhood trauma and put him in a holiday where he did nothing but suffer? Where his own father ignored him and gave him nothing but one gift?
Christmas Eve with him was truly nothing but a dinner. Now that he had you, he tried to forget and make new memories. But the shame and pain was still visible in his eyes. You couldn’t take it anymore and sat next to him, caressing him and saying words of affection.
“My present from Venus, ignore my past and ignore my anger. My father ruined my mind, and all you can do it heal it. This Christmas will be my first with you, and if my last? Than I would rather be dead.”
You looked at him with such sincerity in your eyes, he became submissive to your touch and you both proceeded to sit next to the fire in his room.
Christmas morning arrived promptly, and knowing this was a very sensitive time for Commodus, you got him a gift he’d never forget. This necklace, engraved with your initials and his; with both of your favorite jewels. And, a new laurel crown for the one and only Emperor himself.
Commodus nearly fell down into tears, so grateful he was finally seen.
- - - - - - -
Lucius loved you with his entire heart. After being forcefully removed from his mother as a kid, and already losing his first wife, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing another person special to him.
To Lucius, Christmas is the mark of the end of the year, another time to celebrate the fact you’re both alive, and that you’re both still warriors. (writing from a Gladiator! perspective rather than Prince!)
“My love, I am eternally grateful to the Gods that we can be together.”
He kisses your forehead, gently as to not hurt you. You spend your Christmas Eve with a simple meal, and the next day not as lavish either.
Lucius adored you already: but he’d try to get a gift anyways, even though he already admires and thinks you’re just amazing! (Poppy and Branch dynamic)
He’d come up with something cute and homemade, providing the point that it doesn’t have to be expensive to matter. (save me Lucius save me)
- - - - - - -
Maximus wasn’t the same after the loss of his previous wife and child, and this time was bittersweet for him. His SO kept him sane, and he tried not to let his sadness show through.
You decorated the tree in your home, one Maximus was able to buy after years of being a Gladiator. He occasionally goes to the fights, but not anymore. Now he’s a Senator. (NOT CANON ITS JUST SO HES NOT DEAD AND IT WILL MAKE SENSE IN THE OTHER SEVEN PARTS)
He came up behind you and kissed your neck, watching you place the last of the ornaments.
“Excellent work my dear. Excellent. I’m going to bed now, meet you there?”
And he went away in a form far too sad for the usual Maximus. You knew him well, and simply decided to go to sleep as well. The following morning, you woke up first and decided to get your gift for Maximus.
It was a wooden carving of him, his late wife, his late child, and you all together.
Maximus woke up a few minutes later, and got your gift from the bedroom! (You were in the living room.) He got you a bracelet from his dead wife, something that really meant a lot to him.
“My dear? I’d like to give you this. It belonged to my former wife, and she liked it dearly. Made form Spanish jewels and metal, of course. I love you, but I beg for you to understand that she and my son still live in me. You understand, right?”
You nodded, happy and overwhelmed. You gave Maximus his gift, and tears were shed from the both of you. Your gift meant a lot, as you accepted his love and the love for those gone.
- - - - - - -
Acacius loved the holidays. It was a time where he could relax, sink into his own bed, be clean, and most important, be with you.
You finished preparing the meal, a mix of both his and your favorite foods with some Roman delicacies thrown in there.
“Looks great my sweet. Not as good as you though! But you know I love you.”
He caressed your hips before helping set the table. The meal was prepped and Acacius sat you down first. (WHAT A GENTLEMAN)
He sat across from you at the table, and you talked about what was going on, what you wanted to happen in Rome, etc.
Eventually, stuff happened and you both woke up in the each others arms in the morning. Acacius always laid very still in the night, out of pure instinct. However, Christmas morning he couldn’t stop moving around, and woke the both of you up together.
He eagerly said, “Hurry up and change, your gift is outside.” He smiled and left promptly.
Outside, there was a gleaming white stallion.
“For you. A horse just as grand as your soul.”
You smiled. Who wouldn’t want a horse as a gift? But inside you shattered. The only gift you got for Acacius was a painting of himself. You showed it to him, and he reassured you it was enough. Let’s just say he’d also show you it was okay.
- - - - - - -
Lucilla loved the holidays. She decorated excessively, both as a young woman and as she is now. (hc, it’s because Lucius loved the looks and lights of Christmas and the guilt of having him leave her has followed her forever)
“One more wreath I promise… it’s just an extra special one… done!”
She looked at you and smiled. It radiated calm and positivity, an effect only Lucilla had. You kissed her and assured the place looked great.
“Dinner should be set by the slaves by now. It should be good. I trust it is. They sent by fresh fruits and veggies and proper meat as well. I’d like to give you your gift now, would that be alright? I just truly cannot wait.”
You nodded yes, but you’d have to get the gift from the room. You agreed to meet again in five minutes to exchange gifts.
Soon, the two of you are reunited, and she presents a lovely sculpture of you, portrayed in such an ethereal form; as if the gods had carved it themselves. You gave her a crown made from pure gold and a ring, as you knew she loved collecting rings. The ring you gave her had your initials carved, signifying the both of you tied together.
- - - - - - -
Macrinus had a holiday anytime one of his prized gladiators won. Yet, Christmas, was an actual holiday he could look forward to.
“Uh, Dove, do you know if the servants have finished the meal? I’ve got a bunch of gladiators waiting to fight in your honor.”
(he calls you Dove bc you’re his symbol of peace!)
He planted a kiss on your forehead before leading you to the garden outside, where a meal was served and the servants were waiting patiently, deserts, fruits, wine in their hands.
Five gladiators waited in chains to be released to have a “playful” hand to hand fight, something Macrinus found plenty delight in.
“I have a gift for you. I won’t be around tomorrow, as the Emperors requested a meeting with me. So I wish to give you this. I know it’s a bit excessive, but you deserve it.”
He gave you a pearl necklace with ruby earrings to go with it, and a slip saying you owned a young gladiator.
You thanked Macrinus, and you enjoyed the meal as the gladiators fought and the moon shined upon the both of you.
“I live for you, and I love you Dove. Fly high always.”
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trulyumai · 10 months ago
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belittling the reign
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synopsis: the people began to doubt Geta, and in return, so did members of the senate. The emperor began to act wildly, his temper just a reach away. It all came crashing down when a man of the senate brought the empress up and how she would fall with the emperor.
pairing: Emperor geta / empress! reader
Warnings: Violence, anger, choking, death. Protectiveness/Possessive.
The room was dim, save for the flicker of torchlight dancing across the stone walls. Geta sat at the long table, his goblet half-full, eyes fixed on the dull gleam of his dagger. He had been deep in thought, tired from the endless political maneuvering of the Senate, when the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted his silence.
The door creaked open, and a figure entered—Marcus, a senator known for his sharp tongue and sharper ambitions. Geta didn’t look up as the man approached, choosing instead to swirl the dark wine in his cup.
“Geta,” Marcus began, his voice oozing with false politeness. “I trust you’re well this evening.”
Geta grunted in response, not bothering to hide his disdain. He knew this man all too well—his visits were never without some form of scheming. Marcus circled the room slowly, his fingers tracing the edge of the table as he moved closer.
“You know, it’s funny,” Marcus continued, his tone casual, though laced with something more sinister. “There’s been a lot of talk in the streets lately. The citizens are starting to wonder how much longer Rome will have to bear the burden of a violent ruler.” The man let out a chuckle, it reverberated through the room and Geta swore his fingers shook with an emitting anger.
The emperor’s eyes flicked upward for the first time, meeting Marcus’s gaze with a steely intensity. The senator smiled, a smirk dancing on his lips as he leaned against the table, arms crossed.
“They say,” Marcus went on, “that there will soon be a new emperor. A man who leads not with blood, but with wisdom. One who doesn’t lose himself to rage every time a senator dares to speak out. The people... they’re excited, Geta. They’re waiting for the day Rome is free of your wrath… Maybe Caracalla would be a better fit?”
Geta’s grip tightened on the goblet, the muscles in his arm tensing as he fought to contain his growing anger. “You tread on dangerous ground, Marcus,” he warned, his voice low and cold.
Breath in. Breath out. Remember your wife, the sweet laugh, those little dimples that littered your face when he told a good story.
But Marcus was undeterred. He leaned in closer, his breath hot and smug as he whispered, “Perhaps you’re the one who should be careful. People don’t fear you anymore, Geta. They’re waiting for your death. And when it comes, oh how they’ll cheer. Finally, a ruler worthy of the Empire will take your place.”
A dark laugh escaped Marcus’s lips, but it was quickly cut off by Geta’s sudden movement. In a flash, the emperor had risen from his seat, standing tall over the senator. Marcus stiffened, but continued, confidence seemed to block the mans rational fears. “What will your pretty little wife do when you’re gone, I wonder? Maybe she’ll find solace in someone with real power.”
That was the last mistake.
Geta’s fury ignited like a wildfire, burning through every shred of control he had left. Before Marcus could react, Geta’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around the man’s throat. The senator’s eyes widened in shock as he gasped for breath, his hands clawing uselessly at Geta’s iron grip.
“You dare threaten my wife?” Geta growled, his voice trembling with rage. His face was twisted in a snarl, the veins in his neck bulging as he squeezed tighter. “You think you can speak to me of death? Speak to me of weakness?” He spat the words with venom, his grip tightening as Marcus’s face turned pale, then purple.
The senator’s eyes bulged, and his mouth opened and closed in silent pleas for mercy, but Geta’s rage was far beyond words now. He lifted Marcus off the ground, the senator’s feet dangling as he struggled weakly. The torchlight flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls as Geta’s expression darkened with each passing second.
“You thought you could replace me? With my own brother?!” Geta whispered, leaning in close to the dying man’s ear. “There will be no one else, dear Marcus.  I am Rome, hm? I. Am. Rome.”
Marcus’s body jerked one last time, and then he went still. Geta held him there for a moment longer, the senator’s lifeless eyes staring into nothingness, before finally letting the body fall to the ground with a heavy thud.
The room was silent, save for the sound of Geta’s ragged breathing. He stood over Marcus’s corpse, his chest rising and falling with the aftershocks of his rage. Slowly, he lowered his hand, twisting and turning the jeweled rings around his fingers while wiping the sweat from his brow. His gaze dropped to the dead man at his feet, his heart still pounding in his chest, though calmer now.
A twisted calm, one born of violence.
“Threatening my liege. My Wife,” Geta muttered to himself, stepping over Marcus’s body as he made his way toward the door. “They will all burn before I leave the throne.”
-
The hallways were dimly lit, the flickering flames of the torches casting long, distorted shadows along the stone walls. Geta’s breathing was still ragged, his pulse pounding in his ears as he moved through the empty corridors. His hands, still tingling with the memory of squeezing the life out of Marcus, twitched at his sides. Sweat clung to his brow, slicking his skin and making his tunic stick to his chest.
He could feel the weight of what he had done. The senator’s limp body, the satisfaction that had come when his struggles ceased. It was a different kind of battle—one where no soldier could see him, and no one could speak of it.
Yet, the thrill of victory felt different this time. It wasn’t the fight he was used to. He wasn’t on the battlefield, brandishing his sword, earning the respect of his men. This victory had been personal, quiet... but more satisfying than he could have imagined. Marcus had been wrong—there would be no new ruler. Not while Geta breathed.
He thought of the senators who whispered behind closed doors, plotting to strip him of his power. He thought of the citizens who questioned his rule, who had dared to entertain the idea of another emperor, a more peaceful one. And now he thought of those who might still move against him. They had made one fatal error—they underestimated his resolve, his willingness to do whatever was necessary to protect what was his. He had been lenient for too long.
His footsteps echoed in the silence as he neared the door to his chambers. The weight of his actions, the violence he was still capable of, burned beneath his skin, but as he pushed open the heavy wooden door, the tension seemed to soften.
There, lying in the massive bed, was his wife—your form draped in blankets, the soft rise and fall of your chest showing the example of a  peaceful slumber. You were so..  completely unaware of what he had just done, unaware of the thoughts that now consumed him.
Geta stood in the doorway for a moment, simply watching. His wife had been the one constant in his life, the anchor to his rage. You had calmed him when no one else could. 
His breath still came in short bursts, his chest tight with the remnants of his fury. Slowly, he approached the bed, his legs heavy beneath him as if the weight of the world had finally caught up with him. He collapsed beside you, the bed creaking under his weight. He was slick with sweat, the heat of the earlier confrontation still radiating from his body. He exhaled deeply, his muscles sagging as he sunk into the mattress.
His wife stirred slightly, your hand brushing against his arm as she mumbled something incoherent in sleep. Your touch was soft, gentle—so unlike the violence that had consumed him only moments before. For a moment, Geta considered waking you, telling just what had transpired, but no. You didn’t need to know about the bloodshed, the threat to their life. You didn’t need to carry the burden of his thoughts.
But in the stillness of the night, with his wife sleeping so peacefully beside him, his mind churned with plans. He would not be overthrown. He would not be replaced by anyone who dared to dream of ruling Rome in his stead. Geta would seek out the usurpers, one by one. He would find every senator, every noble, every conspirator who dared question his rule, and he would deal with them the same way he dealt with Marcus. There would be no mercy.
His wife shifted again, pressing closer to him, your hand now resting on his chest, and for a brief moment, the thoughts of violence faded. He closed his eyes, savoring the feel of her warmth, the way your perfect body curved against his.
But even as his breath steadied and exhaustion began to pull him into sleep, one thought remained clear in his mind: no one would threaten his reign. No one would ever threaten you again.
And when the time came to deal with the rest of them, Geta knew, deep down, he would not hesitate. Rome was his. And he would destroy anyone who thought otherwise.
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cherrysgf · 12 days ago
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“omg you’re so me”-
you make fun of people who watch joseph quinn thirst trap edits. i watch joseph quinn thirst trap edits. we are not the same.
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drmaddict · 4 months ago
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The quiet wife
Summary: When Geta chose his wife, he was certain, that she would be easy to handle. But after actually falling for her, the young emperor finds out, that his quiet wife is up to more, than he would have expected.
Word count: 1.551
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He saw her for the first time, when she had been presented to him wrapped in gold and red, like a very pretty piece of jewellery.She was pretty. Quiet. From a very VERY rich family. She seemed like an easy woman to handle and the people did not seem to dislike her.
Geta had chosen her as his wife and the festivities had been of obscene decadence. Wine, meat and gold in abundance. He had given her dresses and robes of gold and silver for her wedding. He had given her jewellery sets with so many precious stones, that it would have been impossible to look at her in the sun, she would have been so radiant.
And now she was sitting here in the Colosseum next to him. Her dress was elegant but simple. Her jewellery was fine but discreet. She was wrapped in light fabrics in the summer heat. She only wore her wedding ring on her fingers. None of the many jewels Geta had laid at her feet.
He liked her. Indeed he did. She was pleasant to be with. There was something almost tender about her. Their marriage was still young, but people were already talking about the fact, that he no longer called any of his concubines to him. For the moment, she was mlre than enough for him. For now, he enjoyed her loving fingers in his hair, as they lay together after their marital duties. He enjoyed the way she hummed light melodies for him, told him stories.
He wanted to lay the world at her feet and gave her everything he deemed appropriate... And yet. She did not wear any of his gifts for others to see. She only wore the clothes in her shared chambers. The jewellery at most to tease him, otherwise completely naked. But for everyone else's eyes, she dressed... like this. Simple and plain. People were already talking. They didn't understand. The emperor's wife and you could hardly see any gold on her. He didn't understand. She could act like a goddess and just didn't.
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Geta went to her chambers. He wanted to get her himself. He didn't care that it was already the middle of the night.
The guards stopped in front of the doors, when he stepped into her chambers. He heard nothing. Absolutely nothing. He walked through the rooms. She was nowhere to be found. He was about to turn back in anger, where in the tartarus could she be, when he heard something. A click. He went back into the room, where the click came from and saw his wife walking through the servants' entrance door.
She was wearing a poor-looking dress. Her hair was covered. Grey and brown shrouded her body. An empty raffia basket on her arm. Her eyes met his in shock. Geta felt anger flaring up inside her. "Where do you come from?", he hissed.
She faltered. "Geta."
"Where do you come from?" He walked towards her, until his body pressed hers against the wall. "Who were you lying with?"
Now confusion settled over her face. "With no one."
Geta laughed derisively. How cruel could she be? Softened his cold heart just to crush it. "Don't lie to me. You have the emperor at your feet and you go for what? Scum."
She shook her head. "It truly is different than you think."He looked into her faithful eyes. "And how is it?"
She swallowed. "I distribute food around the city."
He looked at the empty basket, then into her eyes. He roughly snatched the basket from her hand and threw it across the room. "You're distributing my food among the scum? Who allowed you to do that? Who allowed you to put yourself in danger like this, when your only job would be to sit beside me and hang yourself with all the things that represent my wealth?" His breath came in gasps. "Why do you spurn me so? Why are you undermining my power? What game are you playing?" He grabbed her neck roughly. Tears stood in his eyes.
"When were the last riots outside your window?" she now asked calmly and relaxed.
He faltered.
She didn't let herself be put off. "When were the last riots outside your window?", she asked again.
It must have been months ago. He looked at her closely. "What are you playing at?"
"I'm saving you from an attack.", she explained firmly. "I distribute food among the people, in the night, with the rumour on my lips, that it is sent by you. I paint the picture of a man, who must entertain the cruel with cruelty. Who must please the gods for the good of his people. I - Geta - am the reason why there have been no more uprisings. I play this game called ruling in the only way a woman can. In secret. If you are strong, then I am too. The only thing I do is strengthen you. You speak the language of the aristocracy and I speak the language of the people. You show your wealth to the nobility. I show humility for the people. And it works Geta. You see it for yourself."
He saw her. This delicate creature, so pliable in his eyes at the time. She was a lioness. Strong and proud. And he didn't know what to make of it.
Not a word would escape his lips. Too many were flying through his head and yet it felt incredibly empty. He let go of her neck. He put some distance between them, before pressing himself against her again with all his strength. His lips crashed against hers. He literally devoured her. Took everything he could get. His hands tore the plebeian clothing from her.
He only pushed his robe out of the way and sank himself into her. Rough and hard, he took her. His face buried in the crook of her neck. Tears ran down his cheeks as he came. All the while feeling her arms around him. Giving him support. She kissed the top of his head and stroked the back of his neck.
"Let us take a bath.", she whispered softly. Geta let go of her just long enough for her to get dressed in makeshift clothes.
The emperors' bathhouse was empty but, as always, cosy and warm. Geta leant against her chest and let himself be stroked through the wet strands. His mind slowly sorted itself out again and he began to process what he had heard. "Why are you doing this?", he asked into the silence.
She kissed his temple. "Because I have to.", she replied simply. "The people need a certain security Geta. It is important, that you are seen as a man who cares for them too."
"I am powerful and strong. Not soft.", he countered.
"Not soft. Wise. And an emperor can be all three... At least on for the outside."
Geta let the words sink in. He turned slightly and buried his face in the crook of her neck again. "No counsellor could stop the uprisings.", he whispered then.
She smiled. "Bear with them." He heard the smirk in her voice. "They are simple men." Then she became serious again. Wrapped her arms tighter around his body. "I'll do what I can to strengthen this realm Geta. I would never harm you."
He looked into her face. Saw the truth of her words in her eyes.
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"What do you think?", he asked.
She looked thoughtfully at the city. "I'll let my little birds listen.", she said.
Geta looked at her as she took a sip from her goblet. He had forbidden her, to continue roaming the city unprotected. She had been able to choose a group of servants. She acted as if everything had to remain secret and the emperors were not allowed to find out about anything. It was mainly women, who now roamed the city and reported back to her on the mood among the people.
"You men always underestimate the whispers.", she had said. Geta now trusted her more than any of his advisors. She never just said ‘yes’. She staged them both as necessary. A double game for aristocrats and simple people.
They heard something move leisurely in Getas rooms. "She seems to have woken up.", his wife smirked.
Geta only looked at the archway and saw through the parting curtain, how the woman in his bed was lolling about.
Since his wife had become pregnant, they more often had a concubine with them again.They had also shared one here and there before. "We're spending too many nights together for it to be appropriate. Geta it is expected.", she had told him.
And he had realised it. "Then let us share.", he had said.
He had tried it here and there without his wife, but it hadn't had the same appeal anymore.
However, since her body no longer wanted to hide the fact that she was carrying his child and had become more sensitive, she called one for him more often. She told her what to do. She still spoilt him with her hands. She drove him on like that. And he... He let himself fall into her hands.Knowing that she would catch him.
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kabuki-writes · 8 months ago
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A Reflection Of Venus
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chapter: 1 chapter 2 | 3 | 4
pairing: emperor geta/emperor caracalla x acacius' daughter!reader
summary: For years Acacius was able to keep his precious and only daughter away from the Emperor's eyes. But after his latest victory, he couldn't evade the already inevitable.
warning(s): mention of alcohol consumption | swearing | sexual implications | semi-edited | english is not my first language, faults may occur | please let me know if i missed anything
Note: Reader is the daughter of General Acacius and his wife, which is not Lucilla in this fanfiction.
word count: 3.1k
General Acacius was a hero for the Roman Empire, a sun that was burning brighter with every new victory he won in a new war campaign ordered by Emperor Geta and his twin brother Emperor Caracalla. The reign of the twins was nothing compared to one of their deceased father Emperor Septimius Severus, who was once one of the closest friends and brother-in-arms of Acatius. While Severus fought wars mainly to protect the borders of the already massive Empire, his sons' hunger for expansion became clear from the very first day they inherited the title "Emperor". And general Acacius became their tool in this project. Nothing was too expensive, they backed him with legions, war-ships, the best equipment and supply, and the capable general became an unstoppable force, a soldier of the God Mars himself. But at what cost?
As the years went on, he'd rarely been home, always travelling with his marching soldiers and being on the front line of every battle he fought. And when he came back, he felt sick from all the pomp and gold the Emperor's threw at him, the victory processions through Rome, while the smell of blood still lingered in his nose and the cries of the women and children echoed in his mind. It was one of those days. The sun stood high over the wide street that lead to the Palatin, the sides filled with the cheering crowd - common people, soldiers, slaves, senators, merchants, they all celebrated his victory in a triumphant procession. His marching soldiers were led by Acacius chariot, clothed in the white armor of a victor. His face could've been one to be carved in marble, stoic and upright, facing the great Palatin, where the Emperors would await him.
Geta and Caracalla - the twin-sons of Septimius Severus, Emperors of Rome. They stoof there in golden Armor like sun gods with their golden crowns on top of their short gingerblonde hair. Their unusual pale skin was a testament to their wealth as they could afford to stay out of the sun, which burns especially hot on summer days like this one, and of course on the battlefields in Africa, where Acatius' men had to fight against the rebellious Nubians. They awaited their victor with proud smiles on their lips, while Acacius' procession ended at the footsteps of the Emperor's palace. He walked the marble steps towards them, his long cloak moved in tact with his walk. He didn't look forward to see the faces of Rome's tyrants again, but they hadno idea.
Instead, he greeted them as he was used to. His hand on his chest, speaking the words.
"I greet you, my Emperors. Nubia is no more. I present a new victory to you, to the realm and to the Roman people."
With a proud look on their faces and a wide smile, the twins stepped forward. Emperor Geta hold the laurel wreath of victory in his hands and places it on top of Acacius' greying hair.
"And Rome rewards it's heroes with gratitude and admiration. We bow to your victories, General Acacius."
With those words, he offered him to turn around and face the celebrating crowd. Geta and Caracalla took their places at his side, giving him a moment of spotlight, applauded by the people, while they did benefit from it as well. Acatius was their general, their armored knight. Every victory he presented was another triumph for their own reign and power. After the earned celebration in front of the common folk, the Emperors and Acacius retreated inside, where servants quickly served them wine for a toast.
"Another great victory, you never disappoint us, dear Acatius," Geta expressed and hold his glass up for a toast, his brother Caracalla following the gesture. "To the glory of the Roman Empire".
"To the glory of your reign", Acacius lied and took a sip from his glass, trying to numb himself a bit with the taste of the alcohol. How he hated conversations with both of them.
" But don't get too comfy here, my brother and i were already discussing another campaign soon. You'll get everything you need, just tell us how many soldiers and ships and it will be granted," Geta explained, which left a bitter taste in Acacius mouth. His jaw clenched for a moment, while he tried everything not to show his distaste about another war campaign.
"Please forgive me, my Emperor, but isn't the realm big enough already? Rome has already difficulties to feed the people. Further expansion would-"
"They can eat war", Emperor Caracalla threw in with an almost diabotical grin, while Acacius got a warning eye from Geta. It was clear that his words weren't the ones both wanted to hear right now.
"Don't worry about things like that, Acacius. You're a military general, your job is to win battles - nothing more. Do you understand?"
"I understand," he answered, even though he hated to hear that he was reduced to this. He'd experienced war and peace alike and therefore he knew about the dangers of continuing this madness. Moments like this really let him question if those maniacs were of the same blood as Septimius Severus.
"But you're right, you've earned yourself at least a bit of rest - one or two weeks. Don't worry, we've taken care about the wellbeing of your family. They got everything they needed and more in our attempt to show our gratitude for your service to the throne. Speaking of which.... we expect you to join us for a great feast tonight - here in the palace. A party to celebrate your victory, it is accompanied by a couple of fights in the arena tomorrow," Geta explained joyfully, while Acatius tried to keep his mask up.
"I am incredibly honored, but would prefer to spend time with family after being away for such a long time."
"The Emperors show you their gratitude and you're insulting us. We expect you to come and you will come", Caracalla hissed with a sudden shift of tone, his eyes staring at Acacius in clear anger, while his brother placed his hand on his shoulder in an attempt to calm him down. But his staring eyes were warning Acatius once again.
"Of course, we don't just invite you, but your whole family. Bring your wife and... you have a daughter, if i'm not mistaken? We haven't had the pleasure of getting to know her yet, since you never brought her to any festivities. I am sure she will be delighted, if you don't plan on hiding her again."
Acacius stood there in silence, a reaction that made Caracalla burst out into laughter as if he'd just heard the funniest joke from his brother. The respected general didn't even look at him, why should he. Standing here in front of them should've been an honor, yet it felt like a disgrace. They were nothing but spoiled kids with the power of an empire in their hands. And now they even forced him to reveal his dear daughter to them. Something he tried to avoid for too long, knowing fully well about the debauchery and excessiveness of Geta and Caracalla.
"We're waiting for an answer, Acacius?", Caracalla purred with a wide grin on his pale face, revealing his gold tooth.
"It will be an honor to be your guest... together with my daughter."
_____________________________________________
You watched the face of your father sunken away in his thoughts, as you made made your way to the palace in a palanquin carried by a couple of slaves and protected by soldiers. The city was painted in darkness which made the palace seem like a temple with all the lights that welcomed you. It was an exciting moment for an upper-class lady to be a guest at the palace, especially for you, a woman that usually stayed away from the most parties. Not because you wanted to, but because it was an order from your father. You obeyed, yet it bothered you, even more when you'd reached the age of a young woman - the age in which it was expected from you to find a proper husband.
"Why are you so worried, father?", you finally managed to get off your lips, pulling Acacius out of the battle he fought in his head. He couldn't just tell you that he despised all of this and especially the Emperors himself as he couldn't be sure if someone outside this palanquin could hear him. So he simply took your hand and placed a soft and caring kiss on the ring that had been a present for your last name day.
"I guess I'm rather tired than worried. The parties in the palace are always quite excessive, music, dances, feasts... i just came back from the desert and now i have to enjoy all those things", he sighed and looked at you. "And i don't want to stay too long, especially not till the orgy starts. The servants will come and bring us home before that." And even you knew he would rather go and murder Dyonisos himself than allowing his daughter to stay and witness this.
All those words and yet you knew it wasn't everything.
"I'm glad that you take me with you this time. I've only known the imperial palace from afar," you confessed, while you straightened the long, blue dress you wore. It was decorated with all sorts of silver embroidery and jewelry, encapturing the stars and moon. Your long hair was styled by your servant Yanna into a high braid and finalized with a silver diadem. For the first time you really got the chance to make yourself so presentable that you almost felt like a princess. In the end, you were about to meet the Emperors which made it important to look like the woman you were - the daughter of a general. And you also presented his household tonight, because your mother felt sick tonight. She often suffered from migraine, which kept her a prisoner for days sometimes.
"You really look beautiful", your father said to you, it was honest, but there was a hint of worry in his eyes, which you still couldn't grasp. But there was no chance to take this conversation further as the palanquin stopped. Acacius got out first to help you out. He knew the way as it wasn't the first time for him to attent an official ceremony or party here. Through a long corridor you reached a large room with with an open access to the garden terrace facing the beautiful gardens. It was packed with people from the Roman upper-class, wealthy merchants, politicians and military officers, who were accompanied by their wives, sons and daughters. While they chatted and feasted on the large selection of delicious looking food, a group of musicians played their melodies to which professional dancers moved their bodies.
All those private parties at the homes of your friends seemed to vanish straight from your mind, nothing could be compared to what you were seeing now. It nearly took your breath away, while two royals were watching you from the other side of the room.
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Geta and Caracalla were sitting on a higher ground, which was highly decorated with two golden chaise longues, cushions and velvet drapes. They were accompanied by a selected group of slaves, women and men, who were assigned to bring them anything they wanted, to do anything they wanted.
While Geta was in in a conversation with one of the senators, which clearly bored him according to his facial expressions, it was Caracalla, who noticed the new guest first, while he fed his little monkey Dondus a grape.
"Such a shame that he hid his daughter for so long. She is a gorgeous looking bird, don't you think? ", he whispered to his brother with a mischievous grin, patting his arm so that he would turn his attention to Acacius and you. Geta's eyes quickly went to you, admiring the way your dress hugged the shape of your curves.
"The gods must've sent us Venus herself to honor us with her presence," Geta answered, while an unreadable smile played on his lips. „No wonder our dear General is so protective of her. Is she already promised to someone?“
„Why do you ask me!?“ Caracalla snapped back, as if his brother didn’t know that he had a lot of spies around the city, who delivered him the newest gossip from the streets of Rome. With an annoyed eye roll, he leaned forward, adjusting the golden laurel wreath on his head. „No, she is a blank parchment. Probably untouched too.“
Geta still watched you with an intense interest as if you were a rare diamond, he needed to claim. But he was not the only one in this room, because Caracalla stared at his brother, noticing the way he looked at you. There it was again, the old melody. Whenever he wanted something, Geta wanted it too. They already shared the title of Emperors, their wealth, their whores… It was already something that cooked in him for a long time. But now he had an eye on you and wasn't happy about the fact that Geta might try to get you too.
Before he could even bring this thought to an end, his twin brother Geta already stood up from his chaise lounge and made his way through the crowd, the direction was clear. Caracalla's nose twitched in a mixture of nervousness and anger, and he got up quickly as well, not as gracefully as he wanted to, but he didn’t care. He had to tame the inner urge to backstab his brother before he could even reach you.
_____________________________________________
You still stood at the side of your father sipping on your first goblet of fine wine, while your eyes went over all the different guests and the excessive decor. Your father was sunken in a conversation with another general, Marcus Galbanus, an old friend and brother-in-arms of Acacius. But their conversation quickly stopped as soon as the Emperors approached them. Both your father and Marcus Galbanus lowered their heads and greeted them according to the etiquette, while you curtsied deep. This was the very first time you got the chance to meet the Emperor's of Rome Caracalla and Geta. And given the importance of those two figures, you even felt a little nervous.
"We almost feared you wouldn't show up to your own party, Acacius. But we're happy you made your way here... we already heard that your dear wife lays sick. Please, send her our best wishes. Nonetheless we would be delighted if you could introduce us to your company tonight", Geta demanded in a playful tone, knowing how much Acacius had tried to delay this. Caracalla stood at his side, his staring blue eyes drilled themselves into your appearence. Even though he was a man that had tasted a lot of men and women, one even more sensual than the other, your whole appearence, your face, your lips, your smile, everything - you reached a sentience in his mind that could only be gifted by the gods. The mere thought of having you infected his brain like a curse.
You could sense the tension that raised in your father as if everything in him resisted the situation. Yet he placed his hand softly on your shoulder and did as they wished. "This is my daughter, y/n..."
"I'm honoured to meet the Emperors of Rome", you said in a soft voice, earning you an appreciating smile by Geta and an unreadable grin of Caracalla.
"Oh the pleasure is on our side, my dearest. How do you like this Ceremony in honor of your father's victories?", Geta asked. But before you could even answer, his brother added, while he took another sip of his wine "Your father is a Roman hero through and through, isn't it right Acacius?" His tone had something else in it, almost as if it was some kind of mistrust. But you needed to ignore the irritation you felt and simply nodded.
"It is breathtaking. I've never witnessed something like this and it makes me incredible proud to see the gratitute he earned himself through the love he has for Rome and its people," you answered, trying to remind the Emperor's of Acacius loyality, which was undoubtful.
"Then you'll enjoy the ceremony in the arena tomorrow as well, i'm sure. Please, we invite your father and you to be our guests."
"I don't think that such entertainment is suited for a young woman of her status," your father suddenly interfered in a calm yet set tone, only earning the laugh of Caracalla. "Let your daughter decide for herself, General."
The atmosphere shifted to an unspoken intensity. You could sense your father's worries and given all what you've heard from the colosseum, you didn't really think of it as something worth to witness. Seeing people die in such a terrible way only for the pleasures of the masses seemed like a farce. Acacius always called it the most needless form of brutality amongst humans, he despised this himself and therefore avoided going into the arena whenever he could. But you also read the eyes of Geta and his brother, who waited for your answer and would not accept a simple 'No'.
"It would be an honour," you answered, and Geta leaned forward a bit, which made your father's jaw clench in anger. Not because of your answer, he was aware that a choice was not existing, when facing an Emperor, but because the way the twins looked at you as if you were a price they could simply claim. But you were a smart girl and definitely not naive, so he fully relied on that.
"So this is a 'Yes'?", Geta asked again and you looked him straight in the eyes, not backing off. "Yes."
"Excellent!", Caracalla shouted and clapped into his hands. "We'll have a lot of fun tomorrow."
The corners of Geta's mouth twitched to a smile and he nodded in response to his twin. Yet he hid his displeasure of having him as a rival in this little game. It was clear that Caracalla had layed his eyes on you too, but he won't allow him to simply take and fuck you like you were a common whore. Maybe you could've potential for something more and strenghten his position as well as his popularity. Because both Emperors were still unmarried - and it was expected from them that this would change sooner or later.
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multific · 3 months ago
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The Gentle Heart of Rome
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Emperor Geta x Reader
Summary: Geta's wife is overwhelmed by the violence of the Colosseum, but your sensitivity only deepens his love for you.
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The sun hung high above the Colosseum, casting golden light across the sand-soaked floor of the arena. The crowd was roaring, nobles and commoners alike standing on their feet as blood stained the earth below.
Gladiators fought with savage precision, swords clashing, screams echoing across the stone walls.
But amidst the chaos and brutality, there was one figure that did not belong.
You.
You sat beside your husband, Emperor Geta, dressed in flowing silks the colour of rosewater, your eyes wide and trembling behind the delicate veil you wore.
The scent of iron was thick in the air, and though Geta sat straight and proud, enjoying every second of the spectacle with his brother Caracalla on the other side, you could barely breathe.
You turned your face, eyes squeezed shut as a scream pierced the air, followed by the sickening sound of metal sinking into flesh.
The crowd cheered louder.
“Love,” Geta leaned in, his voice gentle, though tinged with confusion. “You are not watching.”
You couldn’t look at him. “I’m sorry… I thought I could, but-”
Another cry.
Another flash of blood.
You felt your stomach churn.
Geta’s smile faltered. “You are unwell.”
“I can’t… I can’t bear it,” you whispered, voice quivering. “There’s so much blood, and they’re hurting each other."
Caracalla laughed from beside Geta. “She’s soft, brother. Doesn’t have the Roman stomach.”
You flinched, heart pounding.
You didn’t belong here. You never had.
You weren’t a woman of war or vengeance.
You loved flowers and quiet mornings, and Geta’s soft hands when they weren’t calloused by sword hilts.
“I shouldn’t have come,” you murmured. “Forgive me.”
Geta’s expression changed then.
The pride and amusement faded from his face, and something more tender replaced it.
He looked at you, not as a disappointed husband or a stern ruler, but as a man who loved a woman too delicate for this brutal world.
Without another word, he stood.
“Brother?” Caracalla asked, raising a brow.
“I’ve seen enough for today,” Geta said, offering his hand to you.
You hesitated, eyes flickering toward him. “But… it’s not over.”
“I don’t care,” he said softly. “Come. Let’s go home.”
You rose with him, unsure, and followed quietly through the stone corridors until the roar of the crowd became a distant hum.
When you were finally alone, back in the quiet of your garden within the palace walls, Geta sat you down gently on the marble bench beneath the olive tree.
He knelt before you, a hand on your knee. “I didn’t know it would upset you like that.”
“I know you love the games,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to be a disappointment.”
“Disappointment?” he echoed, frowning. “You think your soft heart is something to be ashamed of?”
You looked down. “It’s not fit for an emperor’s wife.”
Geta reached up, brushing a tear from your cheek. “It’s exactly what I need. Do you think I wish to come home to more blood and fire?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You are my peace. My gentleness. My reason not to become like him.”
You knew who he meant, his brother.
Caracalla, who thrived on carnage. Who bathed in it.
“You could have any woman,” you said. “Someone brave. Fierce.”
“I don’t want brave,” he said, lifting your hand to his lips. “I want you. The way you gasp when butterflies land on your fingertips. The way you cry when you read poetry. The way you hate to even see a bird wounded.”
You blinked at him, surprised by the clarity in his voice.
“You keep me from losing myself,” he said. “Don’t you see? If I forget what it means to be gentle… I’ll become a monster.”
You threw your arms around him then, burying your face in his shoulder. His arms came around you instantly, warm and solid, his hands stroking your back with comforting tenderness.
“I love you,” you said against his skin.
“I know,” he whispered. “And I love you, my gentle Empress.”
Later, as the sun dipped into dusk and the air turned cool, Geta led you through the gardens, your fingers laced in his.
No crowds. No violence.
Just the sound of birds and the rustle of leaves.
And that night, he held you tightly in bed, his breath at your temple.
“I won’t make you go again,” he murmured. “Not ever.”
You smiled into his chest. “Thank you.”
He kissed your hair, pulling you closer. “I’d rather lose the crowd than lose you.”
And from that day on, though he ruled Rome with strength, the people said Geta had grown softer.
They didn’t know the reason was love.
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pedgito · 8 months ago
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𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐁𝐔𝐒 | General Acacius x reader x Emperor Geta
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↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi
summary | living under emperor geta's rule was never supposed to be easy, but he aims to make it nearly impossible, even if he has become fond of you.
author's note | i never really intended for this to get another part, but since seeing the movie and wanting to expand on these characters and possibly writing for geta on his own, i thought i would turn this into a little passion project. i know there's a niche group of you that have asked for a second part to this, and as much as i crave chaos, i hope you enjoy where i took this and know that i am all for the crazed man that is emperor geta. (can be read as a standalone, but the first part can be read here)
content warning | 18+ mdni, DDDNE - heavy dubcon (due to sex work, ect), heavy themes of abuse under the rule of a vile emperor (mention of injury, slapping, ect), normalized degredation, exhibitionism and exchange of bodily fluids, smut galore (oral, unprotected piv, ect), choking tw, death tw, use of opium poppy, drugging tw (not against reader), named side character, marcus acacius being the real knight in shining armor. this is unbeta'd so i apologize for any spelling mishaps.
word count — 8k
You live within him, it feels. 
Geta never let you stray farther than a touch, within arms distance. 
You were no longer yourself, rather an extension of him.
He prefers you naked. But, he often dresses you up in gowns; modest sometimes, occasionally leaning toward more revealing fabric—sheer lace, high slits, deep-cut necklines that accentuate your breasts and hips, the soft but tight curve of your ass. Sometimes you wondered if he liked the clothes more accessible to his wandering hands, his fingers fluttering under your gown during public meetings, even.
The men never said a word, they wouldn’t dare.
If you were given the opportunity to be away from him, it was always under the watchful gaze of his guards, and only to complete tasks he has ordered to you—fetching food when he was too lazy to leave his bed and when you were feigning the grimace in your face, itching to wander.
Your relationship is complicated in the beginning but easier to manage as you become accustomed to his personality and outbursts, learning what makes him tick. He’s easier to manipulate with sex, something you have no issue taking full advantage of.
And he fancies an audience, usually. Other servants, less privileged women that trembled in his presence, fearful that his next move would be their last, somehow comforted by your confident and guiding touch. It made no sense to not enjoy what you could while you were imprisoned here, even if Geta and his brother did nothing to soothe the discomfort they left in their wake, making your skin crawl as his fingers drifted along your skin.
Caracalla could not touch either, his brother forbade it. An eager boy, riddled with a brain-eating sickness, he was dutiful to his brother but harmful in his own ways, fickle with thoughtful choices and often making important decisions on impulse. 
They were destroying Rome, that much you knew to be true.
-
Geta’s hand guided up your stomach, his palm curling around your breasts as he squeezed, your own hand flat against his chest as you rode him with fervor in the early morning hours, dawn peeking over the warm, lilac sky. 
In this light, he seemed almost normal. Eyes drifting shut in the silence of his quarters, just you—just him, he often made the mistake of weakening his defenses like this. He growled, low and quiet as his hands traded your breasts for your hips, spinning you in an instant and pinning you beneath him, soon his hand like a vice grip on your neck as he thrusts into you with little care or regard, a string of spit connecting his parted lips as he laughed, an eerie cackle as he came inside of you, admiring the tremble in your lip as he released his grip on your throat, subtly intaking the breath you had been deprived of as he pulls away from you, falling against the mattress and pulling the silk bed sheet over himself.
You move to do the same, but he grips the sheet.
“Make yourself come,” He demands, a sneer across his face as he yanks the sheet away completely. 
It was routine, now. You part your thighs without hesitation, leaning back on your elbow to allow him an unobstructed view, a tired but amused expression on his face as you play with your clit, fingers sliding through your folds, eyes drifting shut as they often did. 
It was easier to picture him this way, brown curls buried between your thighs and the tanned-skin of his backside as he stretched out below you, rutting his cock into the sheets as he ate you like his final meal, eyes like warm honey as they peered up at you.
Acacius, sweet Acacius. 
You were thankful you could remember his face, a memory you would pray to the gods to stick with you forever, a blissful crest of pleasure as your middle finger circles over your clit in a hurried manner, heels digging into the sheets as you feel it—fuck, it’s there, right there—
“Look at me,” He leers, his hand twisting into your hair at the crown of your head, a searing pain that makes you gasp, but your eyes fly open, mouth parted in a mix of pain and pleasure, “tell me how generous of an emperor I am to be so kind to a little whore like you.”
You nod shakily, swallowing as your mouth dries, “You have given me everything, your highness. Everything. I may never be able to repay you such a debt,” It was a script, one you’ve memorized and dare not forget, “May I—” You’ve learned to ramp up the dramatics when he’s lips part in anticipation, fingers itching as his thigh as they curled, his dick twitching beneath the fabric, “may I come?”
So fucking full of himself.
Whether you did or not didn’t matter anymore, but he allowed it. Insists. Your eyes never leave him.
Even as you dress, again, he hovers. 
You’ve learned the proper customs and rules, always making sure you look perfect. Pristine. Scrubbing your body down so harsh and deep that it makes your skin feel raw, because if Geta noticed anything—anything at all, it would mean punishment. 
He liked lashings, but that was too exertive for him.
His handmaidens aided the swelling and cuts as well as they could, ice and creams, clever ways to cover the wounds to your face. You were starting to feel a numbness when the anger would rise and explode, only praying that he would remove his rings before doing so.
“He’s visiting,” Geta speaks as though it was a secret, squeezing your chin between his fingers before they predictably fall to your neck, squeezing in the perfect spot to make you feel light, airy, and not in a good way, “I best not get a whiff of contempt, understood?”
“I am yours, Geta,” You knew he liked the more relaxed approach, his grip easing up, “he is nothing, nothing compares to you.”
His nostrils flare, a half-hearted smirk crossing his face as he shrugs.
“I have a task for you,” Geta teases, before his finger trails toward your nose, thumb rubbing against the soft, bulbous curve and down your lips, pushing his fingertip inside, prying your lips apart, thumb tucking against the inside of your cheek as you mouth falls open, “but, not in this moment. The timing must be…perfect.”
Your eyes squint slightly—he was up to no good, that much you could decipher. 
He gave the other servants a look, shooing them away as you stayed on his heels, your dress flowing at your ankles, feet bare against the marble floor. He pulled faintly at your wrist as he took a seat, maneuvering you into his lap, his own legs outstretched, fingers traveling up the center of your chest before his hands curving around the back of your head, his thumb rubbing at your jawline.
“Try anything, I will kill him first. Then you.”
You smile, syrupy sweet, playing with a thin strand of his fiery locks underneath the lip of his crown.
“You worry so much, Emperor,” Your own hand covers his, a bold touch as you stare him down, “It does not suit you.”
He’s emotionless for a moment too long, fearing you may have finally overstepped, before he breaks out into a laugh, one final squeeze before he relinquishes his hold.
The General and his entourage arrive soon after your conversation, Caracalla having joined shortly before the approach of many guests—most thanking their Emperors for no apparent reason other than because they enjoyed watching people kneel before them, confessing their undying loyalty.
It was pathetic, but what you were doing—forced or not, was no better. It was much like being stripped bare, the way the others' eyes prowled, watchful of Geta’s wandering touch.
“Quite the whore you’ve acquired,” One embolden man comments, his slimy smirk coming moments later, before calling over his shoulder, “General Acacius, you must tell me where you acquire such…toys. Such a generous gift you gave.”
You smiled with faked confidence, sat in his lap, one leg draped over his own, the other dragging along the floor where it rested through his split thighs, a kneading hand dragging along your inner thigh. Your fingers drag along his own, his tongue shoving into his bottom lip and over his teeth, a tick you’ve learned meant no good, his eyes turning quickly to rage.
You could hear the deep timber of the general over your shoulder as he is called forward, your eyes never leaving Geta, even as he straightens in his throne, his palm flattening against the arm of the chair digging into your back. You slide a hand inside his robe, fingertips dragging along his collarbone, “He knows I am yours now, Geta.”
“General Acacius,” Geta greets with a poorly faked kindness, one that Acacius returns with a curt nod and the usual bow that one of higher ranking would offer, the traditions were different for townspeople, but it was still ridiculous in any manner, “I take you have good news to share.”
Otherwise, he would not be here.
“Austria will be conquered within the next fortnight, Emperor Geta,” He explains with a rigidness that oozed discomfort, ignoring the smarmy look of another nearby general, one of much lower important, but nonetheless—
“Ah, it must feel strange,” The man suddenly interjects, a finger circling the steel goblet in his hand, filled to the brim with wine, “trading whores, doing business—rather messy…”
Geta’s jaw tenses, his anger suddenly directed elsewhere.
But, as usual, Acacius knows how to defuse a tense situation.
“She was a gift to the Emperor,” The general clarifies, “for what he does with her is none of my business, I only knew her as a loyal servant,” not a whore, never had those words left his mouth.
Geta’s chest rumbles softly, his hand squeezing painfully tight at your thigh.
Your teeth clench to silence the pain, dreading his next words as they leave his mouth.
“Call her what she is, Acacius,” He goaded, “a whore—and she excels.” 
His other hand slides through the open back of your dress, slipping one fold of fabric down your shoulder as he grins, all of the lower society bystanders having filtered out of the palace by now, leaving a large group of generals waiting for Geta's official dismissal.
“Give them a show,” He boasts, shoving you off of him rather abruptly, but you quickly plant your bare feet into the flooring, steadying yourself as you kneel before the Emperor, spreading out the spare fabric of your dress to act as a temporary comfort to your knees as you work at Geta’s robe, hesitant as you peer up at him briefly, he nods slightly, but taunting, “go on.”
It wasn’t the first time you’ve performed for an audience, feeling eerily normal now—but in a room full of generals? Acacius? You could hear your heart pounding in your ears, deafening everything else around you as you split his robe apart and dragged your fingers up the inside of his thigh, his tongue peeling slightly through his lips as you wrapped your delicate fingers around his cock, watching as he hardened under your skilled touch, despite how incredibly awkward the air felt, some of the men murmuring around you quietly.
His fingers dig into your hair at the start of your scalp, unhappy with your pace as he grips, pulling you forward until you get the idea, your tongue licking slowly along the head of his cock, the reddened tip glistening with a small drop of precome. You circle around it, slow and tantalizing before you run down the length of his shaft, having memorized every ridge and vein by this point that it has become second nature to instinctively know what pulls him toward the edge faster, easier. But, he wasn’t even looking at you. He was staring through you, behind you.
He was staring Acacius down, guiding you down his cock without much relief as your eyes flutter shut when his cock head nears the back of your throat, using practiced breathing as you focus. He didn’t like it when you gagged, eventually allowing you up for air as you claw gently at his thigh, but the process is repeated over and over again until you’re tearing up, drool collecting down your neck and chest, hand still secured tightly at the root of your hair as he pulls you off suddenly, demanding a tense, “Open, tongue out,” as he comes in short, but forceful spurts against your tongue, swallowing the heady taste of him without another thought. 
He pats at your cheek lightly when you open your mouth, showing it empty.
“Stand,” He ordered, adjusting your dress back up slightly to cover your breast, chuckling underneath his breath at how disheveled you looked otherwise, hair an absolute mess and your chest slick with spit, “oh—why don’t you give him a kiss? As a thank you for his generosity.”
Geta covers himself lazily, uncaring as if a dozen or so men hadn’t just watched him come down your throat. You turn on your heels, approaching Acacius who was simmering with rage, it was subtle, but you could sense it as you came closer.
You smile softly, a silent apology as you touch him first, fingers curling around the side of his neck as you press your lips against his in a chaste kiss, knowing Geta would allow nothing more. And it doesn’t surprise you how easy it feels to fall back into his touch, the polite press of Acacius hand at your hip catching you by surprise, feeling the faint adjustment of fabric, invisible to the naked eye, but you feel it.
Geta doesn’t appreciate Acacius reciprocity, cutting the moment short.
But, Geta is more relaxed that night after Acacius departure than he’s ever been.
He’d won. 
At least, he thought so.
“An entire limb seems harsh,” Geta thinks, twisting the rings on his finger as you dry from the bath he had ordered you take before lying in bed with him, always wanting you perfect and clean, “maybe a few fingers would suffice as punishment.”
You keep your silence, letting him think aloud as you squeezed the water from your hair with the cloth, but eventually Geta’s hand wanders, pulling at the cloth covering your body, forcing it to drop to the ground, “What do you think?”
Your eyebrows raise in faint shock, that he was legitimately addressing you about a concern, a choice he would happily make himself—so, why? Why was he asking?
Whatever, you’ll bite.
“What did they do?”
“The general—from the other day, who had such choice words for your dear Acacius—”
“Geta, I have told you—”
“Do not interrupt me,” He seethes, pulling at your wrist, forcing you to be done with your hair and climb over him in bed, “He assaulted a maid of ours—or Caracalla’s specifically, we had caught him up in his room, trespassing, touching things that did not belong to him—”
People, he means. But, he would never be so generous.
“And, you think a few fingers? An arm? That taking away a limb would keep him from doing it again?” You clarify, rolling to your stomach as you crawl toward him, your face level with his own as you rest your head into your open palm.
“Unless, say, you suggest something different.”
“Kill him,” You offer lightly, “If you think one less appendage would teach him a lesson, your highness, I hate to speak out of term, but—”
Geta considers the thought, head tilting to the side before he slowly opens his mouth to speak, “No…I do understand. But, he is a general. It would be something to discuss with a council.”
Your fingers slide across his chest, fingertips rubbing against the small patch of auburn hair at the center of his sternum, slowly crawling up his neck, idle movement that you didn’t think about at all anymore.
“You are an emperor. The people of Rome listen to you,” He and his brother were burning it to the ground, but that wasn’t something you could stop alone, “you are powerful—and, forgive me, but watching you command a room,” It amazes you sometimes how easily it was to play into his weaknesses, a smile spreading across his face as you boosted his ego, “—it does things to a woman.”
His hand, like a magnet, attaches to your thigh to spread you out on top of him, straddling his groin, your bare pussy pressed tight against the cloth of his robe, your hands pressing into his naked chest.
“You are smart,” Geta notices, “educated—a keen eye unlike I have seen on someone of your social status, I do not know much about you.”
“You have never asked,” You reply honestly, “though, it does not matter. I am here for one reason, to serve you.” His grip shifts your waist slightly, aiding the slow, but gentle rock of your hips against his hardening cock and if you closed your eyes long enough, you could enjoy it.
“Yet, you may be of more use to me than I suspected,” Geta teases, his hands rising to massage at your breasts, casually nodding to the maid who had peeked her head inside after a quiet knock, nodding as he answered, “—yes, bring them in.”
A line of varying women filter into the room with somber faces.
And just like that, the moment was lost.
Geta was such a heavy sleeper, fortunately. Gently prying yourself away as he rolls onto his side, mumbling something unintelligible in his sleep as you quietly step toward the the attached room where you bathed, pulling at a loose tile in the floor where you had stowed away what Acacius had slipped into the fold of your dress, withholding for the right moment to peek.
It was a tiny scroll, rolled up with a thin string and no bigger than your thumb, your nails pulling at the slab until it pops free, quietly unfurling the curled up paper as you read what was carved onto the thin paper, an overuse of ink smudged in spots.
It listed a place, a monument he knew you’d remember and a promise that he would visit every night after the sun set for a small window in time, hoping to catch you. 
He was still trying to reach you, to provide himself as a comfort in such a time.
You had to plan accordingly, find someone you trusted enough, and convince Geta of your undying loyalty—though, it seemed that you were breaking him down. 
And luckily, you did have a maid you trusted, to a degree—a young woman of similar age, meek but unsuspecting, she often sensed your displeasement and unease, didn’t fit in like the rest of the women that bowed so loyal to the emperors. But, she was a gossip, a troublemaker like Caracalla who she served loyally. She tended to him more regularly, often dealing with his breakdowns and tantrums caused by Geta or, lately, anything. There was never a way to know when he would blow a fuse and cause more bloodshed, he was unruly. 
There was only one hour of the day when you see her—morning proceedings, food served to their royal highness, the two brothers chatting amongst themselves as everyone moved fluidly around them. Caracalla had requested fresh squeezed juice, a rather tedious task, but you sneak away with her as the opportunity arose, digging through the oranges without prying eyes.
“I must ask you a favor,” You begin in a hushed tone, rubbing your thumb over the skin of the orange, “and I will owe you immensely.”
She looks at you curious, but expectant.
“The stuff…that helps Caracalla sleep,” You hint at out of habit, paranoia getting the best of you, “I would…I require it, for Geta. He sleeps heavily, but I need…to be sure.”
“He is insatiable as of late, that act in front of the generals—”
“Irene, I am at my end, please—do you have any remaining?”
It was opium poppy, it had many forms but the one you knew most of was powder. Easy to slip into a drink, often undetectable. It was worth a shot, even if it meant your life.
“At dusk, by dinner. Is that enough time?” She answers easily, a sigh of relief breathing past your lips as you nod, cradling a few oranges in the crook of your elbow.
You had only prayed Acacius hadn’t given up hope, that he might still be lingering in the shadows in wait, hoping for a glimpse of you again.
-
As promised Irene delivers, dousing both of the boys inconspicuously as you kept watch, tainting their wine with the sleeping drug, watch as his eyes began to tire before you as you slipped a grape between his teeth, a sated and happy smile on his face. 
You hate it, but he almost looks normal. Like he wasn’t slaughtering people for entertainment and ruling like a madman—he was still young, just beyond his teenage years and into adulthood, like yourself. You wonder where things went wrong and why, that someone could be filled with such unrestrained rage and hate.
Caracalla beckons for Irene eventually, Dundus hopping from her shoulder to his as she trails alongside him to his quarters, suddenly feeling the nudging of a sharp nose into your neck, a faint sniff and a hum as Geta appreciates the flowery smell, a faint lavender on your skin.
“I need you,” He speaks against your skin, nearly sliding your dress down then, your hands grabbing at him quickly and his reaction is delayed, almost confused, “did you not hear me?”
“Let us retire to your bed,” You suggest, dragging your thumb along his bottom lip, watching as his wine-stained tongue licks at the digit, “and you will have all night to ravish me as you please.”
Thankfully, it doesn’t take much convincing. Though, he’s less coordinated than you’re anticipating, draping himself over you lazily as he kneads at your breasts, cupping your cunt over the fabric of your dress, the silk halfway down your body as you step beyond the threshold and Geta is on you without a moment to breath, peeling his clothes of layer by layer before he’s bare before you, a surprising gentleness to his movements.
He takes a seat on the side of his bed, at the edge as he pulls you into his lap, hands spread out against your spine, fingers digging into the skin and begging to make it ache, hurt, but he doesn’t have the strength, his kisses become increasingly more lazy as the opium takes hold.
Eventually, his eyes flutter as you pull back, your lips barely brushing against his as he fights the exhaustion, but eventually succumbs, falling slack on the bed as you climb off of him, leaving him sprawled out in his bare state to your valiant amusement, given the amount of times he’s taken to shame you rather than show sympathy, it seemed fair.
Sneaking out of the palace is easier than you expect, having spent endless weeks being mindful, watchful of even the smallest of things. Paths, open windows, learning the schedules of staff and guards, it was almost too easy as your feet fell against the broken pavement, the quiet footfalls following in your quick departure, praying to whatever deity above that General Acacius believed in you enough that you would fight to see him.
When you show, it is quiet. Dark, not a soul in sight, tugging the cloak hastily over your shoulders, sending a chill up your spine against the bare skin underneath, a small inkling of doubt seeping into your thoughts as you stare around aimlessly, wondering if you were too late.
Your frame slumps against a nearby pillar, secluded in the shadows, the cold night biting at your feet, the faint sound of hooves off in the distance, realizing just how noisy the streets could be outside of the palace—it was comforting, in a way.
“You came,” The words come from your left, behind you as your head whips over your shoulder and he’s touching you before you have time to take him in, a gentle but firm press against your clothed arms, holding you still, “you are here, dove.”
It was a tone of disbelief, like he had lost hope.
He wouldn’t tell you that he almost didn’t come tonight. It didn’t matter, because you were here.
The visceral reaction you have at his endearing name for you is like a vice grip on your heart, mouth opening to speak but words falling short.
Eventually, the tears fell.
“I am sorry, General,” You speak with a shaky timber, “I am—that act, his performance the other day—“
The general soothes your worry, dragging his thumb along your cheekbone to catch a stray tear, “That has no meaning to me, if anything, it was his mistake for allowing us so close. Otherwise, you would not be here with me now.”
You peer at him through tear-soaked lashes, feeling as if you would be snatched away at any moment, your fingers curling into his similar clothing, a cloak covering what you could assume to be a more relaxed attire, a toga that he would often where around his home, strolling barefoot through his atrium. 
“Why am I here, Acacius?”
“You must trust me,” He urges, “that when the time is right, I will come for you.”
“We could go now,” You plead, “he would never know, he does not care enough to go after me, I swear—“
“Little dove, he cares for you much more than you know,” The general counters, “you are valuable to him.”
“He asked something of me the other night,” You speak absently, rubbing a fingertip along the frayed thread of his cloak at your eye line, “what a fitting punishment I thought would be of a man who assaulted a servant—I believe he was testing me.”
Acacius furrows his brow, “You loyalty, it seems. You are getting under his skin, I see it. He knows of your value to me and that as much as he tries, you will not be tamed. But, he is trying.”
You chew at your bottom lip quietly, a nervous tick that Acacius picked up on long ago, both of his thumbs pulling your lip away from further mutilation.
“Little one, what is on your mind?”
“I have to go back soon,” You say with an obvious bitterness to your tone, “though, I do not wish to.”
His large hand curls around the side of your face, cradling your head as you lean into the touch, warmth spreading like fire over your skin, “You will be with me again.”
He barely registers as your lips touch his, a blink and you were there, lips pressed so tightly against his own that they might bruise, leaning into him like he was the only thing keeping you upright, pulling at the fabric of his toga as his hand wanders beyond your cloak, in search of a touch.
“Dove,” He breathes at the realization of skin, “you are bare, your clothes—“ 
“I rushed,” You stare at him impishly, “I did not think, I know, but,” the general smiles, cheeks dimpling with the show of emotion as he shakes his head.
“You have me wanting what I cannot have,” He sounds somber, his hand still lingering against your hip, “I know he does not cherish you the way he should.”
You laugh softly, your stomach fluttering at his wandering hand, drifting along your public bone before the full expanse of his hand was cupping your cunt, welcomed by warmth and the sticky wet sensation of arousal that he’s been longing for, like an addict.
“General, would you like to know something?”
“What is it?” He inquires to your obvious amusement, his and cradling your head back, neck exposed slightly, thankful that the streets around you were empty.
“He likes to watch me pleasure myself,” You admit, “mostly because he cannot achieve the feat himself, but as I close my eyes I picture those mornings when you snuck under the sheets and spread my legs open,” Acacius leans forward greedily, hot breath fanning over your face as he yearns for another kiss, moving away from him tauntingly as you finish your speech, “that sweet look on your face as you taste me, thankful that you expertise was not contained to only battle—“
“Careful,” He warns, “I am not against a reminder if you continue.”
You peer over the broken set of stairs behind him, attached to an abandoned structure, eyebrows raising expectantly, “A parting gift, General?”
The discomfort was nothing compared to a general kneeling into the dirt and stone without a hesitation to please you, a whore, a servant—your title no longer mattered, having carried so many. 
He’s still hooded, your legs hanging over his shoulders as he kneeled against the steps, forcing you down flat against the concrete as he licked a slow line through the seam of your cunt, again, again. A teasing trace over your clit as he pressed two thick fingers inside of you, lapping at you loudly.
“Did he bed you tonight?” Acacius inquires curiously.
“Nearly,” You sigh, a high-pitched breathy noise as his pace quickens, knowing that you both were on a time limit, “he—huh—was far too tuckered to be fulfilled.”
His brows raise subtly at your choice of words.
“I drugged him,” You admit, an unexpected moan ripping from your throat as his tongue flicks over you sensitive clit, fingers digging into his cloak-covered shoulder, “seems the Emperor is not as untouchable as he thinks, and tricked by a whore—he would have a fit.”
His fingers dip into your thighs as you squeeze them together around his head, his tongue working quickly over your clit until you’re breathless and whining, feeling the rushing wave of your climax as it crashes into you, Acacius licking up the mess like a starved man.
It takes you a few moments to come back to earth, feeling a gentle tug at your hand as Acacius helps you up, readjusting your cloak over your naked body without much of a word, knowing your time with him was up.
“Wait for the bells,” He tells you, “light, delicate—look for me, I will be near.” 
You begin to speak, but are silenced with a kiss. 
A final goodbye. 
“Remember what I told you?”
Live.
You nod.
“At whatever cost, little dove.”
You go to great lengths to make it back to the palace before dawn, hiding behind every pillar, sneaking around corners, somehow managing to slip back into Geta’s bed without so much as a sound, his body still mostly laid out as you had left him, aside from a little rousing around.
When morning breaks, Geta wakes with an obvious grogginess to his tone, forcing his eyes to stay open.
“You stuffed me full of wine,” Geta jokes, “I cannot remember anything from our night prior.”
You’d tried to look particularly exhausted, hair slightly disheveled and the satin bed sheet askew, “It was quite a night, your highness. Such a shame,” You reply mockingly, though there’s a sweetness to your tone, almost teasing.
And if Geta suspects anything, he doesn’t say it.
It takes a day, two, silently mulling over the events.
He wasn’t a half-wit like his brother, his brain like mush beyond repair, useless by result of the infection in his loins. He was helpless, spiraling deeper into madness.
Geta had his wits about him—his eyes drag along your body, the deep swooping fabric showing off your exposed back, the soft skin and gentle slope of your spine, a look shared between you and Caracalla’s most trusted maiden.
Along with the lightness in your tone, a revered outlook, a bounce in your step that most people wouldn’t catch, but Geta—he’s just as much an observer as yourself.
He suspects, no—senses, feels, the deceit in your challenging gazes, the additional touches with an air of confidence, too cocky for someone who has been nothing more than a whore and housemaiden.
He’d always known you were particularly special; smart by means of General Acacius, knowing how to read and write and many other things that others of your station did not have the luxury to learn. And you were hard to break, though Geta had worked at it for weeks, he’d gotten you there.
Obedient, compliant, merciful. 
At least, he’d thought so.
He knows he won’t get a word out of you.
So, he goes for Irene.
-
The guards corral you at dinner, sitting silently with Caracalla as Dundus perched on his shoulder, eating quietly. They aren’t kind either, grabbing hard at your bicep as they drag you from your spot on the floor, Geta’s throne eerily empty.
Your stomach turns at the slow realization as you’re dragged down the hall, tossed beyond the threshold of Geta’s room as you stumble to the floor, groaning at the impact, head hitting the ground first as you roll over in pain, opening your eyes to an even more horrific sight.
Geta, hovered over Irene, lifeless eyes staring back as he dropped the thick cord from his hands, something he must have ripped from the curtain as one drooped down from its normal placeholder. 
There was no blood, no mess, but the light in her eyes was gone, and Geta stumbled over, crawling—hunching down to intersect your bleary eyesight as you slowly came to the realization of what was happening.
“You have betrayed me,” He announces calmly, despite the eyes of a crazed man staring straight through you, face void of any emotion, “after all I have given you.”
“Geta—“ You plead, pushing up on your palms to sit up, his foot coming in contact with your shoulder as you roll into your back forcefully.
“I AM YOUR EMPEROR,” He seethes, spitting as the words left his mouth, “YOU—BETRAYED—ME!”
And left a mess in the process, unfortunately.
“If you would…let me explain,” He stalks closer, watching as you rise slowly before his hand is striking across your face, the sting almost immediate, “I—think…that you—“
“You do not think,” He spats through clenched teeth, shaking with rage as he kneels to your level again, like a rabid dog, “whores do not think, they are fucked until there’s nothing left and then they are tossed out. Like trash.”
In desperation, the words slip out.
“I love you,” You say softly—it was a careful bundle of words that you’ve never spoken before, not even to General Acacius, “whatever she has told you, it is lies.”
His silence isn’t an answer, but you took the opportunity, unsure if he was stunned or gearing to explode.
Convince him, at whatever cost.
“She knows—of my past with the general. She was jealous of me, you. She drugs your brother, you must know. And she tried it with you too, it is why I did not leave your side, why I insisted we come back to your room.”
“But, you knew—“
You reach for him, a hand circling his wrist.
“No, no,” You speak softly, “It was small things. Your speech, it was slurring. You were drifting away, almost as if you were floating. I could see it. I have seen it before, with your brother. The nights when he is unruly, she…calms him.”
“Her story is entirely different,” He challenges, “you see my issue, yes?”
“Geta,” You challenge him, reaching forward to cradle his face, surprised by his willingness to allow it, watching you carefully, “I am loyal to you—no one else. I do not know another way to show you, but I will. I will, you must—“
“Strip,” He orders, “—on the bed,”
It makes your stomach twist, but you follow his orders.
His demeanor is unreadable as he watches, mirroring your movements before he’s climbing over you in bed.
He settles on his calves between your open legs, a blanket of silence falling over as he reaches for your hand, a surprisingly gentle touch as he brings your fingertips to his cock, slowly hardening at the sight of you.
Your fingers circle his shaft as you lean up on your elbows, ignoring his intense eye contact as you drag your palm along the velvety soft skin, feeling him grow to a stiff hardness within a few minutes—it should disgust you.
It does, to a degree. It wasn’t that Geta was unattractive in a physical sense, but the mental picture was hard for you to overlook. But, for the moment, you could pretend like he wasn’t the worst human being to walk the earth.
His fingertips brush against your cunt slightly, fortunately your body has adjusted to the pleasure of such a complicated predicament. You’re sure if you tried hard enough, you could truly enjoy it. But, you’re thankful that your body connects with the severity of the situation, quivering slightly at his touch, mouth opening in a small gasp.
“Are you nervous?” Geta inquires.
You shake your head, “No—it is only, we have never…”
“Let us try something new, hm?” He offers with a grin and you nod instinctively, feeling two thick digits dip inside of you with no warning, not so much grace as Acacius would have, but it isn’t uncomfortable.
It seems Geta has his wits about him, fortunately, diminishing you to nothing but a whimpering mess after a while, some of it a little bolstered for his benefit, but the pleasure was real. 
And god, did you crave that release.
Soon, his hand is gripping his shaft, sliding between the folds of your pussy as he coats himself, mouth twitching at the sight as he speaks, “I want you to watch.”
And you do, his cock pressing into you slowly, “It is such a generous act, you see, feeding you my cock like this,” another slow push, “you should feel special, little dove.”
The words are jarring, but you try not to react. 
“It is not everyday you are fucked by an emperor,” The dichotomy to his words almost makes you chuckle, as if he wasn’t fucking you every day, sometimes even two or three times, “you should be thankful.”
“I am.” You quickly appease.
“Then thank me,” His voice was tense again, his neck flexing with the tightness to his words.
“T—thank you, Emperor Geta.”
“For?”
One last forceful push and he’s seated fully inside of you, your brow pulling together at the pressure, lips parting open, “For your cock, for making me feel so—oh,” His thrusts are careful, calculated, your head falling back at the divine angle he’s found, “for—oh, gods—so good.”
You fist the sheets in desperation, back arching up slightly, watching his jaw tense at the way your breasts bounce, his eyes darkening over time, only a shell of himself as he thrusts into you, two firms hands on your hips slowly making their way upwards, wondering if he was following the path toward your breasts before they are bypassing and going straight for your neck, his hands encircling your throat.
It is merely a second too late before your brain catches up, too overloaded by pleasure that you don’t see the definite switch, quickly going from gentle pressure to the type of force that makes your vision white out.
You choke, gasping for air as you try to speak his name, plead, anything—his eyes are locked on your face, a sick determination as your stronger, forceful blows to his chest quick become weaker, weaker, feeling yourself teetering on that edge before he’s releasing his hold, forcing you to gasp for air.
“Do you still love me?” Geta asks.
And despite yourself, you lie.
“Yes, I love you, Geta.”
He was a sad boy, you’ve come to realize, wanting love but also craving unyielding power. He did not want equals, he wanted subordinates, fans, people that would sacrifice everything in his name. But, underneath it all, Geta was just as broken as you suspected.
A parade of the gladiators wasn’t a normal occasion, but it was quite the event—a way of wealthy men showing off their new toys, dangerous murderous machines out for blood.
It was the entertainment before the big show, sitting in the expansive throne room underneath the colosseum as the rich drowned in wine and food, you and several other servants surrounding the two brothers, eagerly awaiting your next order.
At least, for you, it was being obedient.
It felt like a collar around your neck, his fingers tracing along the back of your spine and up, fingertips resting against your shoulder, his thumb rubbing against the column of your throat.
Geta spots him from a mile away, that trademark white against gold, gaudy armor fit so perfectly for a man like Acacius, you bow your head at Geta’s push, the footsteps approaching steadily.
Your throat ached still, eyes slightly bloodshot. He hid your face, the evidence, speaking to the line of approaching generals as they greeted the two men with high regard.
“I commend you, your highness,” A general speaks, faceless but you sneer at his tone, fists balling into the fabric of your dress, “she is so well behaved, you must teach me your tricks.”
You bite down at the inside of your lip as Geta pets your head, tilting your head to the side slightly as you close your eyes, his thumb pressing against your cheekbone.
“There is no trick,” He retorts, “my little dove is loyal, a hard thing to find in a world full of deceit.”
It was laughable, coming from the emperor. 
The moniker is an even lower blow, knowing that General Acacius was a few feet away, the white fabric of his traditional armor dragging along the ground.
“Ah, Acacius,” Geta boasts, “I hope you have come to bring me good news.”
It best only be good news.
As he approaches, Geta’s grip tightens, curling around the side of your neck as a show of dominance as his finger digs into your skin, daring you to defy him. 
The soreness is pertinent, causing you to grimace in pain at his actions, something that Acacius spots but does not acknowledge.
“Yes, our army is nearly ready, Emperor Geta,” He nods before acknowledging his brother, “Emperor Caracalla,” but Geta is not amiss to the way his eyes drag toward you for a brief moment.
“Careful,” He warns, “doves are…so sacred, yes?”
Your sideways gaze peeks through as his eyes bore into Acacius, the subtle glimpse of broken capillaries and a plea for help as you lock eyes with Acacius is all he needs.
It would be tonight—it had to be tonight.
He’s a horrid mess, drunk off his ass as he drags you back toward the room. His brother and he were always more rowdy after gladiator games, riding the high of an entertaining act of violence, slaughter for mere amusement. Geta nearly topples over you as he opens the door, pointing hastily toward the bed with a slurred speech, “Naked, on the bed.”
He’s heading for more alcohol, a table tucked away in the corner of the room with a plethora of choices, pouring lazily as he stumbles, the utensils from an earlier meal falling to the floor as he bumps into it, looking displeased at your state of dress. He grimaces, nose scrunching as he reaches for the knife that had clattered to the floor, twisting it in his hand to point it at you.
“You dare—you dare to defy me?” 
Your eyes squint, narrow as he jabs at you sloppily, dodging the action with ease.
“You cannot even see straight, your grace,” You jeer, watching as he gulped down the crimson liquid, remnants trailing down the side of his mouth as he threw the glass away carelessly, the glass shattering against the floor as he charged at you, pressing the tip of the knife under your chin as he backed you into the wall, his eyes capturing the similar essence of rage when you knew there was no saving him, determined to cause bloodshed no matter the consequence.
You can hear the soft lilt of bells in the distance, the sky as black as the darkened state of Geta’s eyes—if he had any humanity in him, it was gone.
“You are…broken,” You speak to him, accepting the consequence, even if Acacius failed to save you, “A poor, poor boy with no one to love him—your confidence, it will be your demise.”
The knife knicks your skin, a subtle sting.
“Are you unaware of Caracalla’s plans?” You inquire, privy to Caracalla’s incoherent babbling, often feeling like Geta’s scapegoat, the constant source of blame. It was true, Geta had never accepted responsibility for anything in his life, “You should be careful, Geta. He has a slippery hand and a temper. If given the opportunity, I am sure he would do away with you. I cannot say I blame him—you are a disgrace of an emperor, ruling Rome like it is a playground—”
His eye twitches, the slight hesitation. It gives you enough time to react, twisting his arm away from your neck and on himself, “Unfortunate that you cannot do that as a dead man,” You bite, pushing against the force of the knife, knowing that Geta had no instinct of survival, a feeble man raised in a glass house for the entirety of his life.
The blood quickly pooled in his mouth, pouring out as his body slumped. 
You had prayed it would be slow and painful, that the misery would last.
The rustling near the window pulls your attention, the city quiet and unsuspecting of the violence having just taken place, Acacius' frame obscuring the view of the stars as he climbs through the window.
“Oh, dove,” Acacius sighs, taking in the sight of the slowly dying emperor, his fingers weakly grabbing for you as he choked on his own blood, “you have made a mess.”
“I could not survive him any longer,” You admit, feeling his arm encircling your waist as he tugged you away, “—what—what is to happen now?”
“It is a fate he would have met eventually, if not at the end of my own blade,” Acacius admits, “–—come, we must go. We only have a few moments, my lady.”
Your breath catches at the words, nodding in agreement as you allow him to tug you along, met with a few men on the other side of the wall, catching you as you dropped, draping you in a thick cloak.
“General,” You breathe, sensing his overpowering frame behind you as he grabs the reins of the horse in front of you, assisting you in climbing on the creature, “where are we going?”
“Away,” He promises, “somewhere we can both be free.”
“But, your status—does it mean nothing?”
It never did, not since the minute Geta had stolen you away.
You peer over your shoulder, his eyes soft.
“I love you,” He utters, answering your question without direct confirmation.
And for the first time, you say it as you mean it, feeling the tug at your heart, “I love you, too.”
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megalony · 7 months ago
Text
Maimed My Wife
This is a new Emperor Geta imagine that turned out rather long. I'm very happy with this one and I hope you will all like it.
Please tell me what you think.
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Main Masterlist
Summary: Geta is very protective of his wife. And when a General in the palace attacks her, he sees to it personally that said General will no longer be a threat.
Enjoy.
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A deep warmth spread through (Y/n) and her mouth curved into a tender grin when a familiar pair of lips attached themselves to the side of her neck. Silently, she inclined her head to the left, allowing more access while she tried to keep her focus on the book in her hands.
Her fingers skimmed across the corner of each page, an action she had done for long enough that the corners were starting to crinkle as if they had been dampened with water. Each page was still pristine and crisp, but there was a small, noticable mark of wear and tear in the corners and the remnants of ink smudged across the side of the pages when each one had been turned.
The words began to blurr on the page the longer (Y/n) felt Geta's administrations on her neck continue. Added with the movement of his hands which were fiddling with the fabric of her dress and the belt around her waist, he was making it very hard to concentrate.
Geta's arms were encircled around (Y/n)'s waist as if he were caging her in his embrace, not that she ever wanted to leave.
It wasn't often that they could scrape moments together like this without having some kind of audience or interruption. Being here, just the two of them with no guards or family or servants hovering nearby, it was heavenly. It was a sense of serenity.
(Y/n) re-read the same two lines for what felt like the tenth time until they finally seemed to sink in and she could focus on reaching the bottom of the page. But when Geta's teeth sank down against her lower neck near her shoulder, she was sure he was trying to leave a visible mark. A signal that she was his, she was taken. As if no one already knew who she belonged to.
The book started to tap against her knees that were drawn up so her feet could press down into the sofa and steady herself. The words weren't making sense anymore, she wasn't really paying attention.
(Y/n) hadn't been in the library long before Geta wandered in, knowing this was exactly where his wife would be. As soon as he sat down with her, (Y/n) knew her book would end up being forgotten and would have to be finished another day. Even as Geta murmured into her hair that he just wanted to sit with her as he had a moment to spare, and the promises he uttered into her skin that he wouldn't be a distraction. (Y/n) knew he would be.
Her chest leaned further back into Geta's chest until she was reclined against him and her head fell back against his shoulder. He was sat slightly slouched down into the sofa while (Y/n) was sat sideways so she could be tucked into Geta's arm. It didn't take long for him to twist and curve both arms around her and attach to her like he had been apart from her for days, not hours.
"You're making this difficult." (Y/n) murmured with a sly smile, already residing to the fact that she was giving up with reading for today.
"Hm, I can tell."
Her hand draped across the sofa, fumbling about to try and find the speckled feather she had been using as a bookmark for quite some time now. Once it was slotted safely in place between the pages, (Y/n) leaned forward to set her book down on the other end of the sofa.
The library was (Y/n)'s sense of peace. She had been thrilled when she moved into the palace after marrying Geta and he showed her the library. He had quickly realised that if he couldn't find his wife anywhere, this was where she would be hiding. Buried in the books the library provided, catching up on her Latin and Greek and delving into the mythical stories each book provided.
Geta understood her love of books, even if he didn't read half as many books as her. He had been tutored well. He and Caracalla had been taught to read and write since the moment they could stand on their own two feet. Emperors had to be well-schooled and be given rich educations. Geta wanted the same for his children, even if he wouldn't go about it as strictly as his parents had. And he had promised himself never to treat his children the way his father had treated him and his twin.
He began to feather his fingers up and down (Y/n)'s waist, grinning into her neck at the way she squirmed against him and moved her hands down to clasp over his wrists now that she wasn't holding her book.
When Geta lifted his head, (Y/n) turned and angled her head up so she could peck his cheek.
She took the chance to admire his pale features, amplified with a lacquer of paint to make his features more ghostly and frightening. On anyone else, (Y/n) was sure looking so pale and deathly would look a horrid sight, but on her husband it was enchanting and regal.
One hand reached up to brush a stray strand of bright orange hair away from his dark eyes that fell closed as he leaned into her touch and nudged his nose against her wrist.
Moments alone like these were few and hard to grasp, Geta liked to bask in them for as long as possible before they morphied into something else or became broken by interruptions.
He continued to glide his fingertips along her waist, drawing patterns into the pure white dress that crinkled and ruffled along her thighs and over her bent knees. He liked how her dress contrasted to the golden clothes he was wearing beneath the cold golden armour over the top. When being seen out in public, Geta was used to wearing his armour. It was for spectators as well as his own protection. They never knew what people were lurking around each corner.
While Geta had his eyes closed, (Y/n) took the opportunity to turn around so her back was no longer against his chest. She moved round so she was knelt up beside his thigh, now able to loop her arms around the back of his neck and lean her chest flush against his.
Her touch was surprising but very welcome and Geta's hands moved to cup her hips, digging his fingers into her flesh as he leaned further back and tilted his head so he was gazing up at his wife. His own Goddess.
The word "Beautiful," passed his lips as he gazed at her in splendor before he leaned forward to capture her in a kiss. The touch was soft and warm and loving and (Y/n) gasped into his mouth when she felt his teeth bite down on her lower lip.
(Y/n) began to stroke her thumb up and down the back of Geta's neck, brushing against the short hairs and tangling her finger in his longer locks at the back of his head. When she tightened her grip it earned a quiet growl to rumble from deep within Geta's chest. And she felt his hands tighten on her hips in retaliation and he scrunched her dress up between his fingers, just starting to pull up the material as if his intentions were to bunch her dress high around her hips.
She was sure that was what his intention was and she leaned further against his chest to try and deter him. Anyone could walk in. People didn't tend to knock on lounge or library doors the same as they would if the Emperor and Empress were in their personal chambers.
(Y/n) would hate to be caught by anyone if she and Geta were in a compromising position. She knew her husband wouldn't bat an eyelid, but she would.
When she tugged on his hair again and tilted his head back without breaking their kiss, (Y/n) felt his hands give a sharp pull on her hips. He was about to pull her onto his lap and (Y/n) would have obliged, if the wooden doors to the library didn't creak and groan as they opened.
Their lips quickly broke apart and (Y/n) glanced over her left shoulder while Geta let his head drop back against the sofa while he casually looked towards the doors.
A smile instantly formed on his lips and his fingers dug into (Y/n)'s hips, pulling her back down against his chest again when they both saw that it wasn't a guard or a servant requesting something from them.
It was Caracalla, with his niece in his arms.
Caracalla's hair looked rather disshevelled as if he had woken up from a hundred year nap, but he had a bright smile on his features and his head inclined to one side as he waltzed into the library.
He jostled his niece who was perched high on his chest with her little arms draped around the back of his neck and her head nuzzled up against his cheek.
There weren't many people in the palace that Geta would trust with his child. The nursemaid who had been employed with them since the princess's birth, the two guards who were to watch over the princess without fail, wherever she went. And his brother.
When the princess was with her parents or her uncle, no guards needed to constantly have her within their sights. They could walk a few paces back or wait outside the room rather than stand inside and observe.
"Oh, and what are you doing?"
Geta chose to ignore his brother's words and the smile that broadened on his features because they both knew what the couple had been doing.
As the large oak doors closed behind him, Caracalla walked further into the library, looking around the grand room he hardly ever came into anymore. He didn't find books fascinating, his attention span was short these days and with his changing moods, curtesy of his illness, the mood to sit peacefully and engage in a book never came about. He was either much too frivilous or much too riled to read.
But he knew his sister in law was quite often found in here and sometimes this was where he had to come in order to find his niece. Caracalla was immensely fond of her. He was childlike at heart and found he could entertain the little girl and enjoy spending time with her rather than most of the people who frequented the palace.
"She can walk, brother." Geta dropped one hand from (Y/n)'s hip so he could motion his hand towards his daughter.
His daughter had recently learned to walk and it made her much more of a trickster. Geta was forever finding her sliding the rings off his fingers and running off with them, clearly wanting him to play her game and chase her for the jewels.
And now that she could walk, it meant the princess would run into meetings and abscond around the palace with her maid right behind her, unable to stop her from trying to explore and find her parents. Geta never declined when his daughter found her way to the meetings and he would sit her on his lap and let her play with the jewellery hanging around his neck or the rings cladding his fingers while the Senates talked state business. Her presence was calming.
"Where's the fun in that?" Caracalla countered with pursed lips and a huff that ended with him kissing his niece's cheek.
He knew she could walk, she had ran right up to him this morning, clearly wanting him rather than her nursemaid and Caracalla obliged. He dismissed the maid immediately and took to wandering around the palace with the little princess by his side and then in his arms. He loved carrying her around. Why walk when she could be carried like the princess she was?
But he seemed to relent when she started to wriggle and he set her down to her feet so she could toddle across the dark purple and crimson rug with her arms outstretched towards her parents.
(Y/n) slowly turned back around and slumped back down on the sofa so she was sitting beside Geta rather than kneeling up against him. Her lips curved into a grin and her hands draped over Geta's shoulders when he leaned forward to reach out for her.
A squeal burst past Floriana's lips when Geta scooped her up from the floor and leaned back to sit her down on his lap.
"Hi flower," He murmured softly and when her little hands patted his cheeks, Geta obliged and leaned down to kiss her temple.
(Y/n) watched the both of them with fondness amplifying in her eyes and causing a bright smile to etch across her face. Her hands squeezed his shoulders and she leaned forward to perch her chin in the crook of his neck as a little incoherent murmur left their daughter's lips.
She loved to see Geta with their little girl. Although it was frowned upon to have the father at the birth, Geta had burst into the room when he couldn't wait around any longer and listen to his wife's tortured cries.
(Y/n) had been nervous when she had Floriana. She didn't know how Geta would react to a daughter, it was something that had rattled her and caused her many sleepless nights. Everyone had expected her to bear a son, to give an heir to the throne to secure Geta's place as Emperor. Having a girl simply meant everyone would be pressuring her to have a boy sooner or later as if she had done something wrong and she would have to keep retrying until she got it right.
Geta quashed those worries immediately. The tears in his eyes and the bright smile on his face when he held his daughter showed he wasn't disappointed in the slightest. He was enamoured with his little girl and he wouldn't change her for the world. She and (Y/n) were Geta's everything.
The three people in this room with him were his family. These were the people he would give his life for.
"Have you two had some fun?" (Y/n) reached her arm across to brush her finger against her daughter's cheek, watching the little girl giggle and burrow into Geta's chest.
Although her fingers started to tap against the golden armour covering his chest. She couldn't reach his undershirt or his robes. Floriana had a new obsession with hiding herself away in Geta's robes like she was doing some kind of magician's trick. With his armour in the way, she couldn't tuck herself into his clothes or make herself disappear.
"We've been for a stroll in the gardens with Dondus." Caracalla perched on the arm of the sofa nearest to (Y/n) and brought his feet up to rest on the sofa cushion. His sandals began to tap against the cushion and his hands patted his thighs as he continued to smile. He was in one of his good moods today.
When Floriana pushed up until she was stood on Geta's thigh, he tilted back to see what she was doing.
"What are you doing, little one?"
Her hands scrunched up in the collar of his shirt that poked through above his armour and her cheek flopped onto his shoulder near (Y/n) as she pushed into his chest. Geta kissed the top of her head with a smile as he realised that she was tired. She would need a nap now and if he had the time, he would lie right here and let her lay on his chest. He would cuddle her and stay with her as she slept if he could.
"Acacius is back from his venture, we should go and await his arrival." It wasn't like Caracalla to be prompt and ready to follow procedure, but they had sent the General on a mission to conquor lands in the name of Rome. And both Emperors were eager to hear of his triumph and know just how much he had procured for them while he had been away.
"We should." Geta hummed against the top of his daughter's head but the sigh he let out told (Y/n) he didn't really want to leave.
"I think we will stay here and have a nap while you await your victories." (Y/n) turned to gently ease their daughter into her own arms because she knew if she didn't, Geta was unlikely to let his daughter go.
She made a little whine at the movement but once her head was nestled into (Y/n)'s chest and she began drooling on her mother's sleeve, she seemed content. The little girl curled up in her mother's embrace who slouched back into the sofa so her daughter was lying down and could settle to sleep.
(Y/n) was more than eager to stay here in the library where it was quiet and serene. Her baby girl could take a nap and (Y/n) could continue reading while the Emperor's went about their business.
A lot of the ladies in court had told and advised (Y/n) to leave the nurturing of her daughter to the maids.
'That is what they are there for.'
That wasn't good enough. (Y/n) wanted to be with her daughter. She loved to read to her and cuddle her and take walks with her and be in her presence. (Y/n) wanted to be involved just the same as Geta rarely let his girl out of his sight when he wasn't in his meetings. He checked on her at almost every moment of the day, he wanted to be involved when she began to take her lessons and tutoring.
They would both be involved in their daughter's upbringing more than the servants and maids would be.
"Sleep," Caracalla muttered and grazed his fingers against his niece's thin strands of hair before he bounced up from the sofa to take his leave. He had done his job with entertaining her for the morning and now he could go and drown in spendor and victory.
"I won't be too long."
Geta pressed a finger beneath (Y/n)'s chin, tilting her head up towards him so he could steal a kiss from her warm lips. Her touch was enticing him to stay and he hummed against her lips, swiping his tongue against hers in a battle that had him yearning to stay here with them than to go and deal with the victories of Rome.
When (Y/n) finally pulled back for air, Geta groaned and bowed his forehead against hers. He didn't want to leave his girls.
"Rest, little flower." His words were hushed against Floriana's temple which he kissed, twice, and his finger brushed along her cheek before he finally parted from his girls. His eyes lingered on them as he left the library, feeling like he was walking away without his heart that had been left behind with them.
He wanted to be back with them already.
***
After both Emperors departed, it didn't take long for Floriana to drift into slumber, resting against her mother's chest. Her head was tucked against (Y/n)'s neck and she had curled up like a cub, dozing peacefully.
(Y/n) had her cheek resting on top of Floriana's head with one arm draped around her daughter and the other hand expertly balancing her book and preventing the pages from wavering and losing her place.
She wasn't sure how long they stayed there, tucked up in their own little world of peace together with no disrruptions or people clattering around and making a fuss. It was lovely to spend some time together with her little girl.
(Y/n) could feel her own eyes desperate to close but she powered through, wanting to use this time to read and sit with her daughter rather than fall to sleep and lose the moment.
They had been tucked up together for a long while before a quiet knock sounded at the door and (Y/n) looked over to see the nursemaid poking her head around the door. She wondered if the maid knew instinctively that the princess would be in here with her mother or if she had spent a while searching round the palace for the pair of them. Or maybe one of the Emperors had mentioned in passing where they both were.
It didn't matter either way. The maid walked into the room with a smile gracing her plump features as she looked down at the princess who was just beginning to stir in her mother's arms.
"Would you like me to take the princess for some lunch?"
"Please." (Y/n) nodded and placed the feather back in her book which she set down beside her.
She eased forward until Floriana was forced to sit up on her lap and the little girl rubbed her fist against her eyes to try and wake herself up. Her head lolled from left to right and a yawn escaped her lips as she smiled sweetly up at the maid who reached down to scoop her up.
They both knew if the princess tried walking now she would stumble or lay down with only just waking up and she would dawdle. It would be much easier to carry her back to her room to have something to eat.
(Y/n) pressed a kiss to her temple and brushed her short strands of golden hair away from her little eyes before she was in the maid's arms.
"Are you joining us, Empress?"
"Soon, I'll find the Emperor first." It wouldn't be fitting for (Y/n) not to find out how their meeting with General Acacius had gone- or was still going, depending on how long this meeting would drag out for.
(Y/n) knew the Emperors would entertain the General and want to hear about every triumph and each obstacle he overcame so they knew how to better strategize their next invasion. And she knew as Empress that she needed to take an interest too and find out how things had gone.
She watched with a smile as the maid nodded and left the library with the Princess bundled up in her arms, still half asleep.
(Y/n) wasn't that hungry yet, anyway. She would take a walk to liven herself up and then go and see how things were fairing with both Emperors. Hopefully this meeting would go well and there would be reason for triumph and celebrations. (Y/n) knew both Emperors were desperate to entertain more Gladiators in the colosseum. It wasn't a sport that (Y/n) particularly enjoyed witnessing, but seeing her husband so eager and cheering and giving the casting vote of a Gladiator's life was thrilling to watch.
With her book laid on the small table beside the sofa, (Y/n) stood up and smoothed down the wrinkles in her dress that pooled towards her ankles. The pure white cotton always glistened when she walked in the sunlight and Geta always commented that she reminded him of a star with how the light sparkled on her when she wore white. A blinding beauty was how he often described her.
She made her way to the door and headed out of the quiet library, into the corridor that had very limited windows and therefore not much light. The shadows cast darker in this corridor and made (Y/n) feel like she was wandering the palace in darkness rather than the middle of the day.
The sound of her sandals clicking against the stones echoed and bounced off the walls and she slowly descended towards the end of the hall to the stairs.
(Y/n) wasn't too sure whereabouts her husband would be having this meeting with Acacius, but she knew it would be downstairs. Either in one of the drawing rooms or the great hall which they used for meetings with the Senate. The only thing she was sure of was that he and Caracalla would speak to Acacius on their own. Without an audience so they could truly discuss their plans and news.
A gasp tumbled past her lips and she stepped back just before she reached the corridor leading to the stairs when a firm chest almost barrelled into her.
Her left hand pressed into the wall and her right hand pressed against her chest to steady her breathing.
Her round eyes looked up to see who she had almost collided with and she stepped back again to add a bit more space between them and make sure that she wouldn't tumble over.
"Oh, General Caius." (Y/n) nodded her head at the General who stood tall in front of her.
He was one of the men she didn't know too well. (Y/n) knew only a few of the Generals who paraded round the palace and led her husband's armies. Caius was one of the men she was more acquainted with but she never really had many dealings with him. It was usually a smile in passing when he would come to deliver news to the Emperors.
"Empress." He bowed his head to her and (Y/n) watched a smile light up his features.
His smile seemed somehow too large and crooked for his face and the way his beady eyes trained in on her made her chest tighten. Being married to an Emperor made (Y/n) the subject of scrutiny by many people, and it was never something she handled well.
She couldn't help the way she cast her eyes around the hall as if waiting for someone to wander out of one of the rooms and cease this awkward encounter or strike up a conversation.
"Have you seen the Emperor?"
"No my lady." When he stepped closer, (Y/n) tried to form a placid smile as she carefully stepped to the right. "No guards?"
The way Caius cast his eyes around the hall and ticked his head made (Y/n) look behind her rather stupidly. She knew she didn't have guards following her. Geta had agreed to her wishes not to be followed around the palace at every waking moment.
When she had been pregnant, he had been a little less willing and made sure the guards followed at a safe distance behind (Y/n), for his peace of mind. And of course if the princess wasn't with her parents or uncle, she was to be guarded at all times. But Geta had allowed (Y/n) the luxury of not having guards trailing her every movement if she did not want them to.
She only had guards if she left the palace or when they were entertaining company, for curtesy.
Caius knew this. He often did guard duties in the palace from time to time and he knew (Y/n) was different to the Emperors. Both Emperors liked to have guards nearby, they never knew who might be lurking around each corner or when someone might turn into an enemy and attack. Whereas this had never happened to (Y/n) so she had no reason to think it might happen now.
"Good day, General." Dipping her head down in curtesy, (Y/n) scratched her fingers against the palm of her hands as she stepped to the right a little more to try and walk around Caius.
She had no wish to entertain him in conversation today, she wanted to go and find her family and celebrate their victories.
Her eyes trained on the floor, following the cracks in the carefully carved stone but a jolt ran through her system and made her chest tighten horribly when a hand curled around her upper arm. Her feet stumbled over one another and her shoulder bashed into Caius's chest when he roughly pulled her back towards him.
"What's the rush?" His voice seemed to lower an octave and his grin had turned sickening as he stared down at her.
His fingers were starting to grip bruisingly into (Y/n)'s flesh and when she tried to yank her arm out of his hold, he simply reeled her back towards him again.
What was he doing?
"You forget your place. General." (Y/n) held her chin high and ground her jaw as she wrenched her arm out of his hold and fought the urge to reach out and slap him for his indignation.
He had no right to be grabbing her like that. (Y/n) wanted to go and he had no cause to stop her or try to entertain a conversation with her when she said no. All it took was one word to Geta for General Caius to be demoted; not that (Y/n) would ever want to use her status and power like that, but she would if she had to.
"And you clearly don't know yours, my lady." The way he sneered down at her made (Y/n)'s stomach churn but before she could try and bolt towards the stairwell, he grabbed her. Again.
A hand curled around the back of her neck with shuch a viper's grip that (Y/n) felt too afraid to breathe. She felt his other hand press down against the centre of her chest and her tense legs tripped and scuffed her heels against the floor when Caius pushed her back until she was pressed against the wall.
The cold stone bruised her shoulders and her spine ached when she jolted back against the wall, staring up at Caius in terror.
No one had ever been so bold as to do anything like this to her before. They knew who she was married to. They knew the madness that dwelled within her husband and the deep rage that jealousy provoked within him. If someone so much as looked at (Y/n) for a second too long, Geta's arm was around her waist and his petrifying gaze was burning into whoever was looking at her.
He had dismissed men from the palace for staring or hovering too close to his wife and for striking up much too informal conversations with her.
(Y/n) didn't want to think what he would do to a General under his command who laid a hand on his wife and who would try and put her in such a compromising position.
"Caius- that's enough!" (Y/n) clenched her hand around his wrist and tried to force his hand from her chest where he was pushing her so harshly into the wall that the stone was beginning to grate againt her exposed shoulders. But she couldn't seem to move when he all but thrust her back against the wall again and his head inclined closer to hers.
He took two steps closer until the smooth silver armour he wore clinked against her chest. It felt like (Y/n) was trapped between two walls that were closing in on her. At any moment she felt like she was going to be crushed.
When his other hand moved down and had the audacity to grip her hip, (Y/n) let go of his wrist. She reeled her arm back and slapped him across the face with as much force as she could muster.
The blunt force caused Caius's head to propell to the left and it weakened his hand against her chest enough for (Y/n) to push against him and stumble to one side.
Why was he doing this? Didn't he know the punishment for this would certainly be his death? If he went any further in his torturous advances, (Y/n) wouldn't be able to stop Geta from unleashing Hell onto him. If he stopped now, if he backed off and let (Y/n) hurry to Geta, then Caius would get away with being stripped of his General status and being exiled from Rome. But if he continued, (Y/n) wouldn't be able to stop her husband from taking his life.
"That was bold." Caius rose one hand to his mouth where he could taste blood from where he bit his tongue from the slap. But the way his grin splintered into a sideways smirk showed he wasn't going to stop at that.
(Y/n) screamed when his hand knotted in her hair and dragged her back against his chest, but when a thin hand blade was pressed over her neck, her voice cut short.
"Don't make me use this." He pressed the knife deeper against her throat until (Y/n) couldn't breathe without discomfort, as if she didn't know what he was referring to. "Although I do wonder… does your blood run blue when cut?"
A cry bubbled up in (Y/n)'s throat but she clamped her mouth shut and closed her eyes to try and steady herself. Her hands grasped Caius's arm to stop herself from wavering and to try and keep him from pressing the blade too far and cutting off her breathing.
Oh dear.
How was she going to get out of this? How was she going to explain this situation to Geta? Her husband wasn't going to react well. She needed to get out of this now before Caius did something horrible. (Y/n) didn't want to know if he would cut her or not. She didn't want to be hurt with a blade. She didn't want to know what his intentions were or how far he would go or if he would truly try and defile an Empress.
His motives were clear and disgusting.
The word 'no' uttered past her lips and her neck tensed and began to tremble against the blade as she tried to push him back but it wasn't working.
The blade held her in place and when she felt his free hand move to clutch at her lip it felt like his fingers were fangs piercing into her skin. She could feel her dress being scrunched up in his fist along with how tightly he was gripping her skin that would surely bruise beneath his poisonous touch.
With what effort she could muster, (Y/n) rose her knee up and rammed it into his crotch as swiftly as she could manage. But the movement caused Caius to crash forwards into her as he doubled over with a loud grunt.
His face pressed awfully close to hers until (Y/n) could see the emotions bubbling over in his eyes. Rage. Lust. Anger. All of it, mixing together in a sinister concotion that had her stomach churning in fright.
She could barely draw in a proper breath with Caius pressing into her and the blade against her throat. But she tried. She tried to inhale one deep breath that expanded her lungs to the max and allowed her to hold her breath so she could push forward.
She took the risk of pressing her throat further into the blade until she could feel a slight sting and a few droplets of blood dribbled across the blade. It caused Caius to pull his arm back an inch or two.
He didn't want to cut her. He didn't want to use the blade unless he had to. He was smart. He hoped the threat of inflicting pain would be enough to subdue (Y/n) and make her listen to him. Actually harming her wasn't something Caius wanted to do because he knew if he was caught and (Y/n) was harmed, that would be it.
Harming the Emperor's wife was a death sentence and although Caius was playing with fire, he didn't want to get burned.
"Enough!" The word spat past (Y/n)'s lips in a breathless scream and she thrashed her arms out until they bashed down into Caius's elbows, forcing his arms to tense and drop down.
The action caused the knife to slice through her skin. It wasn't deep enough to reach muscle, but it was enough to make (Y/n)'s knees shake in agony and a scream erupted from her lips. The feeling of her skin peeling apart like fruit made her body cringe and writhe. She felt the knife carve from the side of her neck down to her collar bone.
When Caius's arm slid from her frame, the knife roughly slashed against (Y/n)'s dress, cutting the strap across her right shoulder so the material hung loose and barely stayed over her chest.
With her right hand cradling her neck and feeling the blood trickling across her palm, (Y/n) thrust her other arm out until she smacked the General at any angle and area of his body that she could. She flung her left side into him, shoving him back as she tripped over her skirts and stumbled away from him.
Her feet became caught in her dress that was floundering around her like sails caught in the wind and her body slumped against the wall to her right to stop herself going down on her knees.
Tears tumbled down her face as another scream belted past her lips, trying in vain to alert anyone that she needed help. There had to be someone around here. Surely. Someone had to be walking these halls or cleaning the rooms on this floor or just loitering around. There had to be someone who could hear her.
"I will have you!"
Caius's shrill, gritty tone made (Y/n) whimper and she turned around just in time to raise her left arm in defence when she saw the glittering edge of the blade coming towards her. The blade cut through her forearm deeper than the wound to her neck and had her arm trembling and coiling back towards her chest.
Why was he doing this? Why (Y/n)? Was the thought of harming or defiling an Empress worth the price he was going to pay for this?
Surely he knew that if he didn't kill (Y/n), she would tell Geta and that her husband wasn't likely to ignore her. Geta would believe her, he wouldn't never think his wife was lying and therefore Caius would have no defence when Geta found him. He couldn't lie his way out of this situation.
When his hand clenched around her upper arm and gave a rough twist, (Y/n) stumbled towards him. She let herself go limp and allowed him to drag her to her knees before him while her right hand slithered round from her tense, bleeding neck to scrunch her fingers up into her hair.
Caius seemed too interested with the sight of the Empress on her knees before him to notice what she was doing. His eyes were roaming her skin, taking in the sight of her tense throat that was gasping for air and her heaving chest trying to regain enough oxygen so she didn't pass out. He seemed to enjoy the hatred pooling in her eyes that would not look up beyond his chin, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of staring into those beastly eyes.
He made the mistake of leaning towards her. He made the grave error of letting go of her arm in favour of grasping her chin which he man handled so he could tilt her head back and roughly force his lips against hers. He was so rough that his teeth clashed against hers and caused her lip to cut against her teeth and the touch was sickening.
But the distraction was enough. (Y/n)'s trembling fingers pulled one of the pins from her hair that had previously kept her hair pinned neatly at the back of her head. Tendrils of hair fell loose as (Y/n) clenched the thin metal between her thumb and index finger.
Her watering eyes narrowed and she focused on the General before her as she thrust her hand forward until the pin punctured into his eye.
The action made her stomach churn and she could feel bile rising at the back of her throat as she gagged. The squelching sound made (Y/n) cough through a cry and when Caius roared, (Y/n) took her chance.
She twisted his wrist until the blade punctured through his lower abdomen where the silver armour he wore could not reach to protect him.
Another roar of agony left the General's lips as he crashed to his knees. Blood lathered around his eye socket where his eyelid was pinned closed and blood continued to trickle down his face. His white robes beneath his armour quickly started to change like a magician's trick, turning a horrible shade of crimson.
The wound in his abdomen wasn't as deep as (Y/n) wanted it to be, but she didn't have the strength to push the blade any further when it needed so much effort and Caius's hand was fighting against her, repelling her motion. But the flesh wound was all she needed to escape him.
(Y/n) sank back on her heels and scraped her bloodied hands along the floor so she could turn over and scramble to her feet.
Her hands bunched around her dress, yanking it up so she had no fear or tripping over her skirts as she pelted down the hall.
Tears whipped across her face, horrid wheezing breaths tumbled past her lips causing her chest to heave. And blood coated her previously crystal white dress that was now ruined. She would never be able to wear this dress again. She would never wear white again or look at her white gowns in the same way.
She looked like a ruined work of art.
Blood coated her palms. It dried like flecks of paint along her neck and she could feel slithers trickling down her chest beneath her dress. The fact that Caius's blood was now painted across her dress made (Y/n) want to be sick.
Her sandals slid across the stairs and had her stumbling down three steps at once causing her to grip the handrail before she tumbled down the staircase.
Terrified sounds tumbled past her lips and tears blurred her vision as she gasped for breath, running on adrenaline and fear.
(Y/n) coiled both her arms into her chest and bowed her head, running slightly hunched over to try and rid herself of the pulsing pains coursing through her body in time with her rapid heartbeat. Her eyes aimed on the floor that blurred before her eyes and she ran off memory. It was a relief that she knew this palace like the back of her hand and could run its halls in the dead of night with her eyes closed.
A scream erupted past her lips when her shoulder collided with another and sent her veering to the right.
"My lady-"
(Y/n) recognised the voice of the maid she had clearly barged into, but she couldn't place her name. Her mind was too scrambled to make sense of anything except for the fact that she needed her husband. Now.
"No!" (Y/n) flung her arm out when the maid tried to rest a hand on her shoulder. She didn't care for anyone's touch or anyone trying to help her. It was too little too late. She needed help ten minutes ago when the General had started his attack. Not now, when she had already defended herself and took care of the matter on her own.
Her feet picked up the pace and she was back to pelting unsteadily down the corridor, aiming for the great hall. If her husband wasn't in there then (Y/n) would find the nearest servant and demand them to find him. But she had to keep moving. Standing around in empty corridors was clearly unsafe now. She had to move until she was somewhere safe. With someone safe.
"You have brought great victory to Rome, General. You must be rewarded." Geta's fingers tangled together behind his back while he looked at Acacius stood opposite him and his brother.
They had listened to him reel off the plans of attack, what had worked and what needed improvement. The land he had procured for them and how they had only lost a few good men in their army.
They would plan games in the General's honour, to celebrate what he had done for the good of Rome.
Geta glanced over at his brother who was stood to his right with a beaming smile and a chuckle of agreement. Caracalla was all for celebrations, especially if it meant watching the games in the colosseum. The more blood and guts and gore, the better, in their opinion.
Just as Geta went to say something else, the words faded out on his tongue and he twisted to look behind him over his shoulder when the large oak doors burst open.
Reprimands and arguments flooded his mind as he was ready to punish whoever it was for entering the hall without knocking. Without permission. The servants knew not to interrupt, they knew a meeting was taking place and none of them were needed and should not interrupt.
He found no such arguments getting past his lips when he realised who had burst into the room.
His wife.
Such a belting scream emmitted past (Y/n)'s lips that Geta cringed and his shoulders rose up while his brother flinched and grunted at the noise.
Geta found his jaw hanging open and every part of his body turned rigid at the sight he was faced with.
His wife dropped to her knees once she was two feet over the threshold into the hall. Her body went down with a thump that echoed off the walls and her arms encased around her waist while she leaned forward and bowed her head. Her hair fell all around her in tangled knots and rampid curls that had come loose from their earlier, beautiful style that Geta had witnessed not more than an hour ago.
But it was the sight of his wife's dress that left Geta speechless and on the brink of collapsing himself. Blood. It tainted her dress. It embellished her smooth skin and speckled across her face and mingled with her torrential tears.
"Guards! Fetch the guards- and a healer. Now!" Geta spat the words as he shoved his hand into Acacius's shoulder to get him to move fast.
The General seemed as panicked and confused as both Emperors, but he nodded. One hand moved to grip the hilt of his blade just in case he encountered some thieves or thugs or crazed lunatic running around the palace. Acacius glanced his eyes down at the Empress as he rushed past her, panic and pain filling his gaze as he hurried past her.
He didn't have time to stop and try to help, he had to fetch a healer and alert the guards that there was a clear problem within the palace.
Geta could feel his brother hurrying behind him as the pair of them aimed for (Y/n).
The marbled floor hurt when Geta sank down to his knees before his wife and his hands immediately found her elbows so he could carefully reel her up so she was no longer crumpled over her thighs. He had to know what had happened. He had to know where all the blood was coming from. He had to help her. Somehow.
He couldn't help the way he flinched when he reached out for (Y/n) and her blood and tears soaked into his palms. His teeth sank down into his lower lip while he cupped her face in his hands and began smoothing his thumbs beneath her eyes to try and coax her to look at him.
But as Geta tilted her head back and tried to look her up and down, he didn't like what he saw.
There was a large cut, not too deep but not exactly superficial, going down the bottom of her neck and ended in the centre of her collar bone. And when (Y/n) reached her trembling hands up to grasp Geta's wrists, he tilted back and leaned his head down to look at the wound on her left arm. Blood was coating her arm like a red scarf had been wrapped around her forearm and droplets were splotching onto the otherwise clear marble floor.
Not to mention the fact that the right sleeve of her dress had been ripped, causing the top of her dress to bunch and sit lower on her chest than it had been earlier.
Someone was going to pay for this.
Geta's manic eyes couldn't stop roaming up and down his wife's frame and his hands were at the point of trembling until he was nearly shaking her head in his grasp. He couldn't find any words, all he could do was take note of each mark, each droplet of blood and each scuff mark on her skin. Noting all the discrepencies that someone was going to pay for. Each mark would account for every stab wound Geta would personally inflict on whoever was the cause of this.
"Where is little flower?" Caracalla looked from (Y/n) to glance behind her and then he darted his eyes around the room. His voice filled with a sudden air of panic and his features became enraged with every passing second.
His niece had been with (Y/n) when both Emperors left them. Was she too injured? Was she alright? Did they need a healer for the Princess too? Did the Emperors have to gut someone for daring to harm a hair on both the Empress and the Princess's heads?
A sudden breathlessness took over Geta when the thought of his daughter came to mind. He looked from his brother to his wife, noticing how his brother was starting to huff and his features had gone bright red at the thought of something happening to Floriana.
Where was his daughter?
"W- wi- with the maid. Safe." The words barely spluttered past (Y/n)'s lips. She couldn't find the nerve to speak and her panicked breaths and rapid heartbeat made it hard to utter a proper sentence.
But she had to let them know that Floriana was safe. (Y/n) dreaded to think what the General would have done if Floriana had been in (Y/n)'s arms when he approached her. Maybe he would have resisted and carried on walking. Maybe he would have hurt the princess too in order to get to the Empress. Perhaps he would have tried to drag (Y/n) away from her daughter. The possibilities were endless and each possible outcome made (Y/n) shudder and whimper. Thank the Gods her daughter had been and still was with her maid.
"Who did this?"
The tone of Geta's voice made (Y/n) cry harder and she couldn't meet his gaze until his hands were cupping her face more firmly and he tilted her head up so she had no choice but to look at him.
He wanted names. He wanted to know exactly who he had to castrate and murder for this madness.
"C-Caius."
"The General?"
Both Geta and Caracalla shared a look of confusion with each other while (Y/n) pulled her face out of Geta's hands so she could push forward into his embrace. Her face buried in his shoulder and her hands clutched at one of his arms, reeling it into her chest as she tried to curl up as if wanting to make herself disappear.
A General had done this? A man of power and influence, someone who should know much better than to mess with an Emperor's wife. A man who was trusted with the ruling and discipline of the Emperor's armies. A man like that had done this to the Empress of Rome.
"What did he do?" Geta feared to ask the question because he wasn't sure what kind of answer he would receive. The tears pouring down his wife's face told him the General had vastly overstepped the mark and tried to harm her, but exactly what he had done was unknown to Geta. He couldn't get the full story simply by looking at her wounds.
"He h- had a blade, he… he pinned me to t-the wall, but I stabbed him." (Y/n) closed her eyes, shuddering at the mere memory of what she had done.
She had never stabbed anyone before. She had never so much as slapped anyone before today, she had no need. No one had ever been inappropriate with (Y/n) before and the only person who had insulted her had almost been blinded when Geta fought him for the indignation.
"Okay." Geta hushed quietly while a mixture of relief and violent torment circled through his system.
The General clearly hadn't gotten as far as he wanted, Thank the Gods, but knowing he had even tried in the first place made Geta's fury boil over. (Y/n) had had to resort to stabbing him. She had resorted to defending herself when she shouldn't of had to, not in her own palace where she was supposed to be safe from threats and vile people like that.
Once Acacius led the way back into the hall, he was followed by a dozen guards, all waiting for instructions but instinctively on the look out for anything and anyone who looked out of place. Their eyes cast around the room but all fell silent when they looked down at the Empress.
One of Geta's hands moved to carefully cradle the back of (Y/n)'s head and the other arm encased around her waist, making sure she was tucked up safe against his chest. His lips smothered her temple for a few moments before he looked up at Acacius.
There was a great fire burning within Geta's eyes to rival the worst atrocities in the colosseum and the way his upper lip curled into a snarl was more than unsettling to witness.
"The healer is in the drawing room." Acacius could barely find his voice. His words were low and his eyes cast on the floor as he spoke. He didn't dare look at the Empress. Something told him that Geta would strike any of them if they dared to look at his wife while she was in such a state.
"Come here, my love." Geta's voice was unusually calm and the words were whispered against the shell of (Y/n)'s ear.
Her whole body broke out in trembles when Geta carefully moved her arms to loop them around the back of his neck. He left her face tucked up into the crook of his neck while his arms swooped around her lower back and the other slid beneath her knees.
He eased her against his chest and pushed up from his knees that had gone numb with how he had been knelt on the cold floor. It was hard for Geta to stop from digging his fingers into her skin. All he wanted to do was squeeze and grip her as tightly as he could but he knew better than to do that and risk hurting her anymore than she already had been.
His lips attached to her temple but his steely eyes focused ahead of him as he stormed out of the hall and into the corridor lined with guards who were watching and waiting his every move.
"What are you all looking at?!"
It took Geta by surprise, but he didn't shudder or jerk when he heard his brother's sudden scream. He simply pursed his lips and took a deep breath while he continued in his strides towards the drawing room that overlooked the gardens.
He could feel Caracalla and Acacius following close behind while the guards hung back a few steps, clearly unsettled by Caracalla's outburst. If any of them were caught staring at the Empress, Caracalla might raise his own sword to their throats. He was liable to fleeting moods and he was rattled, anything and anyone could provoke him. His sister had been hurt, he wouldn't take this lightly.
(Y/n) kept her face smothered in Geta's neck, brushing her chin and lips over the golden armour cladding Geta's shoulder. She could feel the cold metal turning her arms numb and making her blood run cold, but it was soothing when her skin felt like it had been overheating until now.
She wanted to disappear. (Y/n) wanted to curl up and make herself as small as possible. She wanted everyone to leave, she wanted this nightmare to end and to wake up like she had this morning with no problems on the horizon.
Once Geta stormed into the drawing room, he stormed ahead to the sofa that was in front of the large canopy windows and he knelt down to carefully lower (Y/n) onto the sofa. He sat down beside her, allowing her to continue to curl into his armour.
He cupped the side of her bloodied face and smothered his lips against the top of her head, breathing into her hair and inhaling her scent to try and calm himself down. He didn't remove his other arm from her waist that kept her tucked up against him. If the healers wanted to help her, they would have to do so while she was wrapped up in her husband's embrace.
The sound of Geta's voice murmuring "It's okay, you're okay," caused (Y/n) to cry harder and she didn't dare lift her head from his chest. She didn't want to look at anyone and see the fear or the sorrow filling their eyes. She didn't want their gazes falling on her.
It was a relief to see that the two healers had already started to get things prepared. There was a small table moved beside the sofa, covered with balms, remedies, cloths soaked in cleansing oils, bandages and opium, for the pain the Empress was clearly suffering.
"I want General Caius found and brought to me."
"The General?" The implication in Geta's voice was clear, but Acacius couldn't quite wrap his head around it. Surely this madness couldn't be down to the General's doing. Surely Caius hadn't done or caused all of this.
Acacius was a General himself and he would never dare to lay a hand on the Empress without great reason. It was rare for anyone to strike up a conversation with the Empress. For someone to lay a hand on her, to harm her in such a way was unspeakable and unthought of. No one would imagine something like this happening, within the palace no less.
Acacius took a step back, his eyes casting down when he found himself under Geta's scrutinising gaze. The way Geta's lips curled was frightening and the vengeance he wanted was clearly written across his face.
"He has maimed my wife!"
His usually pale complexion was overrun with colour. The make up Geta wore couldn't hide the blood rushing to the surface of his skin and the black make up smudged beneath his eyes only made him look deathly and spiteful. "Look what he's done to her!"
Geta realised his voice may have been a fraction too loud when he felt (Y/n) whimper and flinch in his arms, but he couldn't help it.
Could General Acacius not see what had been done to his Empress? Could he not see that she had told Geta exactly who had done this and that Geta wanted his head?
He wanted Caius brought to him now, and he wanted to inflict the fires of Hell onto him for this madness.
"And I want guards with the Princess. She is to be within their sights at all times."
With the wave of his hand, the General and the guards all left the room in search of Caius. Three guards stayed positioned outside the doors, making sure no one came in without permission. They would all be stationed to protect the Empress from now on. She wouldn't be walking the halls alone again, not after this.
And four guards were ordered to go to the Princess's chambers and keep watch over her. They were to make sure she was alright and ensure no one visited her or went too close to her. The Empress had already been attacked, Geta wouldn't stand for his daughter being hurt or frightened in any sense.
A frustrated growl left Geta's lips. He couldn't foresee how this atrocity had happened. Guards should have heard the commotion. Servants should have been filtering around the palace at some point. Someone should have stopped this. Were these people not paid enough to look after their rulers? Were they incompetent? Would Geta have to replace each and every one of them to ensure the safety of his family?
Whatever Geta grunted and grumbled under his breath went unheard by (Y/n) and the healers around them.
She tried to nuzzle her face into Geta's neck but her watering eyes opened when she found his hand cradling her chin and he carefully tilted her head back on his shoulder so he could look down upon her.
Without saying a word, he took one of the cloths from the table and began working to rid the blood from his wife's features. It felt like polishing a diamond, cleansing away every bitter element of the world to find the beauty hidden beneath. He scrubbed the flecks of blood away, watching as hazy burnt orange water the same as his hair trickled down her features as the blood was cleaned away.
The healers didn't make a sound, allowing Geta to be the one to clean the wound on (Y/n)'s neck so they could apply tonics and rags soaked in lotion. The wound wasn't deep enough to require stitches, the tonics would help the skin mend back together on its own and as long as it was clean, there would be no infection to deal with.
When he was done, Geta tossed the rag onto the floor and went back to gluing his lips against his wife's temple. He resisted the urge to start swaying them from side to side, knowing that would make the healer's job much harder as he was tending to the cut on her forearm. That one would require stitches, the blood loss made that very clear.
His thumb stroked across (Y/n)'s jaw while his other hand tensed and twitched against her hip, trying to control the rage that was mounting up within him. But when he glanced to the left, adrenaline fueled his heart and made extra beats course through his blood when he noticed Acacius had crept back into the room.
With a lasting kiss to the side of (Y/n)'s temple, Geta carefully slid from sitting behind her and approached the General.
He was pleased when his brother took his place, sitting down beside (Y/n) with a tepid smile and his hand held out so (Y/n) could squeeze his hand. Caracalla took it upon himself to take the vile of opium and press it to his sister in law's lips, urging her to drink so the pain in her arm would be lessened and the discomfort from the gash in her neck would go away. And with any luck, it might help her sleep.
"We found him." Acacius murmured quietly and the grave look on his face told Geta all he needed to know. By the looks of him when they found him, there was no doubt that he had been the one who attacked the Empress.
The weak sound of (Y/n) trying to call out his name had Geta shivering, but he didn't look back. He couldn't. If he looked at her, he wouldn't be able to leave her and right now, he had to. As much as he wanted to stay by his wife's side, he had to let the healers tend to her wounds so Geta himself could tend to the obscenity that had caused this mess. The threat needed to be vanquished.
Geta let the General lead him through the twists and turns of the palace until they were down in the dungeon.
It had been a while since Geta had been down here, it wasn't a place he frequented often. He sent people here, he sent a lot of people down here, but he didn't administrate the torture they received or visit them as they spent many days, weeks, sometimes even months down here.
If he ever unleashed his violence on people, it was usually up in the main quarters of the palace. In front of servants or an audience.
But this was different. This was a General that Geta had to deal with. And although the people of Rome would be understanding that someone hurting the Empress needed to be punished, they wouldn't take kindly to witnessing a General being slain.
This was a necessity. No one got away with harming the Emperor's wife. General Caius had taken liberties and Geta needed to show him that he wouldn't allow that and that the price was his life. He had to pay for his crimes.
His sandals clicked against the grime covered stones lining the floor, differing from the marble floor that was in many of the upstairs chambers of the palace. The torches did nothing to cast a good light around the dungeon, the lighting was dim but it glimmered off of Geta's golden armour.
He removed the sword from his belt and tossed it to one side. Caius didn't deserve a swift end. Geta wouldn't grant him that.
Once Acacius led him to one of the cells on the right and a guard unlocked the iron door, Geta lowered his head to step inside the small cell with an oval brick ceiling matching that of the wine cellar.
One brow arched and his head angled to the side, both to overlook the General and to stop his golden hair from touching the low ceiling. Geta's eyes narrowed in scrutiny and something of a smile formed across his lips as he looked over the doomed General.
Hands bound in shackles chained to the wall. On his knees where he belonged in the grime and dirt and puddles of water that leaked through the small slits in the ceiling that provided very little light. The General had his head lowered but once he lifted his chin, something seemed to wash over him and his skin turned pale.
Geta revelled in the way Caius shivered and how his chest started to rise and fall rapidly, sensing his impending doom at the sight of one of his Emperors stood before him.
Turning to the side, Geta overlooked the wooden table in the corner of the room right beside the door. Everything he needed to ensure a torturous death; everything from tongue clamps to iron pokers and a various assortment of blades.
With a deep breath and a wider smile, Geta waved his hand to dismiss Acacius. He didn't need a witness or any protection, and Caius was going to receive no mercy. Geta didn't want Acacius to try and vouch for this man or try to earn the sparing of his life. He was going to die, Geta had already decided upon it.
Once Acacius departed to wait outside the chamber, Geta crouched down in front of Caius. His arms perched on his thighs and a sickening grin lit up his face as he leaned in close to inspect the wounds on Caius. He reached out and roughly gripped Caius's chin, twisting his head from left to right to take a good look at his wife's handiwork. She shouldn't have needed to defend herself in the first place, but nonetheless, Geta was proud of her.
"My wife has wounded you well; I have come to finish the task."
Whatever had been stabbed into his eye had been removed, but the blood was still covering the eye socket and both eyelids had swollen shut over his eye. He stared across at the Emperor with only one good eye to witness his own demise. And there was a lovely puddle of blood gathering around his knees from a wound beneath his armour.
They hadn't bothered to call a healer for him. What use would it do to patch up a condemned man? He was already dead, he just hadn't known it until now.
He roughly let go of Caius's chin, allowing his head to drop down while he rose to his feet and turned to face the table of instruments. Geta's fingers danced across each one before he decided which one to use first.
When he crouched back down in front of the General, glee lit up his face when he saw the panic strike Caius right in the heart. His head began to shake and he tried to shuffle back, but Geta tutted. He should know better.
"Tsk-tsk. True Generals show no fear; and true Emperors shall show no mercy."
Caius had nowhere to move to, he was limited by the iron clasped around his wrists and the chain welded to the brick wall. He dropped from his knees to flop onto the floor with his heels scraping against the puddle of blood beneath him and his back slumped into the wall.
His good eye screwed shut and he swallowed down a groan when Geta gripped his face and squeezed his cheeks until he had no choice but to open his mouth. The iron clamp snapped down into Caius's tongue, earning a croaked groan as Geta pulled the clamp so his tongue was on display. He knew the General knew what this meant, he was sure the General had used this device before. The tongue was either twisted until the muscle snapped or it was held until a blade sliced through the muscle and the tongue was cut out.
Geta slowly rose to his feet, a sickening look crossing his face as he reached out for a suitable blade. He stood close and hovered over the General like a beacon of Death. The Emperor was the bridge between life and death, he would deliver the General personally to the Angel of death.
"When I am done with you, what's left can be fed to the beasts in the colosseum."
***
A grimace flooded Acacius's face and his nose scrunched up as he tried to hold his breath so he didn't gag or make a disgruntled sound. He was used to witnessing death, he saw it whenever he went into battle and when he oversaw the games at the colosseum.
But he had never witnessed the gruesome death of a fellow General before. And the sight of the Emperor in front of him was one that was rather unsettling.
Geta glided down the hall like he was walking on air and the calm look on his face contradicted the heinous act he had just carried out.
It was as if he didn't seem to notice his attire was not all that fitting of an Emperor, but it seemed more fair to say that he just didn't care. He didn't care that his golden armour gladding his chest was now smeared with blood. He didn't care about the clear, bloodied hand print on the base of his robes near his knee from where Caius had begged for mercy. In vain.
Geta didn't see a problem with his ghostly white features that were now painted with a mixture of blood and dirt.
He paid no mind to the blood and grit stuck beneath his short nails, or the tiny cuts to his fingers and the palms of his hands from where he had hacked blades into Caius's flesh.
The clothes he was wearing would have to be burned, there was no saving the mixture of white and gold cloth from the stains this afternoon's torment had littered them with. And Geta would need to bathe and soak in boiling water for at least an hour to rid every morsel of blood and grime from his body.
He didn't care.
The smile on his wicked features said as much as he waltzed down the hall until he reached his chambers.
He wanted to see his wife. He wanted to see how she was fairing, how her wounds had been treated and if she was feeling any better. And Geta wanted her to see and bask in the blood and guts that he was painted with like a massacred work of art. Geta wanted her to know that he had taken care of the threat posed to her. He wanted her to see that she was safe and know that whatever Caius had tried to do to her, he got his comeuppance ten times worse.
He had already made sure that the Princess was in her own room and therefore wouldn't have to see her father in this state. Geta knew the Princess wouldn't understand and would most likely think it was paint that was covering her father, but Geta still didn't want this memory imprinted on her small, innocent mind.
Geta opened the chamber doors like he was walking out into a bright summers day and taking his first gulp of fresh air.
He cast his eyes around the room, noticing his brother sat on the chair by the window with Dondus perched happily on his shoulder, chittering away. And when he looked towards the bed, he saw her. His wife, his reason for living, sat in the centre of the bed looking like she wanted to fall to sleep but couldn't quite manage the task yet.
When their eyes met, their silent gaze spoke a thousand unsaid words as Geta strode towards her. It was all their in his eyes, his smile, his attire and his now crimson skin.
She was safe. He had made sure of that.
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anyarose011 · 8 months ago
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Et tu, Brute?
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Pairing: Emperor Geta x Reader x Lucius
Summary: You went by many different names: "Rome's Delight", "The Woman with the Golden Mouth", "Geta's Favorite Whore", and "Julia". None of these were your true name; all used just to dehumanize you as nothing more than a slave. When the General Acacius returns from conquering Numidia, and you meet one of the slaves that was brought from the bloodshed, you hope to reclaim not just your freedom...but power along with it.
Part 1 of 2 (Masterlist)
Warning(s): Depictions of rape and SA [not shown], slavery, cannon typical violence, minor Stockholm Syndrome, major character deaths, historical inacuracy [but I tried my best to make it somewhat accurate] and Spoilers for Gladiator II
I saw this movie once, watched Game of Thrones at the same time, and cranked out a story where you, the reader, know how to play "The Game" (but also not because let's keep it kinda realistic) I'm gonna be honest, this might be a hot mess, and I used a script I found online (but Idk how accurate it is). Also, this first part is just mainly story based with the events of the film the SECOND part will focus on reader and Lucius' relationship (including smut, you sluts {I am also slut, don't worry}.
I do want to say though that the depictions of SA are in no attempt to romanticize them. I also decided not to write out the specific scenes because I myself am a survivor, and wanted to focus more on the protagonist's growth. The trauma still affects her story, but I do not want to write rape scenes merely for shock purposes.
Also, if you name is actually "Julia"...no it's not :)
Word Count: 16.1k
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It was your own fault, that was what they tried to make you believe.
How dare you not wish to participate in the public baths, how dare you desire to bathe in the place you felt most safe.
Foolish, foolish girl. You were not even safe on your own porch in the house you grew up in.
Your father hadn’t been the wealthiest of merchants, but before he passed into the Elysian Fields after his death that year, he had made a fortune; so much as to buy a bathtub for your house.
If anything, you had bathed at night when you believed no one could see you not for your own modesty, but to prevent anyone from stealing it.
Yet, one particular night, a man had spotted you.
The Emperor Geta of Rome had watched your naked form glisten in the moonlight as you washed the most intimate areas of your body; sighing at the feeling of being clean after the day, only for your soul to feel tainted once morning broken.
Guards had nearly broken the hinges off the front door to your house, and dragged you to the palace. You had lived in that house for your entire life, the same neighbors beside you, yet as you kicked and screamed…none helped.
You had grown tired once in the palace, and the eldest of the twin emperors stood before you. He cupped your chin.
“What is your name, girl?”
You answered him, attempting to speak with venom, but the quaking of your voice betrayed anxiety.
He hummed, repeating your name. “Why are you all alone?”
You huffed. “My mother died in the battle that is childbirth, and my father was lost to an ailment in his loins.”
“You have no brothers?” Geta questioned, his eyes running down your form. “No husband?”
“They called my father strange for leaving me his possessions.”
“He mustn’t have passed on so long ago.”
“Why does the death of my father concern you if you only seek my body?” You questioned.
A smile twisted upon his lips. “Perhaps I like to know my fruit before I devour it.”
And he kissed you.
You had been kissed before, but this was the first time you hadn’t wanted to be. You hadn't expected him to be serious about devouring you. His teeth sank into your chin, then your cheeks, until they were finally upon your lips.
It was the first time, in all your life, you felt your body grow cold and freeze despite his hands wandering over you, pulling at the thin fabric of clothing that covered you.
You fell to the floor, clinging to it desperately as he tried to lead you to his chambers. You had expected him to order one of his men to kill you, or have them carry you…
Instead, he took you right there. He simply lifted his own robes then yours and stole what wasn’t his to take.
All you remembered of that was counting how many pillars were in the room.
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You were one of his several concubines. Yet, despite being the newest, you were his favorite.
“Julia,” he whispered to you in the night a month after he had made you his. A month after he had decided to call you by his mother’s name instead of your own. “are you awake?”
You mewled, sitting up. “I am now, my love. What is it?”
Geta smiled, holding out a stack of parchment. “Look at what some of the men found in Carthago.”
You rubbed your eyes as the lamps in his room brightened before looking down at the crudely written words. Geta looked at you in earnest.
“Can you read them?”
A few days prior at him and his brother Caracalla’s birthday festivities, it was revealed that you spoke five languages: Latin, Phoenician, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Greek. Your father had taught you every single one of them to fend for yourself amongst all kind of people.
Now, it was nothing more than a shameless trick Geta used to his amusement.
“Rome’s Cleopatra,” he deemed you in front of the crowd. “the Woman with a Golden Mouth”.
Everyone in that room and all of Rome knew that your ability to speak so many dialects was not the only reason he gave you that title.
Still, as you lay in his bed with crumbling parchment in hands, you forced a tender smile. “Yes, I know what it says. Would you like to know?”
He laid his head in your lap without another word.
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Months passed, and he had grown kinder…only when it was night, and even so, that was only when the moon was full.
There wasn’t a day where your body hadn’t ached from the turmoil he put you through. It was hard to discern when he would want you to be small and subservient to him, or confident and commanding in matters of the bed.
The handmaids that were blessed to not be in bed with him would bathe and coddle you as best as they could, for even through your suffering, you tried your best to treat them with kindness.
You didn’t even know who you were after the fourth month of being Geta’s slave.
Gone was the girl who had a peaceful life; there was now the Emperor’s Pet.
General Marcus Acacius returned to Rome after overtaking the kingdom Numidia in the emperors’ names, and it was the first time you were in his presence. It was certainly a surprise that Geta would string you alongside him on personal matters that had nothing to do with sex.
The general would glance at you every so often, and his look of pity felt more violating that any of the times Geta, or his brother, or anyone else in all of Rome had looked at you.
Upon the general’s return, a series of games at the Colosseum were to be hosted, among parties that would last for the remaining week.
The first was at Senator Thraex's home.
“My little Julia,” Geta caressed your cheek as you sat upon his lap in the makeshift throne. “might you fetch me another cup of wine?”
You nodded, taking his cup and kissing his hair. “I shall, my love.”
He ran his fingers down your neck as you got off of him and made your way to the barrels. Yet, as you passed an open door, something caught your eye. Peeking around the somewhat crack in the door, you saw a few men sat in the room, chains around their ankles and their wrists.
One of them, more muscular than the others with brown curls, held his head low. His skin wasn’t as dark as other men from Africa Propria, but not as pale as the Germanic lands.
When his eyes met yours, you saw a pale blueness only seen in the sky on a summer’s day.
Gasping, you hid behind the door for only a moment before looking again. His gaze was still on you. Deciding to end the strangeness of the situation, you spoke.
“I’m sorry.” You apologized.
He said nothing; you tried again.
“I’m sorry.” You said in Greek.
The look in his eyes changed to confusion, but he said nothing.
“Hebrew?” You questioned. “Aramaic? Phoenician?”
“You speak Phoenician?” He asked as if he hadn’t heard it in forever.
You nodded. “I speak five languages.”
“Ah,” he answered in your native tongue to your surprise. “Rome’s Cleopatra.”
Your nose scrunched as if you smelt something rotten. “You understood me the first time?”
“I did.”
“So why not say anything?”
“What am I to say to your pity?”
You hummed. “I do not pity you, I was showing respect.”
He scoffed. “Respect? Am I a man that looks as if I deserve respect?”
“I believe every man deserves respect so as long he is kind.” You glared at him.
The man shook his head, sighing. “You are a foolish child if you believe that men can be kind.”
“I haven’t for quite a while.” you stated. “I pray that it is the hope that kills me.”
He questioned. “And not one of the emperors?”
“What is your name, slave?” You crossed your arms.
He huffed, drawing his eyes away from you and clenching his fists before relaxing them. “Hanno.”
You nodded. “They call me ‘Julia’.”
“But that is not your name.”
It was blistering hot that particular day, but you felt your body run cold; the same cold you felt when Geta…when he first…
“Who says it is not my name?” You challenged.
“You are merely a concubine,” he said. “you are not a part of his lineage, and therefore, your name is not ‘Julia’.”
You do not know why you seethed with so much rage from his words. You did not even spit on him; you merely stomped away from that door, filled up the emperor’s cup, and went back to Geta.
“It took you nearly a millennium to come back, my sweet.” He scoffed yet kissed your bare shoulder. “I was beginning to worry.”
You shook your head, leaning against him as you sat on the arm of the throne. “You mustn’t over me, my love.”
“You seem distressed.” Caracalla teased beside you. “This is a festivity; you should be merry!”
All you did was smile and nod. It was a pleasant change from the parties you were forced to attend in the past; you weren’t the center of attention, and this was the first time Geta dressed you in the bright colors everyone else wore instead of white.
You could pretend you were royalty for a day.
Not so long after you came back, both Thraex and Macrinus, a stable master who traveled far and wide for new gladiators, approached with their own champions to fight.
You were not even at the Colosseum, and yet, violence still had to be played for everyone’s amusement.
Hanno entered from the door you had previously been at, and another man entered from the opposite side of the room. Both were given swords.
“Brother,” Hanno began. “let us not kill each other for their amusement-.”
The other man struck him without hesitation. You had seen fights before, but none like this. It was ruthless, quick yet drawn out. Hanno lost his sword in the middle of it all, leading to him smashing a flowerpot over his opponent’s head.
The fight was still not done, he rose up on his feet and took his sword from the ground, raising it high above him. Hanno, against all odds, knocked him back onto the ground and took the sword just as they both sood, stabbing his opponent in the chest.
A chorus of cheers and groans echoed in the room. Geta arose from his seat, laughing and applauding as you sat there, eyes as wide as they could be at the bloodied sight before you.
“Remarkable! Gladiator, which part of the Empire do you hail from?” He questioned Hanno. Hanno stood stoically, glaring at the emperors before him. Geta tutted, turning to you. “Julia, open your golden mouth and-.”
“-The gates of hell are open night and day.” Hanno interrupted in the common language. “Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies.”
Geta smiled. “Ah…a poet!”
The rest of the world fell away as you could not tear your gaze away from the man laying on the floor. If he hadn’t died from his wounds, he would’ve from choking on his own blood.
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“-You understand, don’t you?” Geta asked.
You sat in your own personal chambers that night for the first time in a while. You were never overjoyed to be in his bed, but being sent to your own perplexed you.
Then, he simply told you that you were to be General Acacius’ for the night.
“He’s sacrificed so much, my little Julia.” Geta combed his fingers through your hair to soothe you. “I refused him once already; I cannot do so again. Do you understand?”
The emperor had never shared you with anyone. He wasn’t delicate with you, but at least you knew what to expect.
He clenched your jaw. “I do not care to ask you a third time, girl.”
“Yes,” you squeaked. “I understand, Geta.”
Nodding, he softened his hold, leaning his head against yours. “You are still mine alone; I promise, it will only be us after tonight.”
You swallowed thickly. “Okay.”
“There she is.” He kissed your lips before pulling away and standing. “He will be in right away. Do not fret, I told him to be gentle with you.”
Geta left through your chamber doors without another word. There you were, sitting on your bed, draped in silks you should have known were given to you out of lust and not out of kindness. Your eyes trailed to the empty vase on a table beside your bed.
You didn’t know what possessed you that night, but you yanked it off the table, and smashed it on your bed. The handle of the door began to rattle. Quickly pushing the shattered pieces under your bed, you hid a shard behind your back and sat at the head of the bed.
In came General Marcus Acacius, wearing only a thin overshirt that went down to his knees. You’d done this game of seduction many times with Geta, how different could it be for him? Grabbing the bottom of your night dress, you raised it until it bunched up your thighs, revealing your bare center to him.
He took a hitched breath. “My lady-.”
“-What troubles you, general?” You asked then smiled with gritted teeth. You felt your hand begin to ache as you squeezed the vase shard.
Marcus furrowed his brow, and as if he already knew, he said. “Cover yourself and show me what is behind your back.”
Your eyes dropped along with your heart. Still, as his face turned into a scowl, you cooperated. Handing him the shard and quickly pulling your dress back down, you spoke with intensity.
“If you will not stab me before you rape my corpse, then I shall throw myself from the nearest window and allow the people of Rome to defile me. I will not lie on my back and take it anymore.”
He took a deep breath, holding the sorry excuse for a weapon in his hand. “It is unwise to tell the enemy your plans.”
…What?
“It would serve you greatly to control the faces you make before harming a man as well. Yet, above all,” He held the shard out to you. “your enemy is not afraid to kill you; you should feel the same.”
“Why do you tell me this?” You asked, still not believing it.
Marcus sat up. “I believe we can help each other, my little dove.”
“How?”
He lowered his voice. “You have heard of the gladiator Maximus, his dream of a free Rome, yes?”
“Yes.”
“A dream that cannot be obtained from the rule of two emperors.” He lamented. “My wife and I, along with several others, plan…to fulfill our shared dream.”
They were going to overthrow Geta and Caracalla.
“What gives you reason to believe I won’t say a word of this to them?” You asked.
He smiled for the first time since you’d seen him. “That freedom belongs to you.”
“I…I’m still lost. How will I be of any use?”
“Emperor Geta favors you considerably. He is a man, and not a cunning one at that. There are ways to wear foolish men down.”
You nodded, beginning to understand. “There’s always a woman.”
“There’s always a woman.” He solidified. “Gain the trust of the public; make them love you, and they will not see the emperor’s whore but a woman of the people.”
“And how will that dethrone them?
He smiled. “My wife and I will meet with the counsel tomorrow night. I will send for you.”
You scoffed. “Geta said that after tonight I am just his alone.”
“Then I’ll refuse to give him Persia and India.”
“He’ll have your head.” You berated. “Besides, I don’t think he’d believe my cunt would be worth two countries.”
Marcus shrugged. “Considering he only wants you to himself, I have no doubt that it is worth that much. But I am unable to confirm it.”
You sighed. “Even if he’ll allow it, he’ll send a guard with me.”
“I am not one to invite a third into the bedroom.”
“Then where shall-?”
“-Little dove,” he interrupted. “the city was not built in a day, therefore it cannot be emancipated in one.”
Gods help and forgive you for being impatient on wanting to be free. Still, you composed yourself. “Alright.”
He nodded, standing up. “I will be seeing you on the morrow, one way or another.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“For what, child?”
You swallowed thickly, avoiding his gaze. “Not forcing yourself upon me.”
Marcus’ face softened, and he lowered himself to your height as you sat on the bed. He took your face into his hands, and you immediately tensed when his face drew closer to yours.
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “it’s not that kind of a kiss.”
With a tenderness that reminded you of your father, he placed his lips on your forehead and pulled away. Giving you one last knowing nod, he promptly left your chambers.
You wanted to do nothing more than shed tears of happiness, yet for no reason at all, you could not cry.
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Your father had only taken you to the Colosseum to watch mock animal hunting. Even when your friends invited you to watch gladiator fights or other public executions, he had found ways of making you stay far away from them.
There was a strange humor in sitting in the best chair for your very first gladiator duel. That being in the front as Emperor Geta ran his hand up and down your back.
In utter honestly, you tried to stray your attention away from the fights, speaking more with Caracalla of all people. He was more erratic than Geta by far, and it was more difficult to tell when he would be kind one moment, then out for blood the next.
Yet at least he was open about being cruel, unlike his brother.
When you would watch the fights…a familiar face seemed to catch both you and the general’s wife’s, Lucilla, eye.
The man with light skin yet hailed from Numidia…Hanno.
You hadn’t recognized him at first, for it wasn’t his mere presence that drew you to finally look at the event before you. No, it was the way he fought.
Most men previously had attacked with brute force; just stabbing the beast and hoping it would die. Hanno fought with wit. Simply using the sand beneath his feet as an advantage, blinding and tricking the rhinoceros to run directly into the wall.
He was cunning…he commanded the men beside him as if it weren’t the first time he’d done so in his life.
Then, when it came to deciding his fate when all seemed lost…Geta turned to you.
“My love,” he played with a strand of your hair. “shall I show the poet mercy, or bloodshed for your entertainment?”
Even if it weren’t Hanno, your answer would have been the same. “Mercy.”
As a hush fell over the crow, Geta rose his thumb up, sparing him. As cheers erupted, Hanno shook his head.
“No, no mercy.”
Geta furrowed his brow. “Gladiator, we have spared your life. No one refuses-.”
“-I would sooner face your blade than accept Roman mercy!”
Thus, the fight continued. An act of defiance…Peculiar…Quite peculiar.
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Both you and Marcus were correct about the night; Geta did indeed allow you to go to the general’s house, but only if you were escorted by a trusted guard. When you arrived, Marcus immediately draped you in a cloak, practically covering your face and had excused as not wanting the staff to tell his wife of who he was bringing into their house.
Marcus led you into his chambers, and there you saw two people. Apparently, they weren’t even apart of the counsel; simply paid to pretend to be both you and the general as the guard would listen outside, assume it was the two of you fucking.
He had certainly thought through every little detail.
Marcus pushed on a stone in his chambers, revealing a hidden door. You had only heard of these within stories, and as he led you down the darkened passage with only a torch in one hand, and the other holding yours, you had never felt more alive since your past life had been stolen.
You were welcomed to a room filled with dozens of the senate you had passed by in the palace. How strange it was to see them all huddled into a dimly lit room, plotting the demise of the men they initially swore to serve.
An arm looped through yours, and it was Lucilla. She whispered into your ear.
“Whatever you have to say, speak it to me, and I shall speak to them.”
You turned. “Why must I not speak for myself?”
“I only allowed you to be here if Marcus agreed to not let your voice be heard.”
“What?”
“I will explain more to you soon after, I vow it.”
Thus the meeting began. In all truthfulness, you were only able to understand the bare minimum: In a few days’ time, Marcus would lead five-thousand men into Rome to overtake the thrones of the empire, and thus destroy them, restoring the Roman Republic.
When the conversation turned to you, you were merely referred to as an informant who had the closest relationship to the emperor.
It still perplexed you as to why you needed to remain anonymous; there was an excellent chance they would know you as ‘Geta’s Favorite Whore’.
Yet, you did your best to inform the counsel of a plan you had simply created on the spot (they did not need to know the latter part of it).
You would gain more favor from the public, while at the same time, putting Geta’s worries to rest about any uprising or dislike from the majority of the empire.
How you would do that…it was fortunate that they didn’t ask you to give specifics.
Once the meeting ended, you were taken back up from the secret passage, yet instead of going back to the chambers, you felt Lucilla take your hand and lead you down another path.
You couldn’t even get a sound out before she said. “It is alright; he knows I want to speak with you in private. We will not take long.”
She led you up into the bath area of the house. It was quite beautiful; the tub wasn’t made of porphyry, but that did not make it any less exquisite. There was something about it being lesser of the baths you’ve had in the palace. It wasn’t entirely reminiscent of the one you had at home…
But you felt safer.
Lucilla had been gentle in pulling off your robes, and never once did it feel wrong. You were a woman and so was she. She never pulled or scratched your skin, and you knew that she only felt sorrow when she gazed upon the bruises and wounds you had received from Geta.
“How long have you been at the palace?” She questioned as she carded herbs through your hair.
You glanced at her, sighing. “I’ve stopped counting…months, I know.”
“Were you forced to leave any family? Brothers, sisters, children?”
“No. My mother died birthing me, and my father was taken half a year ago to an ailment emperor Caracalla also suffers from.”
She hummed. “Have you ever been in love?”
You laughed the most genuine laugh ever since you became a slave. “Why on earth would you ask that?!”
“I am merely curious!” She teased. “You are truly beautiful, and there is no doubt that men would throw themselves off cliffs for you; but it matters most of who you would choose.”
Her question scraped your mind. There had been times you were fond of, even lusted over, men both your age and older…but love? The only one you experienced would be storge; perhaps philia…but eros? Agape?
“I don’t think I have been.” You answered. “Have you?”
She nodded, a forlorn look in her eyes, but smile upon her mouth. “Twice.”
“Twice?” You couldn’t help the nervous giggle that left your throat. “It can happen twice?”
“It’s possible, yes.”
“And who have you willingly fell captive to?”
“Marcus is the most recent, though there are days I do not understand what he sees in me. Then…the father of my child.”
Lucilla poured water upon your head to wash out the soap in your hair, and a silence fell over both of you. One that was broken when you spoke a name.
“Lucius…”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“He-he had gone missing all those years ago, hadn’t he?”
“He had.” She ran the bar of soap over the top half of your body. “I believe he must’ve been around your age when he ran away.”
“And there hasn’t been any sign of him since?”
“No.” She answered right away.
You curled into yourself. “I apologize if I upset you my lady-.”
“-No. I…I love talking about him.”
You managed a gentle smile to soothe her. “What was he like?”
“Headstrong.” She chuckled. “Wanted to become a gladiator more than anything in the world. Yet, he was gentle, and kind as well. He…I believe he would’ve adored you.”
You shook your head. “Maybe when we were children, but I don’t think so now.”
“It’s hard to judge.”
Whilst the air between you turned into more intimate topics, the question that had weighed on your mind was brought to light. “Why did you not allow me to speak or show my face tonight?”
Lucilla stopped her ministrations. You looked up at her, and the look she wore bore an exhaustion that you had felt recently.
“I know too well the cruelties of men.” She began softly. “My brother had done everything to keep me from ever resisting him…he had done everything. I had only wished for someone to be there with me at every moment when I faced his abuse.”
Words; simple words that meant everything to you was what made you weep.
There was no warning at all. Once she was finished, tears sprang to your eyes, and you felt your sinus clog up. Even as you tried to tear yourself away from her comfort, she merely wrapped her arms around you in an embrace from a mother you had never felt.
“I don’t want to go back.” You begged. “Please don’t let me.”
She kissed your hair. “I’m so sorry.”
“No!” You sobbed. “I-I don’t want to! Please, please, you can’t make me. I-I-I-!”
Lucilla shushed you, rocking you back and forth. “Do not weep. You will be free beside all of Rome, and the past months of your life will be nothing more than a distant, horrible dream.”
You pulled away just enough to look at her. “You-you must promise me something.”
“My child-.”
“-Promise me and I shall help you overthrow them until my last dying breath!”
She stared for a moment before nodding. “Yes. What is it?”
Your lip quivered. “When I die, you must bind my legs with chains or ropes when you bury me. I have,” you whimpered. “I have been told of men who dig up the bodies of girls and…”
Lucilla kissed your forehead before holding you once more. “I vow I will honor your wishes.”
All you could do was believe her.
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There were more times than not the Emperor Geta would talk about filling you with his seed as he bedded you. You never were able to discern if he was serious about wanting to give you a child (they would be his, not yours).
It all became too real when you didn’t bleed that month.
Yet, you also did not feel sick in the morning, and your breasts hadn’t swelled. You still had urinated on wheat seeds for several weeks, but they had not sprouted.
You weren’t with child…yet there was nothing stopping you from convincing Rome you were. It would certainly be a risk; for there was no telling how Geta would react. But that was a risk you were willing to take.
Once a week, you were allowed to go outside the palace during the day, and you had chosen then to venture out into the numerous markets. It was nice to speak with the merchants you knew from your childhood. Some were elders who would watch over you when your father was busy, others were friends who had grown up with you.
“Now what would a little empress want with commoner’s food?” A man’s low timbre voice asked behind you.
Turning your head, you saw Macrinus standing before you with a curious grin. You mirrored it. “That’s not an appropriate title for me.”
“Ah, you are correct.” He nodded. “My apologies, ‘Lady with The Golden Mouth’. Or do you prefer ‘Rome’s Delight?’.”
“You may call me whatever you wish if you’d like.” You forced a laugh and turned back to the merchant you had known since you were a babe. “I’ll take a sack of wheat and small bag of garlic, Gaius.”
“Of course, lady Julia.”
Not even a childhood friend could say your real name. A tight smile formed upon your lips when he turned to sack the wheat before you. Macrinus spoke again.
“You still didn’t answer me about why you’re exactly here.”
“I am not an empress.” You turned to him. “I am not a queen from another realm, I am not even a lady. I am a lowly whore that was fortunate enough to be chosen by the emperor. I like to keep my own schedule from before, so I am aloud to bake my own bread.”
He hummed. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
Gaius handed you the sack of wheat and garlic, and you held out three silver coins. He shook his head. “No, just a copper-.”
“-Please.” Was all you said.
He hesitated, then took them from you, smiling. “May Fortuna rain a thousand blessings upon your head.”
“And unto you as well.” You curtsied and turned on your heel to leave.
Macrinus walked beside you. “How generous you are.”
“I try to be.” You decided to change the topic. “You are in charge of Hanno, are you not?”
“I certainly am, why do you ask?”
“Just out of interest.” You shrugged. “There is talk of him being similar to the one Maximus from years ago. Many admire him already and it has only been a day.”
Macrinus laughed. “It is my duty to entertain the people. I noticed though that you are more prudish of the games.”
“I must admit, I am not used to the violence.”
“A sheltered girl?”
“Ashamedly so.”
“There is no shame at all. So, it is the Numidian that has captured your affection?” He teased. “How scandalous for the young empress to fall for a slave.”
You chuckled. “Nothing of the sort, I just find him amusing.”
“Oh, I am more than happy to let you see him alone if you ever so desire. You don’t need to wander upon him at another party.”
Your carefree air fell once he asked that. “I don’t know what you-.”
“-It’s alright.” He interrupted. “There’s nothing wrong with being curious, I am only concerned for your own safety.”
You stood taller, a shy smile upon your lips. “I am capable of taking care of myself, sir.”
“Of course my lady, why else would you be out here in the streets of commoners without a chaperone?”
Purposefully, you turned onto one of the crowded piazzas where the music and laughter was the loudest. You grinned from ear to ear.
“Oh please, don’t tell me you volunteered yourself to keep me safe.”
He laughed. “No, just wanted to say hello.”
You didn’t have time to respond, as one of the performers had recognized you. Ah, a girl that lived in the house across from yours when you were children! You still remembered her name, and after you passed your belongings to Macrinus, she pulled you into the circle of performers, dancing with you.
You laughed the most you had that year; in fact, you swore your bruised your ribs just from the sheer joy you felt. You don’t know how long you danced and sang with those who were your neighbors and friends, but just as you felt your feet begin to give out, Macrinus put his hand on your shoulder.
“I believe you should go back to the palace and rest.”
Nodding, you said farewell to your companions and took the bag of wheat and garlic back from him. “You are right, thank you so much.”
He grinned. “Let me escort you back.”
“No,” you walked ahead of him. “I wish not to bother you anymore. Good day, Macrinus!”
You lost yourself in the crowd, purposefully making it harder for him to follow. Once you were in the palace, you rushed into the kitchen, holding the sack of wheat behind your back, you greeted the cooks and snuck into the small pantry. You set the sack down on a shelf and pocketed two single reeds, along with an onion.
That night, Geta had called you into his chambers. Before going, you had cut the onion and brought it to hover around your eyes. You were crying by the time you were at his door. Immediately, he took notice of your reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks.
“What is it, what’s wrong?”
You shook your head, only crying more. It was less because of the onion now, and just everything coming down crashing onto your shoulders once more. Geta pulled you into his chambers by your shoulders, sitting you on the bed.
“Tell me now what is bothering you.” He commanded.
You shook your head. “I-I can’t-.”
“-Now, Julia!”
Taking a deep breath, you reached into the pocket of your breast, taking out the two reeds and setting it in his hand. He furrowed his brows.
“I do not understand.”
You took a deep breath. “The handmaids have given me wheat and barley seeds ever since I have arrived. If they grow, then that means…that means I am with child.”
The look on his face spoke it all. You were certain you were dead.
“I-I didn’t know how you would feel, and-and so I-.”
He crushed you in an embrace, attaching his lips to your jaw. “Jupiter has blessed me.”
It was the first time you felt happiness in his presence. Of course, not because of him, but still joy. You returned his embrace, sighing in relief. “You are happy?”
“Happy?” He pulled away, holding your face in his hands. “There is nothing in this world that could sadden me right now. I will have an heir.”
As long as it was a boy (if it were real at all).
You feigned your smile and leaned into his touch. “I am fortunate to give you one.”
“And I am most fortunate to have you.” He laid down and brought you with him.
Perhaps, in another life, he was kind to you and didn’t only value you until you gave him a child. Perhaps you would be in love with him, and he would make you empress
But you weren’t fortunate to be born into that fantasy.
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You wished nothing more than to sit with Marcus and Lucilla as you made your way into the emperor’s booth of the Colosseum. The three of you had managed to speak to one another, but only about meaningless things. Still, you just enjoyed their company.
 It would be more exciting that day. A naval battle, the Naumachia. The arena was filled with water and sea creatures you could never even possibly imagine. It was a wonder in and of itself how all the ships managed to fit themselves in the arena.
“Caracalla,” you said to the brother beside you as you were about to take your seat. He looked up upon hearing his name. You handed him the bag filled with garlic. “I finally found some for you.”
He grinned from ear to ear. “And you say that if I mix this with myrrh, I shall be cured?”
“It should treat the lesions on your skin.” You corrected. “This is what I did for my father.”
He died of the same ailment, but Caracalla didn’t ask; simply smiled. “Thank you, dear sister.”
You nodded, sitting down on the arm of Geta’s throne that would have put you in the middle of him and his brother. He wrapped his arm around you.
“You’ve been far kinder these days.” Geta pointed out.
“Perhaps that means I’ll be the most agreeable mother.” You jested, kissing his cheek.
He smirked, and as the man on the far end of the Colosseum began to announce the games, Geta stood up and rose his grail.
“I would like to propose a toast!” He yelled. The crowd fell silent, and you felt your skin crawl away from you. Geta continued. “To the health of wives and to mothers. Especially to my lover, Julia, who carries my son the moment as we speak!"
An eruption of applause and cheers filled the stadium. You blushed upon the praise, and genuinely wanted to hide yourself from the gaze of everyone; especially the ones closest to you. You could feel both Marcus and Lucilla’s eyes on you, attempting to hide their shock and perhaps horror. The worst was that of Macrinus.
He knew. Just from the look of him (or perhaps it was your own paranoia), but he had to have known from the moment you bought the wheat.
Still, they all applauded, and ones the excitement of your supposed pregnancy died down, the enthusiasm for the battle was born.
It was perhaps the one event you could stomach. While you could still clearly see men dying, it wasn’t as horribly bloody as the prior. Were you becoming numb to the cruelty of these games because you were pretending…or were you letting the game invade your head?
As several ships collided within the growing chaos, men would either die from their fellow man or would simply fall into the water and be devoured by beasts you had never seen until then. Your eyes had been following Hanno the whole time, whether purposefully or not.
Words could not describe the terror that had been brought upon you as you saw him aim his crossbow at the booth you sat in.
You did not think the arrow would pierce you, but it did. It longed into your right shoulder, and a cry you had no idea you were capable of making tore through your throat.
Tears blinded your vision, but the screams from the whole arena deafened your ears you could not even hear what Geta was saying to you.
You could barely make out Marcus’ in front of you as he snapped the body of the arrow and then hoisted you into his arms. You’d never been carried like this as a woman; only as a child by your father.
The heat of Rome felt hotter that day as the pain in your shoulder only grew tighter and tighter as if your skin was going to stretch away from you. The next thing you knew, you were laid upon a cold, solid surface, and sound returned to your ears.
“It’s alright, you’re alright.” Geta shushed, brushing your hair. “You’ll be okay.”
Someone stuck their fingers into your wounded shoulder, and you could only scream. A tender hand laid itself on your cheek, and just from touch alone, you knew it was Lucilla.
“Do not touch her!” Geta hissed, swatting her away.
“No, no!” You whined, reaching out and holding onto her.
Lucilla dropped to her knees, kissing every part of skin that was available, mumbling. “I know, I know. This too shall pass, you are stronger than you believe, my dear.”
Then, just like that, you felt the arrowhead leave your body. The pain was still excruciating beyond belief, but all that was left was for your arm to be wrapped in cloth, and to rest.
One of the guards in charge of the gladiators approached you when you were finally able to sit up.
“My lady,” he began. “did you happen to get a look at the man who shot you?”
“She’s only starting to recover!” Geta snapped. “How dare you. She carries my child, and-!”
“-It’s alright, Geta.” You soothed.
You could’ve done it. Told him with full confidence that it was Hanno. There would have been your chance of power; to kill the man who had nearly killed you.
Yet…you were vindictive and wanted to do it yourself.
“I have no memory.” You told him. “It happened so fast.”
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How horrible it is that Geta would stop forcing you to pleasure him only when you were supposedly with his child and injured. You assumed that if you were suffering from only one of those ailments, than he still would’ve held you down and used you.
You thought nothing else would happen that night. You would simply speak to one another, pretending to be completely enamored by his existence, and then lie down to sleep.
Of course, that would be too peaceful.
You were awoken gently, to your surprise, by Geta shaking you. Humming, you rubbed your eyes. “What is it?”
“The general and his whore wife.” He gritted his teeth. “They planned to kill us.”
You shot right up, forgetting about your injured shoulder, and let out a cry. Geta helped you stand, and that was when you saw Caracalla standing before you, his monkey companion Dundus perching upon his shoulder.
“How-how do we know?” You stammered, not having to feign your terror.
Neither of them answered, and the three of you were led out into the throne room. There before you in their night clothes just as you were, Lucilla and Marcus.
Geta approached them first, seething. “The honor, the dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you. All this you have forfeited by your treachery. Thanks to the civic virtue of men like Macrinus and Thraex your insurrection has been revealed-.”
 “-Torture me if you want,” Marcus shook his head. “but please, don’t lecture me.”
Geta’s face turned almost as red as his hair. “Your name and deeds will be forgotten, lost to history! You are damned to oblivion!”
“You damn me?” He laughed. “I don’t care. Everything is forgotten in time. Empires fall… and so do Emperors.”
Caracalla rose from his seat, reaching for his brother’s sword. “Why wait? I'll gut him right now!”
Geta grabbed onto him. “Brother! Brother! His death must be public.”
“Public, yes. Hang his entrails from the city gates!” He pointed at Lucilla. “Crucify her!”
“No!”
All eyes fell on you after your outburst. Even you froze in place, feeling bile begin to rise up within you. Geta let go of Caracalla. “‘No?’ You say? What would you have me do then?”
Swallowing thickly, it was hard to speak as tears began to fall. You held your stomach. “Crucifixion is…it’s…”
His face dropped into a scowl. “You aren’t saying I should let them live, are you?”
“No-!”
“-Then which is it?!”
Your voice fell silent as your chest constricted, and you could barely breathe. Your mouth would move, but nothing came out; not even strangled noises of desperation.
“If I may, your grace,” Macrinus stepped forward. “I believe she means to bring equal punishments to the crimes committed.”
Geta furrowed his brow. “I do not know what you speak of.”
“Please, let the rest of them out of the room so I might explain more clearly.’
He considered his words, then turned to his guards. “The criminals to the dungeons, my brother to his chambers, and my love-.”
“-I wish to be alone tonight.” You stated.
The emperor scoffed. “What?”
“The babe.” You began. “I-I have helped many women deliver their children, and what has always caused an early birth is stress. I-I cannot take any-anymore of it, or I fear…”
Finally, he took in the sight of your fearful face. Sighing heavily, he said. “Put my lady in her chambers for tonight.”
“Thank you.” You kissed his hand.
You were led into your own chambers, and once the door was shut, you threw yourself onto your bed and wept. You wept until you were wailing into the night, you wept until your eyes were as red as the sun in the morning, you wept until it hurt to continue to do so…
It was unknown how long you had cried, but the opening of your bedroom door is what alarmed you. Snapping your head over in the direction, you were shocked to see Macrinus.
“The general and his wife’s fate has been decided.” He stated.
You held a pillow to your chest, rubbing your reddened nose. “And what is it?”
“The emperor has chosen to let the gods decide, and Acacius will fight against Hanno tomorrow in the arena.”
“You mean you convinced him to.” You glared.
Macrinus approached you. “May I try some of the bread you have baked, my lady?”
You held no confusion when he asked you that. Surprise, yes; but you knew what he asked. You took a deep breath. “I believe I don’t understand.”
“The wheat you bought only days ago.” He reminded. “You said you would bake your own bread. Surely, you didn’t use it as false proof of you carrying the emperor’s heir?”
You didn’t dare look at him. Even when he laid his hand on our back, rubbing circles over your nightdress. “I wish to help you, my child. You must be willing to help me first.”
That was why he also didn’t alert Geta of your betrayal…unless, he had no idea of your alliance with Marcus and Lucilla.
“What is it that you want?” You asked.
“All in time.” He soothed. “I wish to give you the privilege to speak to someone.”
You finally looked at him, your eyes wide. “General Acacius?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I am unable to escort you to the dungeons below the palace. Yet, I can take you to the pit of gladiators.”
“It is easier for you to take me out of the palace than below it?”
“Take you to the man who nearly overthrew the emperors?” He chuckled bitterly. “Not possible. I cannot grant you the gift to say goodbye, but I can allow you to bargain for his life.”
You blinked. “Hanno?”
“Correct.”
“How can I leave the palace at this hour, after what has just happened?”
“You underestimate the silence men will take when it is weighed in gold.” He tutted. “I can only give you ten minutes with him. Will you go or not?”
You were forced to decide quickly…This could be your chance. He had nearly took your life the other day, and the pain in your shoulder was just a growing reminder of that. If he were dead…there was no way you could overtake him.
Yet, you learned that, in a world of men, you didn’t have to be stronger than them: Only smarter, and faster.
“I will go.”
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You had hidden a kitchen knife under your bed the moment you had your own chambers. Geta had gifted you several colorful ribbons he loved to see you wear in your hair. He perhaps did not expect you to tie one around your waist under your gown, securing the knife.
Macrinus led you swiftly from the palace to the gladiator pit, which was thankfully not a long walk. You ignored the stares and intrigued calls from the other men as you treaded the halls. You were stopped by a door. Macrinus didn’t even warn Hanno who stood shirtless in his cell, only opened the door and let you enter.
“I’ll rattle the door when it’s time.” That was all he said and left.
Hanno didn’t even seem alarmed. “And what is Rome’s Delight doing here?”
Your blood boiled upon seeing him, yet you remained calm. “I have come to make a bargain; a plea.”
That was when the puzzlement appeared on his face. “And what is that?”
“The man you will fight tomorrow, you must spare him.”
“Why should I?”
Your grief and despair had made itself known to everyone around you for the past few days; yet, in that cell, only with Hanno as your witness, did he see your rage.
“He is the one who saved my life when you meant to steal it!”
The only change you saw in him was his jaw clenching. Other than that, nothing. “The general?”
You only nodded.
He sighed, brushing past you and shaking the door. “Macrinus!”
“What are you doing?” You hissed.
“I will not have you waste your breath on that man.”
“I will give you anything you desire.”
Hanno faced you. “Then you can deliver his head on a platter for me.”
You gawked as he walked away.  “What have I ever done to you?”
“What?”
“Do you truly hate me that much?!” You turned back to him, getting closer. “Kill the man that is the reason I am still here?��
The last thing you thought you would hear left his lips: A laugh. No, not a genuine one. One that you yourself have released on multiple occasions when you have been in disbelief.
“You truly believe everything that happens is because of you?” He taunted. “Has the emperor been filling your mind with so many delusions of grandeur, you can no longer conceive a world where you are not the center of it?”
“Is it so difficult for you to answer my question because you are a fool, or because you wish to not admit it?” You hardened your tone.
“What is your question, my empress?”
“Why did you shoot me?!”
“The arrow was not meant for you!”
You felt your shoulders drop upon the confession. Your aggression ceased only because of your bewilderment.
“Then who?” You asked.
He backed away. “The general you so wish to defend.”
“Whatever it is that he has done, it can be solved with-.”
“-He murdered my wife.”
Hanno said it so easily. No pain, no rage, nothing. It was a fact, and that was what he wanted you to know.
And how stupid you had been. No one in all of Rome was pure of heart; including Marcus. He was a war general; how could you think he wouldn’t have committed sins against the innocent?
“Why so silent, my lady?” He asked. “Are you in disbelief that he has enemies?”
“I didn’t know that.” You admitted.
“That the general is too a monster, or that he killed the only thing in my life worth living for?”
“And that is your desire?” You prodded. “Take his life so that he may die knowing his wife will be ravaged by wolves?”
When he charged at you, you barely had enough time to reach in your dress and unsheathe your knife. Hanno stopped himself just in time for the tip to kiss his chest. Nothing to cause any more harm than a scratch.
Even though you were not the one hurt, you breathed as if you were. He stared down at you as you shrunk under his gaze, and the two of you remained frozen. That is, until he grabbed both your wrists, and rose them above your head.
“I am only merciful because the general still breathes.” He spoke so only you could hear. “If your bastard of a lover had put him to the sword this night you chose to visit me, you would be dead before you could scream.”
Your nose was an inch from his, that was how close he stood to you. His breath caressed your skin, and you turned away in disgust. He let go of your empty wrist, yet still held the one with the dagger.
“Did you believe you could kill me tonight?” He asked, yet you said nothing. Hanno then brought the dagger to his breastbone, angling it upward. “Do not stab head on; stab up.”
Silence and an iron gaze was your reply.
He then hovered it to the pulse point of his neck. “If you want a quick death, right here; with a thinner blade, preferably.”
Then, he placed the tip just above his brow. “If you need information out of a rat, and you have the stomach to do so, drag it across. It will make the mightiest of men cry like a child in the night.”
“You are clever and a skilled warrior,” you finally said. “what is it you want me to tell you?”
“That you will leave it up to the gods and to me if your general lives or not.”
“But I cannot.” You dared to dig the blade just a little into his skin, and his breath hitched. “My desire for him to live is stronger than for you to die.”
Hanno finally let go of your wrist, and you immediately retracted the knife from his brow. “So do you wish to try again to kill me?”
“I wish for you to show mercy.”
“Mercy?” He questioned. “Mercy upon the man who pillaged my home and killed my wife? Mercy for the one who has made me a slave?”
“I too am a slave and-.”
“-And?!” He cried. “And there is nothing! You are draped in silks whilst I in chains and are bathed in clear waters while I in blood, yet you say we are the same?!”
You swallowed your anger, knowing it would bring you nowhere. “You entertain the horrid creatures of Rome; I am forced to pleasure the emperor. We perform differently, but we are still slaves.”
“You are with child.” He stated. “Will that child also be a slave though the emperor is quick to claim it is his heir?”
The crackling of the torches in the room only added to the fire th in your soul. If not contained correctly, you would surely burn and take him with you.
 “A child…yes.” You relaxed, folding your hands. “A child that I could command to be Geta’s. Perhaps, if I wanted to have the brothers slaughter one another, I could say it belongs to Caracalla. Or, if I despised you anymore than I do at this moment…I could say that it is yours.”
Hanno’s eyes dropped in recognition, saying softly. “You carry an empty womb.”
You nodded. “It is the same as your honor.”
Moments later, the door behind you rattled, and Macrinus spoke even when you didn’t. “The time is up, my little empress.”
You bowed your head to Hanno, curtsying. “Sleep well.”
He said nothing in reply, and you turned on our heel, leaving the cell. You pulled your hood back over your head as Macrinus led you through the darkened streets of the city.
“Did you get what you came for?” He asked.
“No.” Was your immediate reply. “And I do not know truly what I wanted.”
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The day was as blistering hot as the others, yet the stare Lucilla gave you as she was being led into the emperor’s viewing box made your blood turn to ice. There was not a hint of wrath upon her face; there was nothing at all.
She already looked as if her soul had been stolen.
“How does your shoulder fair, dear sister?” Caracalla brushed his fingers over your arm.
A watery smile was upon your lips like second nature. “It still aches, but it heals, thank the gods. And your overall health?”
He sighed. “I do not know how much longer I have upon this earth.”
“Do not say such things.” You squeeze his hands. “If the gods will it, you shall live for another hundred years.”
He kissed your hands that held his. “I hope so, my love.”
Your grin fell upon the title, and Geta immediately sat you down on the chair behind him that was beside Lucilla’s. He gave an apologetic look.
“He only grows more confused by the day.” He caressed your cheek. “You are well?”
You were far from it, but you could not say that. “Your son feels better now.”
Geta smiled, lowering his head down to kiss your womb. “He will need all his strength.”
The announcer on the other side of the arena yelled to gain everyone’s attention. “From the vanquished city of Numidia, the victor of three contests in the Colosseum, the barbarian Hanno!”
You watched as he ran up from the pit, sword in hand. On the other side, you watched at they brought in Marcus. You could barely look at his already beaten figure. The announcer continued. “Will challenge General Marcus Acacius for his treason against the lives of the Emperors and the enemy of the State!”
The two approached one another on the sandy field. Even from where you sat, so close to them, you could barely make out the look in their eyes. You assumed their was hatred, but your own eyes must have deceived you, because you swore you saw a hint of regret within Marcus’ own gaze.
You blinked and the battle between the two had begun. It was a different level of insanity at how they fought. Marcus was decades older than Hanno, and yet, there were moments where the Numidian had to keep up with him.
Than, the roles would be reversed.
Blood stained the floor of the Colosseum as they fought. Then, when all feel silent between them, and Marcus could barely stand, his lips moved as he spoke to Hanno, then raised his hand.
He yielded.
The patrons of the arena began to mumble amongst themselves, growing louder and louder. Geta rose to his feet. “Romans! What say you?”
In an instant, choruses begging him to be spared overpowered the few that wanted him to be killed. Geta shut his eyes, raising his hand, and they were silenced.
“The gods have rendered their judgement.”
His thumb pointed downward, and the crowd erupted in dissent. Your heart was forcing itself to beat out of your chest as you could only stare at the sight of Hanno glaring down at the general before him.
He tossed his sword to the side.
You hadn’t even noticed Caracalla stood until you heard him yell. “Kill him, kill him!” Like an angered child.
“Is this how Rome treats its heroes?!” Hanno shouted, staring at the audience all around him and pointing his sword. “If his life has no value, what are yours worth?”
Geta stepped up onto the barrier, balancing between the viewing box and a fifteen-foot drop into the arena. He held his arms out to his side, his sleeves dropping to the ground, and his pale face was red. “The gods have spoken! Kill him!”
From all sides of the stadium, hundreds of archers aimed their bows at the center of the battleground. Yet, none fired. Caracalla jeered.
“In the name of Jupiter, kill him!”
The arrows were released, and they screamed like none other as they fired into the center. As they pierced Marcus’ body, you did not know you had been wailing in fright until Geta had slapped you.
“You mewling cunt!” He cursed. “You wish to weep over the man who nearly had you killed?”
Blood fell upon your tongue from your bruised lip, and you did not dare to look at him nor Lucilla.
“Death will be too good for you!” She cried with all of her heart.
The noise from the crowd died as if the people themselves had done so. Then, just like the confused murmurs when Marcus yielded, the same began to grow and grow into a call of rebellion.
It was all in your ears. Lucilla’s weeping, the curses from the crowd, the panic of the emperors…but you stood absolutely still.
With hooded eyes, they drifted up to see that Geta stood just on the edge of the barrier, his back turned to you. Your gaze fell to the ground below you, and it was only then you realized how high up you truly were.
You do not know who or what willed you to, but you then looked at Hanno still the center, covered in blood. As if he knew what you would do, he shook his head.
“Ah, ah, ah.” Macrinus grabbed your arm roughly when you took one step towards Geta.
The emperors turned to him upon his appearance, and Macrinus loosened his grip on you before saying. “For our safety’s sake, we should leave.”
“Yes.” Geta stepped down, wrapping his arms around you. “We should.”
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You never knew there was a safe house in Rome until you were forced into it. Perhaps that was the reason for it being a safe house, so that no one knew of it. Yet, apparently, almost all of the roman citizens found it that night. Or, they were simply rioting wherever a free patch of land was.
The cries played in your ears despite them being behind heavy walls of the safe house, and you dared not to peek out the windows as the several fires would temporarily blind you. In the house was you, Macrinus, Dondus (Caracalla’s pet monkey, although he’d call him his other half), and the twin emperors.
“How is the babe?” Geta asked as you sat with your head hanging low.
Of course he would ask that. You didn’t look at him. “He is in fear for his life.”
“I understand,” he sighed. “but there-.”
“-But what?” You finally looked at him, hissing. “Chaos has fallen upon the city because of your actions.”
“There was nothing else to do.” Geta glared at you. “He and his bitch were plotting to kill us! If I’d let him live-.”
“-Don’t you hear them?” Caracalla cried out from his seat, holding Dondus. “They’re calling for our heads! She is right, you brought this upon us!”
Geta placed his hands on him. “Calm yourself, brother. The Praetorians will put down this crowd like they have others-.” The money upon Caracalla’s shoulder chirped out in anxiousness from the people outside. “Keep the ape still!”
“Beware of how you speak to Dondus!” His brother berated.
“Perhaps,” Macrinus finally intervened. “you should take Dondus and Julia elsewhere. The noise outside is too much for them; you should comfort one another someplace quieter.”
Caracalla nodded, gathering up Dondus and moving to help you stand, but Macrinus reached his hand out first. You took it, and as you stood, he said into your ear.
“I will find you on the right side of the hall.”
This was not the time nor place for riddles, but you could not react in any sort of way. You looped our arm through Caracalla’s and walked out of the room, hoping to find somewhere quieter.
“I’m afraid,” you confided in him, truthfully.
“I am as well.” Was all he could say.
You stopped in the middle of the hall once he found an open door. “I…I need time with my own thoughts. Please.”
He nodded, cradling Dondus closer to his chest before entering the room, shutting the door tightly. Within the minute, you watched as Macrinus approached you from the other side of the hall.
You spat. “What do you want?”
“I know I stole your moment of vengeance, and for that, I apologize.” He stood before you. “But let me make it up to you.”
“How could you possibly?”
From his cloak, he brandished a knife, holding the handle out to you. You took it without hesitation, yet question was still upon your face. “I do it myself?”
“You could,” he shrugged. “or, you could have his own brother do so.”
“Caracalla? He is senile.”
“Then I have a proposition for you.” Macrinus pointed to the door Caracalla was behind. “Convince him that Geta will destroy all of you if he is not disposed of. Convince him that, as the new emperor of Rome, he will need more trusting subjects. I shall be his second in command, and you shall be free.”
You furrowed your brow. “Who shall be first?”
“The monkey.” He smirked. “Do you believe he would put me above him?”
It sounded so simple; too simple. Yet, as the crowd began to die down, and you could no longer hear their protests from outside, the quietness brought to you what you had always known: You would never be your own person again so long as Geta breathed.
You held the dagger to your heart, saluting him. “I shall do my duty.”
He nodded. “May the gods be with you when you do, Brutus.”
An insult to most, and while it shocked you, you took it in stride as you stood outside the door. You made yourself look smaller, more afraid, and hid the dagger within your cloak as you entered the room.
There, sitting upon the floor, was Caracalla and Dondus. Like a scared child, he held the monkey close to him, grooming one another as if it was the only thing to bring comfort.
“Caracalla?” You whispered.
He stared up at you, and you noticed he had been crying. Immediately, you sat before him, bringing him into your arms.
“Nothing was ever mine.” He cried, embracing you. “Everything was ‘ours’, always. Even in the womb, he gripped the umbilicus in his tiny fist to deprive me of air.”
“He did?”
“Certainly, one cannot forget.”
You pulled away only to hold his face tenderly in your hands. “You must listen to me, for what I tell you is dire. Your brother wishes to blame you before the Senate; for what happened, for the chaos in the streets-.”
“-That is a lie!” He tore himself from you. “I didn’t do it!”
“I know that, but they don’t. No testimony is more damning than that of a brother against another.”
“He lies! He always lies!” He sobbed.
“He’s very persuasive.”
“What will they do to me?”
“I don’t dare imagine, but…gods above, I don’t wish to know what they will do to Dondus.”
His jaw quivered with the rest of his body. “What-what shall we do?"
You sighed. “I…I have a proposition, but it is most outrageous and-.”
“-Julia,” he begged, grabbing your hands. “dear, sweet sister, please tell me.”
Breath shuttering, you reached into your cloak and held the blade out to him. “Slay your brother tonight. You shall be crowned the sole emperor of Rome when morning comes, and Dondus, the child I carry, and I will be safe.'
He took it, yet still had that look of terror. “This…It has always been he who led everything. I do not know who to trust or-or who to command.”
“Then let me-.” You stopped yourself, eyeing the monkey that lay at his legs. You held your hand out to him, and Dondus climbed into your arms. “Let us help you. Claim Dondus as your first in command, and I your second.”
You wished the same as Lucilla and Marcus; to have Rome be a free empire. Yet, you would have to free Lucilla yourself before that happened.
Caracalla nodded yet said. “You-you are with child. You will become delirious as time progresses.”
And he was the epitome of having a clear mind.
“I will need a third.” He settled.
You shook your head. “That has never been done before-.”
“-I will be emperor!” He screamed. “If it is to be done, it shall be done!”
Raising your hands in surrender, you pleaded. “It shall, it shall! For a third…Macrinus. He has been loyal and informed us of the general’s betrayal.”
“Yes, yes Macrinus will do.” He grabbed your face and pressed his lips against yours. It didn’t even truly feel like a kiss, yet it shocked you nonetheless. “You are the wisest woman I have ever met, dear sister.”
You nodded, forcing a smile. With that, he stood on his feet and left the room. IT would have been easy to stay in there and wait for his return…
Yet, you wanted to be the last thing Emperor Geta saw.
No fear toiled within your body as you approached the throne room, not even when you hear the cries that you knew belonged to Geta. You walked through the doors, watching as Geta held his hands up in fear, begging his brother to spare his life as he was forced onto his knees, trying to stop the knife in Caracalla’s hand.
“I love you!” Geta squealed, staring up at him through tears “You are my brother, I love you!”
You moved to stand behind the younger twin, glaring at the man before you. Geta’s eyes dropped in relief.
“My love, my love, please help me!”
There was nothing uncertain about how you grabbed Caracalla’s hand that held the dagger. With eyes unblinking, you guided the blade into Geta’s throat, pushing it further and further as blood drained from his mouth.
The emperor was dead, and you would sleep like a child once more that night.
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There was something inside of you when you awoke that morning. Not the child you had lied to all of Rome about; it felt like a parasite. You threw up an hour after you woke up, but when you checked with the healers, they said that there was nothing ailing you.
Was it…guilt? No, no it could not be.
Was it possible to feel guilt for the act of killing someone, but not feeling it for who was killed?
You had no time to debate these issues as if you were a philosopher.
Dressed in your finest silks, you made way into the room where the hundreds of senators met, carrying a hefty sack beside you. You sat in a chair next to Macrinus.
“You have done well.” He said softly.
You smiled. “Only because of you.”
Your gaze turned to Caracalla, who sat in one of the two thrones that were there for him and Geta. He looked like the worst you had ever seen him be. A blood rag had been placed at his feet.
“Now I am the only one.” He began, voice low. “I was the true us, and he was the false me. We were always ‘we,’ all our lives, but now I am only I, me, alone.”
The senators look at one another in silent terror. The only ones to not feel fear were you and Macrinus.
Caracalla continued. “My hand held the blade, but my father’s hand guided mine. I was the puppet, dancing on his string. As Emperor, I have convened the Senate to appoint my First Consul and bestow upon him the power to administer the military and civic functions of the Empire.”
He tossed his hand to the second thrown, revealing his fury companion. “I name Citizen Dondus!”
Where the senators were beyond terrified, they were now confused. Macrinus was the first to rise, applauding. “Hail Dondus!”
You repeated his sentiment, clapping with vigor. Caracalla and the rest of the mortified senators applauded all repeating ‘Hail Dondus!’.
Once the excitement died down, Caracalla resumed. “As is custom, I am naming a Second Consul to advise the First and to assure his integrity. Though you will find that Dondus is incorruptible! As Second Consul, I name…”
Macrinus took one step forward.
“The mother of the future heir to the throne, Julia!”
All eyes fell upon you, standing taller than you ever had done in your life. How strange it was though, that the same reaction to a monkey being assigned first in command, was to you, a woman.
Utter silence, until Caracalla applauded enthusiastically. Like sheep, the senators followed; all but Macrinus.
“Yet, as mother to the heir,” the emperor said after finishing. “it is apparent she shall be incompetent for majority of her advising. So, for the first time in the history of Rome, I name Citizen Macrinus as my third!”
Even with this third twist in a counsel, the senators seemed more so relieved at the decision. Macrinus did not smile or even acknowledge the honor, simply stared ahead. Caracalla gathered Dondus in his arms.
“There will be a triumphal parade to celebrate. There will be games and mass executions! Long live the Empire!”
“Long live the Emperor!” You and the senators all yelled.
The Emperor Caracalla carried the First Consul Dondus sweepingly out of the hall, to the Senate’s terrified silence. You picked up the sack that had been beside you this whole time, then making your way to the center of the room.
You opened the sack, and out fell Geta’s decapitated head. The Senate gasped and gagged at the sight of the former emperor’s head. You almost felt sorry for the horror they felt that whole time. Yet, there horror is what would bring you fortune.
“This is what befell your emperor.” You pointed to the head at your feet. “He was slaughtered by the one who shared a womb with him. Tell me, senators, is this who we must trust to maintain the greatness of the Roman Empire?”
They did not glance at one another in uncertainty; no, no they were listening to you.
You continued, your heart stammering. “I am not the one who will stand with you for the rest of my days, it is the son I carry within me. And if it is my son who will become emperor, then there must still be an empire for him once he is born. Hysteria has poisoned the streets for decades now, it is time to put an end to it!”
Murmurs and nods of approval began to echo amongst the counsel.
“Every single one of Rome’s children matters; from the beggars to the emperor himself. If one falls, so shall the rest of the Empire. I have walked beside the lay people of the city, and they feel betrayed by the former emperor for the murder of their beloved general. To right this wrong, I call for the release of Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelias.”
Not one of the hundreds of senators made a sound. Deep within you, you knew that there wouldn’t be much rejoicing over Lucilla’s freedom, but you still had to try.
“The people adored her for far longer than they adored the general!” You pleaded. “If we kill her only for the amusement of the elites, then the children of Rome-!”
 “-Shall live.”
You turned to Macrinus, who finally stepped all the way forward.
“Forgive me,” He bowed mockingly. “my lady, but for a woman complimented to have a golden mouth, you have no idea what you are saying.”
A few of the senators chuckled.
“You wish to free the woman who mean to have you, and the emperors killed?” He questioned.
You refuted. “I wish to show the world that Rome is capable of forgiveness.”
“A desire so foolish, only the emperor’s favorite whore could have it.”
“Another word of slander out of your mouth, and I will have your tongue removed!” You stood toe-to-toe with him.
He grinned like the devil, and just from your outburst alone, no matter how warranted it had been, he had you. Macrinus stepped away, looking around at the senators.
“Me thinks the little girl believes she is Marcus Aurelius himself born again.” He straightened his tone. “What say you, senators? All in favor of releasing a traitor to the Empire, speak.”
Not one of them said ‘aye’. If you weren’t under a sheer amount of duress, you would’ve seen perhaps a few faces of inner turmoil, debating on calling for Lucilla’s release.
Yet, no one said a word because they shared the one thing that will contribute to the death of humanity: Cowardice.
Macrinus tutted. “Now, dear Julia and I happen to have, through good fortune and not a little skill, the remaining emperor’s ear. We can speak reason in it and tame the madness in the street. Yet, I will leave the domestic work of calming the emperor to his second in command. As for myself, to restore order to Rome, I will need power over the affairs of the state. Including command of the Praetorian Guard. The decision is in your hands. Ballot or hand?”
One hand rose immediately. Another followed, then ten, then thirty, and then, all of them. He provided no evidence for his cause…yet there was a unanimous decision.
Macrinus held his hand out to you, and you could only stare up at him in question.
“I believe we shall take the seats that are rightfully ours.” He said lowly.
Carefully, you slipped your hand into his, and he led you up the stairs to sit upon the chair that belonged to Geta, while he took Caracalla’s.
This would be the first and the last time a woman ever sat upon the emperor’s throne.
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After being embarrassed that morning, you paced around your chambers. Perhaps you could have found Caracalla and gave him the same reasonings the senate did not listen to. Perhaps he could somehow see to the logic that would be in setting Lucilla free.
No, of course he wouldn’t. Even if his mind was sound, he still knew she was apart of the coup to try and have him dethroned; killed in his mind’s eye.
As your mind grew heavy with existential possibilities towards the future, the door to your chambers opened. Stopping where you stood, you watched as Macrinus entered.
“Now, try to make me understand this," he shook his head. "I let you have your vengeance on the man who used you as a slave, I promised you freedom, and yet you wasted it.”
You clenched your jaw. "How dare you-."
“-How dare I?” He tensed his voice. “How dare I keep silent about your lie? How dare I give you the privilege to take your revenge? I have saved you more than you believe I have harmed you, lady Julia."
The name had always bothered you, but with one emperor dead and the other incapacitated, you assumed it would stop.
Now, it only enraged you more; or perhaps that was just because it was Macrinus saying it.
You glared. “It was your own mistake to believe you were the only one who desired power.”
He took a deep breath, then moving to sit on your bed. “Sit beside me, Rome’s Delight; I have a story to tell you.”
“I am not a child, you may tell me in short.”
“You are not the only slave wishing to be free.” He pulled back the collar of his clothing, revealing a branded ‘M.A’ “You are lucky enough to not carry your master’s mark, but were a slave nonetheless. Marcus Aurelius spoke of peace while still using violence against those who served him.”
Swallowing your pride thickly, you said. “I’m sorry.”
“You have learned now, that is all that matters.”
“But Lucilla will still be dead.” You tried to keep your voice steady. “She wanted the emperors to be gone as much as you, but she will-."
“-Her father enslaved me.”
“Her father is dead; and if taking his empire wasn’t enough, than killing his last child will satisfy you?"
Macrinus clutched your arm, fingers tightening with every word. “I would be careful with how you speak to me. I wish to offer you one last ounce of kindness before I regret it. Now tell me, Brutus, will you accept me as Rome’s new emperor?”
You had all the right to say it was Caracalla, but you thought better of it. So, with the softening of your entire person, you nodded. “I accept you.”
He dropped your arm. “I’ll let you say goodbye this time.”
Macrinus led you down into the dungeons of the palace, and he was right; somehow it was more heavily guarded than the gladiator pit. Even when the worst of the worst prisoners sneered or jeered at you, your sorrow and anger could not stir your fear.
The door to one of the cells was open, and you ran in just as Lucilla turned to see you.
“Five minutes.” Was all Macrinus said before locking the door and leaving.
You embraced one another when he left. Neither of you said anything, just clung to each other as if the world itself would tear you apart.
“Forgive me, mother Lucilla.” You choked up.
Lucilla pulled away, taking your face into her hands. “Sweet child, there is nothing to forgive.”
“I failed you.” The tears finally came. “I was right there in the senate’s room, I-I told them the chaos that would befell Rome if-.”
“-You were in the senate’s room?” She sounded as if her breath had been stolen.
You nodded. “Yes, but they wouldn’t listen!”
“My dear girl,” she smiled. “if you were able to even get half a sentence in, than they listened! My father but sixteen years ago said that it was a shame I had been born a women, for I would have been a magnificent emperor. Yet, here you stand; you who had been once a slave, rose above into having a sear in the senate council.”
Still, no matter how much pride she held, your own shame outweighed it. “I still have failed you.”
“I have already accepted my fate.” She whispered. “I must take care of those who matter to me before I leave this earth.”
“Do not say such things!” You cried. “I’ll still find a way to save you.”
“Hanno is my son.”
You expected her to deny your attempts at rescuing her, you even expected her to coddle you, curse you…but this?
“What?” You uttered.
“He is Lucius Verus Aurulius,” she said gently. “second of his name, but the first son of Maximus Decimus Meridius.”
“The-the gladiator?” Was somehow the first question you asked.
“Yes.” She nodded. “Lucius didn’t run away, I sent him. With him as heir to the empire, I know many would not rest until he was dead. How was he to fight for a claim he knew nothing about? Now, he is here; and I am no longer frightened of dying.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to!”
She shushed you, combing her fingers through your hair. “I can speak to you until the earth is burnt by the sun of how I have made peace, but I know that will not work. So, I have two final requests for you.”
“Anything.”
Lucilla walked to the small desk she had in her cell, then picking up a scroll loosely wrapped in twine. She handed it to you. “My first is to give this to my son before tomorrow. It…explains a great deal of things I do not have the time to say to him.”
You took it, holding it to your heart. “And the second?”
She smiled, wrapping her arms around you and kissing the side of your head. “To take care of him as I intend him to take care of you.”
It was not the first time that day your eyes had grown. “He despises me.”
“If the gods are merciful, then I truly believe you will both come to see eye to eye as the only two who remain.”
“I nearly killed him.” You admitted. “The night before his duel with Acacius, I brought a knife with me and stabbed him; well…not enough to harm him.”
Lucilla shook her head, giggling. “He will need someone who disagrees with him.”
You found yourself laughing along with her, even through your sobs. She pulled away from you, wiping your tears. “He is a good man. He may deny it but believe me when I tell you.”
“I trust you.” You nodded.
She took a deep breath. “I will be with you, even when I’m gone.”
“I…I know.”
“Now go before I beg you to stay.”
You forced yourself away from her before you could change your mind. You could not even look at her as you left her cell and went up the hall. Just in time, you remembered to hide the scroll as Macrinus approached you.
“Leaving so soon?” He asked.
Sighing, you said. “She’s…inconsolable. I couldn’t bear another moment with her.”
Macrinus nodded. “You should rest for the remainder of the day. It has been quite exhausting.”
“Yes,” you agreed. “it certainly has.”
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It was the first time that night you were forced to sneak out of the palace on your own. Fortunately, you remembered the route you took to the Gladiator pit and managed to dodge any of the guards on patrol that night.
The pit proved to be more difficult as the overseers of it had less space to watch over, yet you still somehow managed to maneuver them.
Perhaps the gods were on your side.
“Hanno.” You whispered once you found his cell.
The man turned over his shoulder once he heard your voice and approached with a scowl. “What are you doing here?”
You wasted no time, holding out the scroll. “Your mother told me to give you this.”
He paused for only half a beat. “My mother died when-.”
“-Your mother is Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelias.” You whispered fiercely. “And you are Lucius, the lost son.”
His eyes didn’t leave yours as he reached down to the latch of the door, and cracked it opened. “Get inside.”
Though you wished to, you didn’t question how he had unlocked it and only walked in. He shut the door tightly, then took the scroll from you. You stood there as he unraveled it to read. His face changed every few seconds, ranging from distress to downright confusion. When he was finished, he looked at you.
“She gave this to you?” You nodded. “Why?”
“I was allowed to say goodbye to her.”
“From Macrinus?” He tested. “Was this before or after you attempted to steal his power?”
“I was cruel to you.” You admitted. “Even after discovering Acacius had pillaged your home and murdered your wife, I expected you to show mercy. I am astounded you did, but as I look back, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t. My desire for the general to live extends to your mother; if not more. She did not give up my name at any moment despite the fact I too was apart of the coup to try and overthrow the emperors. I cannot simply let her die.”
Lucius stared at you, his gaze intimidating yet at ease. He approached you. “You wish to save her life?”
“More than anything.”
“It is a rumor that Macrinus was the one to puppeteer Caracalla in slaying his brother. But…it wasn’t him, was it?”
Breathing deeply, you looked at the floor. “It was I.”
“Look at me.” He commanded softly, and you did. “Would you kill again if it meant protecting her?”
Your mind said ‘yes’ without a moment’s hesitation, but your heart only sunk into your stomach at the thought. It must have been apparent on your face, for he said.
“There is no shame if you are unable to.”
“I will be with him in the emperor’s box.” You said, determination in your eyes. “I will simply need you to buy me time in the arena. It shall be done.”
Lucius nodded, and released along breath before saying. "I treated you harshly. I...I don't believe I would have survived what you have been put through."
You picked at your fingers. "I think you would have."
"No." He solidified. "I wouldn't."
A silence fell between the two of you. There wasn't a hint of discomfort; as if, for the first time, you felt seen.
“You never told me your name.” Lucius uttered.
You pressed your lips together, shrugging. “It was never important.”
“It has been,” he said. “and it is now. You know my true name, if I am to understand you as how my mother wishes I do, then I must know yours.”
Your mouth parted to speak the first syllable, but even that had felt foreign. You instead lied. “I do not remember it.”
As he looked at you, the steely gaze you always knew began to disappear. “You must remember how it sounded from your mother’s mouth.”
“She died before she could hold me.”
“Then your father.” He walked closer to you, yet you felt no fear. “It does not matter if he was wretched or kind, he spoke your name and your name alone. What did it sound like?”
Like he loved you. Even when he was cross, he never raised his voice. You hated more than ever how tears started to build within your eyes.
“Geta had beaten me until I could no longer use it.” you confessed. “It will feel like poison upon my lips.”
“Then whisper it to me so you will scarcely have to move them.”
You had been lain down on a bed and had every bit of a man touch and invade your body. Even before the emperor, you had lain with people in the past of your choosing…
But none of that amounted to the intimacy you felt in that cell as Lucius stood nearly chest-to-chest with you, hovering his ear over your mouth as you finally (finally) spoke your name aloud.
If the heat of his body lingering over yours did not set your entire being aflame, it was the breath he released once he said.
“It’s a kind name.”
It was all too much for you, so you pulled away from him, drying your eyes. “I…I will pray for your safety.”
He outheld his hand to you. “Strength and honor.”
A saying you had overheard people use as they entered the stadium. You shook his hand. “Strength and honor.”
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You didn’t expect to be in the parade Caracalla raved about the day prior. Yet, there you were, draped in the finest and most colorful silks with jewelry in your hair. Inside your sleeve, you’d hidden the same kitchen knife you attempted to stab Lucius with.
You were sat beside Caracalla, who had Dundus upon his shoulder, and who had only grown more delusional since the day prior.
“Where is my brother?” He pulled on your sleeve like a child as you were escorted from the float and into the Colosseum.
A watery smiled pulled upon your lips, and you soothed him. “He feels most unwell today.”
“He should be here.” He sulked as you walked. “He would be happy for me.”
“And he is.” You lied. “You will see him again shortly.”
That managed to ease him, and you both were seated in the emperor’s box with Macrinus. It didn’t escape your vision how hundreds of Praetorians also circled the entire arena. As the time to the match grew closer, you did your best to calm your own nerves. This would be for the good of Rome. Once it was done, you would be able to rest easily again.
It was then you watched as, on one side of the Colosseum, a wagon was rolled out into the center of it. Tied to a pole, dressed up as if she were Venus herself, was Lucilla. All that attempt at soothing yourself was gone once you saw her eyes.
“Must we kill Lucilla?” Caracalla questioned.
You couldn’t even snidely repeat his question to Macrinus you were in such a state of anxiety. Macrinus responded.
“Until she is dead, you will never know peace.”
Thus, the event commenced. The announcer himself even sounded guilt-ridden as he spoke of the crimes Lucilla was being charged with. Treason, betrayal, all of it only anguished the spectators even more to see her being prepared for execution.
“Let it not be said that the Emperor is not merciful!” He yelled. “The queen will be granted a champion to defend her!”
Out from the other side of the arena came Lucius. Half of the Praetorians held their weapons to the man, while the other half faced the civilians as if expecting them to riot. Once again, at the sight of the scene before them, it would not surprise you.
You had been taught one a many myths by your father, mainly belonging to the Greeks. You were Cassandra; blessed by Apollo to speak of prophecies but cursed to not be believed.
When it seemed that hope was gone…Lucius rose his sword, and hundreds of gladiators sprinted from all sides.
The crowd and Caracalla were in an uproar at the excitement. Pandemonium ensued as the gladiators began to climb the barriers and civilians were attempting to enter the arena. The sound of arrows screaming entered your ears; so much so you could not hear what Macrinus was saying to another man, and why Caracalla was screaming.
You simply blinked, and once your eyes were open, you watched as Macrinus dove a needle into the side of Caracalla’s neck, killing him.
Only a gasp tore through your throat, having no ability to scream. Your body soon found reason to move, and you rose to your feet, remembering your duty. Macrinus had acquired a crossbow, aiming it towards Lucilla and Lucius now at the center of the arena.
You rose the knife from your sleeve, charging towards the man. The arrow was fired, and you leapt upon his shoulders.
He moved wildly, trying to force you off of him. You made attempt to slash his throat, but it made contact with his eye instead.
Still…he overpowered you. Flipping you over him, you dropped down into the arena, your head colliding with the ground.
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The sky was orange above you when you opened your eyes. Your head had never felt so awful before, and you were surprised you could even sit up. All around you, bodies littered the Colosseum floor. If there was not blood laid before you, there were swords and shields.
Your eyes drifted to the center, and now sunken to the floor, was Lucilla on her wagon. You forced yourself to stand and walk towards her.
When you could see the arrow sticking in her chest, you began to run.
Climbing atop the wagon, you untied the ropes around her hurriedly.
“Mother,” you begged. “mother, can you hear me?”
“I am still here, sweet child.” She whispered weakly.
“Save your energy now.” You managed to free her, and then pulled her to your lap.
“I will be seeing my beloveds now.” She smiled.
“No,” you hissed. “you are going to live.”
She reassured. “It is alright. I have fulfilled everything that was asked of me, and what I wished for.”
“Mother-!”
“-You will look after him, won’t you?”
You wanted to cry; you wished that sadness was the first thing you felt. But no, it was anger. Still, you nodded. “I will, but you will be there to make sure he takes care of me too!”
“He shall.” Was all she said.
“You will live, just please stop talking.”
“I love you.”
“Lucilla…” Your voice broke.
“Tell Lucius I would do this all again for him.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Lucilla rose her hand to your cheek, brushing it tenderly one last time.
Her eyes were held open as she went limp in your arms. You closed her eyelids, knowing her gaze would haunt you.
You did not move for the first hour, nor did you cry out in despair. It was when the sun was completely gone, and you tore yourself away from her corpse did you collapse into a fit of sobs.
The ugliest sounds were released from your mouth as you could barely stand. You do not know how long you cried, but when you could finally move again, you crawled to the nearest sword, and trailed it behind you before climbing back up onto the wagon.
You tied the rope from her body around her legs, and brought her back into your lap, sword in hand.
There was no rest for you that night. You would nearly drift off into sleep, but you couldn’t bring yourself to give in until you could bury her properly. You also couldn’t bring yourself to bury her at the same time.
When you had lost time altogether, and the sky was purple as twilight broke, a gentle hand shook you.
Raising the sword in surprise, you felt your body relax once you saw Lucius. You should have asked how he survived, what happened to Macrinus, anything else…but all you said was.
“I wouldn’t let anyone touch her.”
He nodded, tears threatening to fall as he gazed upon his dead mother. He took a deep breath. “May I take her?”
You handed her to him, and he took her into his arms. You scooted off the wagon, your eyes reddened and exhausted.
“Where,” you cleared your throat. “Where should she be buried?”
“I…” He heaved. “I know where my father’s grave is.”
“Okay.” Was all you managed.
And you walked by his side, neither of you knowing what your fate would befall in Rome.
Yet…once both slaves, you were now free.
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keeryhours · 8 months ago
Text
an heir for an emperor - emperor geta
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Emperor Geta x Empress! female! reader
Masterlist
Emperor Geta Masterlist
Summary:
The Emperor wants an heir.
part 2 out now!
Warnings:
Smut (18+), unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), major breeding kink, porn no plot
Word Count: 1.6k
A/N:
This is inspired by a character letter I got that I can’t stop thinking about. If this is historically incorrect I’m so sorry, I’m just horny as hell for this man.
It had been three blissful months of marriage with Geta.
The ruthless emperor was something different when he was alone with you. A side of him no one else was privileged to see. He was soft, affectionate, eyes only for you.
He knew you didn’t care for the bloodshed of the games, but he loved having you accompany him all the same. He would distract you when things got to be too much, holding your hand and even turning his attention away from the spectacle to comfort you if you needed it.
He couldn’t show his soft side in public often, but his love and adoration for you was obvious.
You enjoyed the finer things in life. You loved to attend the theatre, the plays and displays of beautiful music. Music was your favorite thing, and you loved to sing. Your singing voice was of the angels, as Geta would say, and oh how he loved to make you sing.
One thing both you and Geta were looking forward to was producing an heir. You had always wanted a family. You had felt the call of motherhood since you were a child, dreaming of the day you would marry and bear children. You hadn’t even fathomed of being an Empress, however.
You came from a rich family, and always knew you would marry highly, but Geta had been unexpected. The second he laid eyes on you, he knew you were to be his. You had no choice in the matter, but you would have chosen him a million times over anyway.
He had planned a romantic weekend getaway for the two of you alone, in one of his villas outside of the city. Leaving Rome in the hands of his brother and the Senate wasn’t ideal, but he wanted the chance to spend time with his beloved without interruption.
“You look divine, Carissima,” Geta remarked in adoration, his hands roaming the fabric of your tunic, gaze hungry. He pulled the fabric higher, lifting it up and over your body. “You will provide me with the most perfect heir.”
Naked before him, your nipples peaked among the cool air on your body, Geta dipping his head to take one of your nipples in his mouth. He sucked on it, tongue running over the sensitive bud. You moaned, hand resting on the back of his head. He moved to the other, giving it equal attention.
He lay you gently down on the bed, before removing his own clothing and moving over top of you. His crown still sat atop his ginger locks, and he looked as regal as ever, bared to you and cock achingly hard, all for you.
“I never imagined I would have such a luminous beauty as my wife,” he hummed, lips trailing along the skin of your neck. “Never could I have imagined a beauty like yours existed. You are sent from the gods themselves.”
“As are you, my beloved,” you said, eyes falling closed at the feeling of your husband’s lips upon your body. “You are more than I ever could have hoped for.”
Geta smiled tenderly, before pressing his lips to yours. You kissed him back eagerly, hands sliding around his shoulders. His skin was warm beneath your palms, your innocent touch making him impossibly harder against your thigh. His tongue slid across your bottom lip, and you let him inside, tongues dancing together.
He rested his weight on one arm while the other roamed the soft skin of your side, making you shiver beneath his touch. “Magnificent,” he remarked purely to himself. “Beautiful.”
He pulled away from you, sitting on his knees as he spread your legs for his view. You took in the visage of your Emperor before you, looking regal as ever as he gazed down at your core like it was his next meal.
“Just a taste, Carissima, before I fill you,” he said, moving down between your legs. You gasped as you felt his tongue against your pussy, licking up to your clit, where he sucked gently, causing your back to arch off the bed.
“Geta-!”
He hummed in appreciation, a smirk felt against you as he continued to devour you, lapping up all your slick like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. You moaned loudly - no one would be able to hear you here, you were in Geta’s private villa far from the bustle of the city. It was the most uninhibited you had felt as you let the proof of how good your Emperor made you feel fill the air.
“That’s it, my love, sing for me,” Geta praised you, before dipping his tongue into your hole, driving you mad. You grabbed onto his hair as you felt your orgasm approaching, needing to hold onto something. Geta chuckled lowly as he grabbed onto your thighs, keeping your legs spread wide for him.
“I’m…I’m…”
“I know, darling, let go for me,” He said, moving back up to pay special attention to your clit once more. The harsh suck he left on the sensitive bud sent you over the edge, and you were cumming hard, grinding against his face as he moaned and eagerly licked up all you gave him.
When he rose from between your legs, his mouth and chin glistened with your wetness. He looked absolutely sinful. He wrapped his hand around his cock, rings glittering on his fingers. He pumped himself a few times as he looked down at your already-wrecked body.
“I’m going to fill you with my seed so deeply, my love. Over and over again until it takes, until I get to see your belly round and full with my heir.”
You wanted that more than anything, the idea making your heart race in your chest. You felt his tip prodding at your entrance, and he leaned over your body again as he pushed inside.
It had only been three months, so you were still getting used to the intrusion of him when you’d lay together like this. You squeezed your eyes shut, fingers digging into the strong muscle of his biceps.
“You can take it, my love. So good for me - gods, so tight and hot.” He began a slow pace, mindful of letting you adjust to the size of him. He groaned beautifully as he began thrusting into you, and you were struck with how lucky you were to see your Emperor like this, so open and vulnerable, face contorted in pleasure because of you.
“Are you ready for me to move faster?” he asked, voice strained from holding back his true desire. The Emperor pleaded with no one, but his eyes told a different story.
“Yes, please,” you breathed, now that the pain has faded you wanted, needed more. “Please, Geta, need you to fill me.”
Geta groaned loudly, hips stuttering against you as he picked up his pace. He was truly fucking you now, left hand gripping your hip to hold you where he wanted you as he pounded into you. “I will do just that, Carissima, fill you so deeply with my heir. I wish to see you, glowing and beautiful with child. I will hold games in your honor.”
He pressed his lips to yours once again, kissing you deeply, showing you just how much he loved you with his body. Between the feeling of his glorious cock pressing deeply inside of you, pressing against that perfect spot he reached every time.
“You are magnificent,” he moaned, regal head thrown back on his shoulders, muscles clenching as he fought off his release. “Divine. Miraculous. All mine.”
Your eyes rolled back in your head as you writhed beneath his movements, and he moved his free hand to caress the side of your face. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, my Emperor,” you said, returning all the affection in his gaze.
“Need to feel you cum for me, my love,” he said, hips picking up speed as his own release approached rapidly. He moved to grip your thigh around his waist, moving into you at a new angle that had you seeing stars.
You cried out as your second orgasm hit, and Geta smiled cockily, knowing he was the only one who could bring you such pleasure, the only one privileged to see you like this, falling apart on his cock for him.
“Oh gods, Geta, yes-!”
“That’s it, my love, let me hear you,” Geta rasped out, his own release hitting him seconds later. “Take me, my beloved, take all of my seed! Gods yes, let me fill you, take it all,” he rambled on as he shot ropes of his hot cum deep inside you, pushing in as deep as possible to not waste a drop.
He stayed buried inside you as you both caught your breath. His strong chest was heaving with his heavy breaths, and he tenderly combed his fingers through your hair, looking at you with such love it made your heart stutter in your chest.
When he pulled out, he looked between your legs, gathering up his release that had spilled out of you with his fingers and pressing it back inside. “Cannot afford to waste a drop, Carissima,” he told you with a smile.
You giggled, totally blissed out from the pleasure he had just provided you. He lay his naked body on the bed next to you, resting his hand on your stomach.
“I truly cannot wait to see you carrying my heir,” he mused quietly, fingers rubbing circles into the skin of your abdomen, as if he were picturing it. “Our child.”
“Neither can I,” you told him, a blissful smile on your face.
“I would do this over and over again, as many times as it takes.”
You laughed, snuggling against the side of your Emperor. “I know you would.” You hummed, fingers trailing over the taut skin of his muscular chest. “I love you.”
“And I you, my beloved.”
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trulyumai · 8 months ago
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Leaving Behind Gold
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—Pairing: Emperor Geta / Wife! Reader
—Synopsis: Fed up with Geta's priorities, you attempt to leave his side. Only, Geta isn't ready to let you go, and is ready to get vulnerable to get you to stay.
—Warnings: Slight angst, Geta getting nervous and breaking down.
A/N: I’m only posting geta content are y’all sick of it yet? im sorry in advanced there will be more
The moment you step through the palace halls with your packed satchel, it feels like the air around you is a trap—heavy, stifling, suffused with the weight of the decision you've made. Leaving Geta is the hardest thing you’ve ever done, but his obsession with Rome has left no room for you. Your heart clenches as you pass the door to his chambers, but you keep walking, steadying your breath.
He finds you almost immediately.
You hear his voice before you see him, a frantic bark cutting through the quiet corridors. “Where is she?” Servants scatter at the sound of his tone, their whispers falling to silence as his heavy steps echo closer.
Your pulse quickens, and instinct takes over. You veer left, ducking into the library, your sanctuary within the palace—a place where he seldom disturbs you. Slamming the door shut, you throw the latch into place, your chest heaving. The silence presses in around you, broken only by your ragged breaths.
Then comes the pounding.
“Open this door!”
His voice is a snarl, wild and guttural. The sound of his fists against the heavy wood is thunderous, shaking the frame.
“Wife, youre being foolish. Do we really want to cause a scene, hm?”
You press yourself against the far wall, heart racing as you clutch the satchel to your chest. “Go away Geta! You can’t stop me from leaving!”
The words only seem to inflame him further. His pounding grows erratic, each strike like a storm battering the door. “You don’t get to decide such a thing!” he roars. “You’re my wife. You’re mine!”
“Yours?” you spit back, your voice trembling. “I was yours once, but you’ve given every piece of yourself to Rome. There’s nothing left for me!”
There’s a pause, a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the door, and then his voice drops—a low, desperate rasp. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.”
You hear him press his forehead against the door, his voice cracking. And then it all comes out.  
“I love you, do you hear me? I love you more than anything. More than Rome, more than the gods themselves. You’re the only thing keeping me sane, and if you leave... if you leave...”
The silence stretches, filled only by the sound of his labored breathing. Then his voice returns, hoarse and broken. “I can’t survive without you.”
Your resolve falters, your hand trembling as it rests on the satchel. “Then why do you make me feel like I’m second to everything else?”
He pounds the door again, his desperation boiling over. “Because I’m a fool! A stupid, blind fool who thought Rome would give me purpose—but it’s you. It’s always been you!”
His voice cracks, and you hear him sink to his knees outside the door, his fists slapping weakly against the wood. “Please,” he begs, his tone raw and unrecognizable. “Please don’t leave me. I’ll tear the empire apart if it means keeping you by my side. Just—just open the door. Let me see you.”
Your hand hovers over the latch, your mind warring with your heart. You hear him slump against the door, defeated. “You said you were mine,” he murmurs, barely audible now. “But you’re wrong. I’m yours. I’ve always been yours.”
Tears streak your face as you press your forehead against the cool wood. “Then prove it, Geta. Prove that I matter more than Rome.”
For a moment, there’s silence. Then his voice, soft but resolute: “I will.”
Your fingers tremble as they slide the latch back. The door creaks, revealing him.
Geta is on his knees, slumped forward, his shoulders shaking. His face is flushed, streaked with tears, his hair disheveled as though he’s been clawing at it in anguish. When his bloodshot eyes find yours, a sound escapes him—a choked, desperate sob that makes your chest tighten. His lips part as though to speak, but they wobble, and no words come.
He’s utterly wrecked.
And it breaks you.
Your satchel falls to the ground, forgotten, as you step toward him. His hands lift weakly, reaching for you, but it’s you who sinks down, wrapping your arms around his trembling form. He freezes for a moment, as though he doesn’t believe it’s real, but then his arms encircle you with crushing strength, pulling you into his chest.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers hoarsely, over and over, his breath hot against your hair. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been such a fool.”
His words dissolve into quiet sobs as you clutch him tighter, burying your face in his neck. “I thought I’d lost you.” he murmurs, his voice still unsteady. “I can’t—I… You’re my everything. You and my child, dear wife,  I swear it to you, here and now. Nothing will ever come before my family again. Not Rome, not anything. Just... don’t leave me.”
You pull back just enough to cup his face, your thumbs brushing over his tear-streaked cheeks. His eyes meet yours, wide and shimmering with a vulnerability you’ve never seen before. “I don’t want promises, Geta,” you say softly. “I want you. Not Rome’s Geta. Not the emperor. Just... you.”
“You have me,” he says, his voice breaking as he presses his forehead against yours. “You’ve always had me.”
And in that moment, you believe him.
There’s a pause, before Geta’s voice breaks through the air.
“Do you… think I'll be a good father?” The emperor's gaze lingers on the back wall, not moving or lingering on your now watchful figure.
“I think,” with a soft kiss to his temple the man leans in, intently listening. “You’ll be the father you always wanted to be.” 
Geta hummed, his ringed fingers carrasses your side. “I want to be kind. Nothing like my father. A drunken excuse of a man.” He spat. 
Catching his face in the palms of your hands, you sighed and began to litter his face in little kisses. One on the cheek, two on each brow. 
“Then you shall be, my husband.” 
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