#Publius Septimius Geta/Original Character(s)

[kirikorik]

Dawn over Rome

Emperor Geta / OC (Helena - Acacia's daughter)

Part1! Part2! Part3! Part4...

Summary: "General Acacius has fallen," exclaims Emperor Geta. "But he left us the most precious thing he had—his daughter! The sun of our Rome!" If the road leads to the abyss, only a madman would walk it with submission. But does a prisoner have the right to choose? "In the name of peace, I shall take his daughter as my lawful wife!" Peace is merely a word behind which violence hides. Oaths sworn in blood do not smell of blessing but of a curse. "Smile, my little bird, you are to bear the emperor's child," a warm, sticky whisper. "And remember, your whore of a mother is still alive." She is his. She will be his. Just as the sun belongs to the sky, just as fire devours wood, so too was Helena made to burn for him alone…

DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18+!

Warnings: Forced Marriage, Rape, Rough Sex, Possessive Behavior, Obsession, Sex Dubious, Consent Mildly Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Vaginal Sex, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, public sex, Sexual Overstimulation, Depression, Angst, Drama, Blood and Violence, Unrequited, Love, Sexual Content, Complicated Relationships, Sexism, Sexual Inexperience, Cruelty, Feelings, Possessive Sex, Pregnancy, Forced Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Breeding.

Dawn

With the first rays of the sun enveloping Rome in golden radiance, the Colosseum awakens to life. The rays flow down the marble walls, spreading over the stones like molten gold. The air is heavy with the scent of blood, dust, and oil from the torches still smoldering after the night's riot.

The crowd hums, its shouts and murmur blending into a single rhythm, like the sea crashing against rocks. Waves of voices break again and again against the walls of the Colosseum, rolling in echoes through the ancient stones, filling every crack, every curve of the stands. The air trembles with tension. The scent of fear, sweat, and sun-heated blood intertwines with the aroma of resinous torches, spilled cheap wine, and the stench of drains. This is the pulse of the city, its thirst, its beastly grin.

Its eternal hunger.

But now comes a moment of silence—fleeting, deceptive. Like a beast, pausing for a moment before the leap. Thousands of heads lean forward at once, catching the breath of power. Some lips are parted in anticipation, others clenched like those of cornered dogs.

Rome smells of decay. Not just of rotten meat and sewage but of human flesh—the sickly-sweet, warm scent of blood seeping into stone, sand, and palace walls. It clings to the skin, penetrates the pores, saturates the hair. Even the haughty patricians, wrapping themselves in fresh togas, cannot escape it. They pour perfumes over it in vain, but Rome always betrays itself.

The life of the Colosseum is the smell of charred flesh, screams, sweat, and the perspiration of fear. It is the fat flies swarming over fresh corpses, settling on dried crimson stains embedded in the stone. It is the crowd roaring, rushing like jackals sensing prey. And the Colosseum feeds them. Feeds them meat, feeds them spectacle, throws the dead under their feet so the people may chew on this pain until nothing remains but bone dust.

It is also taste. The salty tang clinging to the lips. The bitterness of ash covering the stands. The weight of hundreds of breaths, mixed in a single frenzy. The spectacle is the food they consume, flesh and death their bread and wine. They chew these moments, grind destinies, stuff their mouths with another’s agony, not realizing they themselves become part of it.

Beside two elevated thrones, adorned with carvings, golden plates, and lions, stands a girl. Her long honey-golden hair falls over her shoulders, cascading down her back. The wind plays with it like silk ribbons. Her porcelain skin pales, and her green eyes, fixed on the arena—on the very place where her father’s lifeless body had recently lain—fill with tears once more.

She does not move. Only breathes. Raggedly, intermittently, like a fish thrown ashore. Her temples throb, her chest tightens. Dead air. This air is not for breathing; it is for drowning. It fills the lungs with heaviness, makes every movement sluggish, every thought viscous. It seeps inside, settles in the chest, grips the throat like an invisible hand. And no one will be saved. Because there is no fresh air in the Colosseum. Even the wind here smells of death.

General Acacius was a valiant warrior, a defender of Rome, a man whom the people loved and begged to be spared. The Romans pleaded for mercy. But the emperors pronounced their verdict, and the voice of the Gods, as Geta himself said, was inexorable.

"Only the Gods are given the right to decide fates," he whispered before his clenched fist rose into the air, and he lowered his thumb downward. Execute.

Now the people are furious. They shout, they murmur, their voices rumbling like thunder before a storm. But no one will leave. No one will abandon this theater of death. They will watch, even if their hearts tighten with horror. Even if someone clamps their mouth shut, suppressing vomit. They will not look away, because Rome craves spectacle, and blood is its greatest entertainment.

Emperor Geta only smiles. Narrowly, predatorily. Like a beast locked in a cage, who suddenly realized: the cage is not real. This whole crowd belongs to him. Their anger is laughable, their cries pathetic. They will growl, howl, screech, but in the end—they will bow. They always bow, as if he and his brother were Gods.

Lucilla is dead too.

Lucius, Lucilla’s son, perished in the darkness of night. He did not even have time to understand what was happening when the guards found him among the gladiator cages, dead with his throat slit, unarmed. The news reached Helena through her servant, Jnessa, and her heart collapsed at that moment, as if Death itself had whispered her name—within a few hours, the emperors summoned her to service.

Now Helena is alone. The last of those who once lived under the sky of old Rome. And now her life, like her father’s once, hangs by a thin thread, torn by the cruel hands of power.

And his voice, when he begins to speak, sounds as if Jupiter himself is speaking:

"People of Rome!" the emperor exclaims, raising his hands to the rising sun, and the crowd suddenly falls silent. "We hear your anger, your pain. We hear your cry for justice!"

And the crowd regains its noise—Geta only needs to pause for a moment. But he immediately raises his head again with confidence, his eyes gleaming—madness swirls in them, and something else—ancient, primal, as if he is either the conduit of a will or merely a madman allowed to rule by equally insane people.

"But is it not the Gods who are meant to decide the fate of mortals? Are we, mere mortals, able to argue with their will?!" he sweeps his gaze over the ranks of his people, and silence spreads through the Colosseum like dark wine in a silver cup. "General Acacius has fallen, and his blood has washed this land." Others do not hear the fleeting, barely perceptible click—a smirk. But Helena stands too close to ignore the sound. "But the general left us the most precious thing he had—his daughter! The Sun of our Rome!"

Geta pronounces this with relish. He savors the words like a sweet fig, crushing them with his tongue, filling the air with them. "The Sun"—he nearly purrs, like a cat that has caught a bird.

"You wanted blood? You shall have it," his voice rolls across the square. "You seek justice? You shall have it!"

Helena grows cold. Her fingers clench into fists, nails digging into her skin. She knows him. She knows his gaze, knows that crooked, cruel smile. Once, in childhood, he had taken her hand, leading her through the marble corridors of the palace. Back then, his touch was different.

Does he want to kill her? Worse.

"In the name of peace, so that the sacrifice is not in vain," Emperor Geta’s voice cuts through the air like the tip of a dagger, "I shall take the daughter of General Acacius as my lawful wife! In three weeks, at the sunset of the next month, she shall become—Augusta of Rome!"

The crowd gasps. Some begin to shout in fury, others murmur in confusion. The people sway like a great wave that is about to either crash upon the shore or retreat. The anger does not disappear—it transforms. It compresses into bewilderment, into heated debates, into a search for logic in this madness.

Geta slowly raises his hands. Let them see him. Let the sun cast its glow upon his reddish hair, let the purple of his toga, heavy and solemn, be remembered by all. Let this moment remain in their memory—the moment he bent the people of Rome to his will.

He smiles. Calmly. Slightly mockingly. But his eyes are wild, insane.

"I hear your anger," he says, and his voice is full of cold majesty. "Your hearts boil, for blood has been spilled!"

He steps forward, spreads his hands as if revealing the cosmos before them.

"Blood is pain. Blood is sacrifice. Blood is the price we pay for order! I do not deny my deed. But I will not allow the death of the great traitor-general to divide us! I will not allow his name to become mere ashes in the wind!"

Geta pauses, letting the crowd absorb his words. Then he speaks, each syllable echoing:

"For such is the law of fate: what is destroyed must be reunited. The blood of General Acacius’ daughter and mine shall merge into one. His spirit will live in my heirs. I do not reject him—I will make him a part of me, a part of Rome! And let the Sun of the Empire rise above us!"

And then the sound. One voice, foreign, elevated, yet commanding, like a hammer blow. The words flow, penetrate ears, sink into hearts. And then—the first movement. Someone’s fingers nervously clutch the edge of a toga, someone gasps for air, and then... an explosion. A wave of voices crashes over the Colosseum, a roar shatters the air like stones tumbling down a cliff.

A new empress. The daughter of the man whom Geta himself condemned to death.

Helena freezes, feeling her world crumble. And the guards suddenly push her forward, forcing her to step toward the emperor. The fabric of her long blue dress catches on her sandal, and she nearly falls.

Geta yanks her to him. He moves slowly, like a predator playing with its prey. There is something lazy, unhurried in his gait, but beneath it lies sharpness, cunning. He stretches this moment, prolongs it, like a spider savoring the agony of its victim. Geta drinks in the moment, absorbs her fear like wine that gives him strength.

He has already tasted her despair, and now he merely savors it.

Golden fire dances in his eyes. His lips are wet from wine, his breath warm, with a spicy bitterness. He smirks, allowing himself to examine her up close. He watches how tears glisten on her lashes, how her lips tremble. In this, there is power. His power.

The scent of his body is thick, rich. Frankincense, wine, honey, salt, skin—he smells like a feast, like a sacrifice to the gods. His fingers wrap around Helena’s waist, and she feels his strength—rough, insatiable. He holds her as if sinking his teeth into her, as if carving his name into her flesh.

His face is frighteningly close. His lips slide along her temple, hot breath scorching her skin. He grabs Helena tightly under the ribs, like an iron hoop, his fingers digging into her body, forcing her to freeze from the pain. She feels her bones almost crack under his grip.

"You're trembling, meus sol," (my sun) - his voice is low, hissing, like a snake slithering across the sand.

His eyes are burning. The black ring of his dilated pupils blurs the crimson color of his iris, eclipsing it, like night extinguishes day. He looks at Helena too intently, too hungrily — like someone who already considers something his own. Geta inhales the air near her face, as if testing it. And he gets drunk.

She is his. She will be his. Just like the sun belongs to the sky, like fire consumes wood, so Helena was created to burn only for him. For now — unreachable, like the morning light that slides over stones, not allowing itself to be caught. But soon… Soon he will tear her from the heavens and make her burn only for him.

His hand slides across her shoulder, feeling the fabric of the tunic, the crumpled cloth from the struggle that sticks to her body. The thin linen soaked with sweat, clinging to her skin, accentuating the shape of her breasts, the curve of her hips. Geta slowly traces his fingers across the folds.

"Are you afraid? Or angry?"

Helena’s breath catches, but he catches the sound. He catches her fear. He drinks it, savoring it, like sweet Falernian honey. He is used to fear. He has been fed by it since childhood. People fear him. Women fear him. But no one dares to run. Not even her.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she breathes out barely audible.

Helena jerks, but he tightens his grip, pulling her closer, so that there is no space left between their bodies. Beneath him — flesh, alive, alert. She breathes deeper, sensing his essence — meat, vanity, power, which has soaked him through like oil — wool. Geta feels her breath, not moving.

Her wrist is in his palm, and he raises her arm, like proclaiming victory. Her body no longer belongs to her. It belongs to his hands, his strength, his whim. Even the air she breathes seems heated by his breath. Geta holds her tightly, as if afraid she will fall apart under his fingers. Or maybe he wants to hear her crack.

"Glory to the Empire! Glory to Rome!" he exclaims. His hand, gripping Helena’s shoulder, slowly slides down to her thin wrist. The touch is hot, as if he just dipped his fingers in blood.

Cries explode through the air. Helena gasps, tears burning her eyes. Geta bends close to her ear, his breath brushing her skin.

The crowd roars her name, their filthy mouths desecrating his property. They reach out to her, longing to touch, to steal even a drop of her light. Their rotting teeth, sweaty fingers, their hoarse voices… Pitiful, insignificant worms daring to desire his sun! He will burn them from her memory, erase every one who dares to think she does not belong only to him.

Fingers sink into her skin. Her heart beats, but not in flight — in the painful realization that between disgust and something darker runs a thin, shiny, predatory thread.

His eyes glide over her face, tearing it apart with his gaze.

"Fool," he exhales. "You think you can just turn away?"

He touches her cheek with his lips, like a snake testing the air. Slowly, barely perceptibly. But enough for her to feel how repulsive his kiss is. Crimson petals swirl in the air, like drops of spilled blood. Thousands of them, tens of thousands — they fall from the upper tiers, settling on the stones, on the heads, on the shoulders of the gathered. Beneath their feet, they mix with the sand, and it feels like the entire arena is drowning in a crimson sea.

"Smile, my little bird, you are to bear the emperor's child," a warm, sticky whisper. "And remember, your whore of a mother is still alive."

Geta pulls back, but does not leave. He enjoys the moment. He wants to see how fear is born in Helena’s eyes, how it twists inside her, how she fights, resists, only to give in afterward. He wants that taste — the taste of victory, the taste of power, the taste of revenge on her.

Helena lifts her gaze, forces a smile, but her eyes speak otherwise. But from this distance, no one can tell what she's thinking.

Geta tightens his grip on her fingers. He presses the back of her hand to his lips, intertwining their fingers. His eyes — two dark abysses that want to consume her entirely. His fingers slide, feeling the protruding bones. Too fragile. Too brittle. But something about this pleases him. Isn't it beautiful, what can break?

The crowd roars. The Colosseum thirsts for blood once again.

Helena feels his nails digging into her wrist, leaving crescent-shaped marks of pain. He doesn't let go. Even when she tries to break free — he enjoys it. She feels it in how his breath trembles, how his fingers tighten, how he savors this fleeting resistance.

Geta lowers his gaze to her neck. The skin is pale, tender, taut with tension. Already, the marks of his touch are visible. He slowly traces his finger along the line of her shoulder blades, wrapping his hand around her neck from behind. He feels how quickly her heart beats, how it pounds beneath his hand. His lips slowly curl into a grin.

And over this chaos, over the screams and roars, dawn continues to scatter its brilliance. The sun rises higher, its honeyed rays glide over the ancient stones, penetrating every crack, spreading gold over the blue folds. The wind stirs the thin fabric, as if trying to rip it off and carry it away, away from this prison. But is there a glimmer of hope in this light? Or is it just an illusion — a lie before another fall into darkness?

Part1! Part2! Part3! Part4...

I don't know English. Maybe there are a lot of mistakes. ♡♡♡

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[kirikorik]

Dawn over Rome

Emperor Geta / OC (Helena)

Part1! Part2 ! Part3...

Summary: “General Acacius has fallen,” exclaims Emperor Geta. “But he left us the most precious thing he had—his daughter! The sun of our Rome!” If the road leads to the abyss, only a madman would walk it with submission. But does a prisoner have the right to choose? “In the name of peace, I shall take his daughter as my lawful wife!” Peace is merely a word behind which violence hides. Oaths sworn in blood do not smell of blessing but of a curse. “Smile, my little bird, you are to bear the emperor's child,” a warm, sticky whisper. “And remember, your whore of a mother is still alive.” She is his. She will be his. Just as the sun belongs to the sky, just as fire devours wood, so too was Helena made to burn for him alone…

DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18+!

Warnings: Forced Marriage, Rape, Rough Sex, Possessive Behavior, Obsession,Sex Dubious, Consent Mildly Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Vaginal Sex, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, public sex,Sexual Overstimulation, Depression, Angst, Drama, Blood and Violence, Unrequited, Love, Sexual Content, Complicated Relationships, Sexism, Sexual Inexperience, Cruelty, Feelings, Possessive Sex, Pregnancy, Forced Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Breeding.

Chapter 2

The Day Before the Verdict

The hot Roman air is thick and motionless, saturated with the scents of dust, sweat, and blood. The scent of death. The Colosseum lives and breathes like a beast. Its stone teeth bite into the sky, while within its depths, a crowd seethes, hungry for spectacle.

The hum of voices, laughter, shouts, the clinking of cups, and the hoarse melody of a flute merge into a single rhythm—oppressive, all-pervading. The smell of roasted meat from food vendors mixes with the aroma of rose oil, which the patricians lavishly pour onto their wrists. But even in this whirlpool of scents and sounds, one pierces to the bone—the smell of blood. Raw, heavy, sticky.

Helena steps forward. Her back remains straight, but her heart beats too loudly. A gown of ivory, embroidered with golden threads, flows softly over the marble floor, accentuating her slender figure. A light, transparent cape, perfumed with myrrh and saffron, rests on her shoulders. But even these fragrances cannot mask the stench of decay soaked into the walls.

Beside her walks Lucilla. Her toga, adorned with silver-embroidered eagles, sways gently with each step, and golden bracelets chime on her wrists. Her face remains impassive, but the fingers clutching the fabric betray her tension.

“Smile, child,” she murmurs barely audibly, without turning her head. “Do not let him defeat you before the battle even begins.”

Helena does not answer. She knows who awaits her ahead. For six years, he had been nothing but a name, a shadow in her memory. But now she is here. And he has suddenly become real. Tangible.

Glancing at the floor, Helena suddenly recalled their first meeting…

A secular evening in the imperial palace was noisy: the clinking of glasses and laughter—pure and childish or muffled and adult. The summer air was thickly saturated with the aromas of blooming jasmine, wine vapors, and expensive oils with which the noble guests were anointed. Between the columns, the lights of torches flickered, casting trembling reflections on gilded garments.

While the adults immersed themselves in conversations and conspiracies, the children played in the inner courtyard under the watchful eyes of nannies and guards.

Eight-year-old Geta sat on a bench by the fountain, tense, sullen, pressing his lips together. He felt irritation—nasty, like the stale smell of sweat on a hot day. Children always disgusted him: they were noisy, fussy, intrusive. Their sticky hands, dirty clothes, the way they would cling, tug, try to please. He despised them. All of them, except his brother.

Caracalla sat nearby, accepting attention with pleasure. Both of them were adorned with jewelry like temples on a festive day: gold bracelets, chains, expensive fabrics. Their thick, red hair, like autumn leaves, shone in the firelight.

Parents taught all the children that they had to befriend the emperor's sons, but whom to choose? No one could decide, so they tried to please both at once.

Geta hated it. He noticed how some boys would approach him first, then hurry over to Caracalla, how the girls giggled, flattered, but their glances darted between the brothers.

His brother, already surrounded by several children, spoke loudly, laughed. It was easier for others to befriend Caracalla—to dig in the dirt rather than stare at a sullen face, not to wonder when Geta would grimace at the sight of dirt under children's nails or on their faces. Geta was gloomier, more withdrawn, and everything happening around him annoyed him. He preferred the company of adults, but he never left his brother’s side.

And then he noticed her.

His gaze caught on a small, fragile girl. He had never seen her before. And most importantly—she was not hovering around them, not trying to get his attention, not ingratiating herself. She sat among other girls, weaving a wreath. Boys bustled around her—some, bolder, tugged at her hair, some peered into her bright green eyes, some simply laughed nearby. Her golden strands gleamed even in the twilight. They were bright as the sun, like golden rays on marble. And the girl seemed to them something light, warm, special. But Geta saw that she was completely smeared—her dress stained with grass, her hands dirty, leaves tangled in her hair, and a dark smudge on her cheek—perhaps dirt, perhaps the remains of a sweet fruit.

She laughed, and that laughter cut into his ears.

The emperor’s son watched intently as the girl, tilting her head, twisted stems into neat patterns. He didn’t like that others surrounded her, didn’t like that she laughed—not with him. He was angry at the stranger without understanding why.

And when her wreath was ready, one of the children pushed her forward. Geta watched as she stepped closer and then stopped between him and his brother. She lifted her eyes, deciding—Caracalla, who smiled at her, or Geta, who frowned, watching from under his brows. She lingered on the first, but then, without further hesitation, stepped toward the second.

Geta froze, lips slightly parted.

She chose him.

She did not walk between them, did not try to please both, did not glance at the others. She simply held out the wreath to him, with her small palms.

Geta did not move. His hands remained folded, his face tense. He was not used to children giving him anything. Everything he had, he received because he was the emperor’s son. Because people sought his favor, because they wanted something from him, while he wanted nothing from them.

But the girl, unknown to him before, simply looked at him, asking for nothing. And then something flared in his chest—unpleasant, sticky, like honey dripping behind his collar. And this feeling spread vilely inside him.

She chose him. Only him.

"A gift," the girl said softly.

She was still very small, clearly a few years younger than him. Her height didn’t allow her to reach, so she rose onto her toes and, not waiting for the emperor’s son to take the wreath himself, carefully placed it on his head. Geta caught the scent of fresh flowers and, without noticing, leaned slightly toward her.

"Only for you," the golden-haired girl repeated firmly.

Geta heard one of the adults huff, the servants whisper. But he did not take his eyes off her, struck by the fact that, for the first time in his life, someone had chosen him just like that. Not out of fear, not because of power, not because they had to.

Again, Geta did not know how to react. Something inexplicable boiled in his chest. And the girl suddenly, just as he reached out to help her climb onto the bench—allowing someone to sit beside him for the first time—jumped back and, laughing loudly, dashed back to the children.

"What’s your name?" burst out before he could think.

"Helena!" she called over her shoulder, not stopping.

Her name is light, flame and fire.

Geta watched her, unbelieving. How could this be? She chose him—so now she must stay near! She couldn’t just leave! And jumping up from the bench, he took a step after her—but stopped. Froze.

Helena must stay close now. She must be his.

Geta was used to everything he wanted ending up in his hands. Toys, treats, attention, praise. Everything was for him. He only had to reach out—and he received. But now? Now Helena had smiled at him, given him a wreath, and ran off, as if he were nobody, as if her choice meant nothing.

Geta clenched his fists. This feeling, constricting him from within, was new. Childish, yet fierce, like a child who had suddenly been denied his favorite toy. For the first time in his life, he didn’t get something immediately. And for the first time in his life, he wanted something so badly.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the boy trudged after her, unable to let Helena go. Not understanding, but already feeling—that now, she must belong only to him…

Geta saw her immediately.

He was hiding in the shadows of the massive colonnade, dressed in a purple toga lined with fine fabrics, fastened with golden clasps. His strong arms were crossed over his chest, and his dark eyes, deep as whirlpools, watched her. And when he began to walk, the crowd parted before him, as if fate itself was weaving a path for him.

Helena entered the spacious hall, and the firelight reflected in her golden hair, playing like sparks in her spring-leaf-colored eyes. "The Sun and Joy of the Empire"—that was the name she had earned over the years.

Geta took a step closer. His smile was slow, lazy. But there was something dangerous in it.

"Well, hello, meus sol," his voice was deep, thick, like warm honey. "I have waited for you for so long, my little bird. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you, heard your voice, imagined you before me. And now, at last, you are here. Just as I remember you… even more beautiful."

It is vulgar. It is wrong. This should not be.

But he is the Emperor.

Geta reached out his hand, and before Helena could recoil, he leaned in, his fingertips brushing against her cheek. A light touch—like silken cobwebs, but behind it lay something commanding. He smirked. There was something hungry, dark in his eyes, yet admiring at the same time.

"I thought you would smile at me, as you used to, when you ran to meet me in the garden," a note of disappointment flickered in his voice. Geta leaned in playfully, just a little closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Did you not miss me? Admit it, little bird, you did, didn’t you?"

Helena jerked away. Her chest rose with anger, her eyes flashed like lightning. She looked at him as if he were a stranger, an enemy.

And suddenly, Geta realized—this was not the girl he remembered. The one who laughed beside him, admired his stories, chased sunbeams on the marble walls—she was left behind in her ancestral home, where she grew up under her father’s wing. But this Helena—this one was different.

She hated him. And she was right to.

"Do not touch me," her voice was as cold as the steel of Roman blades. But then, suddenly, she huffed, curling her lips into a mocking smile. "Or has my Emperor forgotten that he sentenced my father to death?"

She stepped forward sharply, and Geta stopped breathing. He had expected anger, fear—but not this defiance.

"You dragged us into this nightmare. And you think I should be glad to see you? How foolish…"

The Emperor watched her in silence. His lips still held a shadow of a smile, but his eyes darkened, growing heavy like storm clouds over a battlefield. Slowly, he lowered his hand—but he did not look away.

"Your father condemned himself," his voice was firm, almost indifferent. All that remained was the cold certainty that the one who is stronger is always right. "He knew that betrayal is never forgiven. Just like your stepmother. Geta's gaze slid past Elena, cold and uninterested. "Isn't that right, Lucilla?"

The woman remained silent, but her fingers tightened around the fabric of her stepdaughter’s toga. And Geta looked at Helena again. But now his smile grew wider, more poisonous—like a hawk finally closing in on its prey.

"I ordered your whole family to be brought here," he said lazily, as if speaking of something mundane. "So where is your mother, Helena?"

He let out a bitter chuckle, as if he had just remembered something amusing. Though he had never forgotten. He was taunting her, mocking her, humiliating her, avenging even the smallest refusal. The slightest disobedience.

"Ah, yes…" amusement rang in his voice, a sneer played on his lips. "She can only enter this place as a whore. That is, of course, if she hasn’t completely lost her mind already."

Geta stepped forward, towering over Helena.

"Or has she found herself another patron?" the Emperor scoffed, making her skin prickle, her knees tremble, her shoulders tense to keep from shrinking away. "Perhaps she has even taught you how to properly please noble men?"

Helena flinched as if Geta had struck her. Her face twisted in disgust. Anger flared in her chest, scorching her from within. Through clenched teeth, she hissed:

"Do not dare speak of my mother like that!"

Helena stepped forward, dangerously close, nearly colliding with him. In that moment, she did not care who he was. Did not care what Geta could do to her. A storm raged inside her, demanding to tear him apart.

But Geta only smirked.

"My defiant little bird," his voice was almost gentle. "Rage, scream… But you are still here."

He did not retreat.

"Standing before me," his voice dropped lower, barely a whisper, but full of command. "And soon… soon you will understand before whom you must kneel."

His fingers barely brushed against a strand of her hair, but Helena jerked away.

Geta did not blink. Did not flinch.

He simply watched her—with the same hungry, merciless interest as a predator gazing at prey already caught in its snare…

On their last meeting before the breakup, the night enveloped the palace in a sticky darkness, like an old heavy cloak. The air was thick and damp, saturated with the scent of decaying rose petals that had fallen onto the marble floor. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the walls of the chambers, the night song of crickets sounded. But here, in the corridors, everything was too quiet. A silence filled with rare, unsteady breaths, mixed with the nervous echo of bare footsteps against the icy marble.

Geta walked ahead, tightly gripping Helena’s tiny fingers in his palm. Her skin was warm but damp with fear, and when he pulled her harder, her fingers trembled in his grasp. He squeezed her hand so tightly that her thin knuckles turned slightly white. Helena felt that his palm was hot but sweaty—whether from tension or the heat of the summer night, she couldn’t tell. She felt uneasy, but she didn’t try to pull away. Everything inside her tightened as they moved forward. The corridors stretched into long, echoing tunnels, the marble beneath their feet was freezing, and each of her careful steps made a faint slapping sound. Sometimes Helena stumbled, catching her foot on the rough edges of the tiles, but Geta didn’t even slow down, continuing to pull her along. The girl glanced around fearfully, pressing her chin against the hem of her light night tunic.

"Geta..." Her voice broke into a whisper, filled with fear. But he didn’t answer. He only pulled her along more insistently.

His gaze was wild, burning. Expectant. Like a child who had finally gotten hold of the promised toy. They slid like shadows through the dark corridors, hearing only their own breathing and the dull pounding of their hearts. Helena tried to step more quietly, but her bare feet sometimes caught cold droplets of water that had dripped from vases standing against the walls. She shuddered but did not stop. Geta led her forward—persistent, determined.

When they finally stepped into the garden, the air filled with the heavy scent of blooming jasmine. Geta’s father, the emperor himself, sat behind a stone table, thoughtfully pouring wine from one cup to another. The emperor lazily turned the goblet in his hand, letting the dark liquid trickle down the edges, leaving thin red streaks on the marble surface. He didn’t drink—he played with the wine, like a man who was in no hurry. Beside him stood a tray of fruit—overripe figs, split in half, dripped sticky juice onto the silver, while a handful of grapes, already touched by dark spots, looked forgotten.

Opposite him stood General Acacius—stern, upright, his face tense.

Geta and Helena hid behind one of the massive columns, concealed in the dim light. Their breathing became quieter. Geta could feel her trembling beside him, but he didn’t look at Helena. He only looked at his father.

"Geta will become emperor," the ruler’s voice was low, lazy, but there was steel in it. "And he needs a worthy wife. Your daughter. A good match."

"She is only ten!" Acacius exclaimed.

The emperor smirked, taking a lazy sip of wine that stained his lips.

"And my eldest twin is fourteen." He paused. "They can marry when your girl reaches the proper age. Time flies fast, General. You understand what kind of alliance we will create, don’t you?"

Helena felt the ground beneath her feet cease to be solid. The world suddenly became unstable, like a reflection in a pond after a stone was thrown into it. Her thoughts scattered, and each breath came with difficulty, as if the air had turned thick, heavy like honey. The words spoken by her father and the emperor echoed in her mind, their meaning seeping into her heart, leaving cold splinters. This was not a conversation about her—this was a deal. Without her will, without her consent. Her fate, sculpted by foreign hands, now stood before her like a locked door with no way out.

Geta looked pleased, unshaken. He was calm, as if he had known about this all along. But Helena’s world was crumbling. A sharp, tormenting fear rose in her chest—fear of the future, of something inevitable, something she did not want. She had never thought about marriage, much less imagined herself next to Geta. He was her friend...

Her fingers trembled as she instinctively grasped the edge of her nightgown, clutching the thin fabric until her knuckles turned white. Marriage. The word that had once seemed distant suddenly became a nightmare, a trap from which there was no escape.

Her vision darkened. She didn’t know what to say, how to react. She looked at Geta—at his indifferent face with a smirk, at his gaze, which was not cruel but impenetrable. Did he really think this was normal? That her life could be decided so easily, without her consent?

But I... I'm still a child... I’m only... A scream wanted to break free, but her voice refused to obey.

"And yet, I say no."

Geta tensed. His nostrils flared, and his fingers on Helena’s hand clenched so tightly that she let out a thin whimper. He heard her, but he did not loosen his grip.

"Helena... is not suitable," Acacius’s voice was firm, but there was caution in it. "Her mother... is merely—"

"A prostitute," the emperor lazily finished, savoring the taste of the word as if swallowing tart, spoiled wine. "And you want to say she is unworthy of my son?"

Geta didn’t understand. He heard the words but could not grasp their meaning. How can they refuse? How can they say ‘no’ to him?

"Stupid," the emperor waved his hand dismissively. "Elena is beautiful, smart. Her father is my best commander. Don't you want your daughter to become an empress? My son likes your girl, so let this union be beneficial."

"Helena is not a match for the future emperor," Acacius said slowly, his voice becoming firmer. He was defending himself.

And Helena was not breathing. Her heart pounded so hard she heard it in her ears. Her skin burned with heat, then turned cold, covered in goosebumps. A sticky fear rose from her chest, wrapping around her throat.

"Wait..." she exhaled in a whisper, but Geta did not hear. He heard only one thing: rejection. Dirty, humiliating, cutting deep into his soul.

He could not remain silent any longer.

With a sudden jerk, Geta stepped out from behind the column, clenching his fists. His face was ablaze with anger.

"Why?!" His voice was loud, strained, almost childish in its wounded pride. "How dare you?!"

Acacius turned sharply. And at that very moment, he saw his daughter. Helena.

Her eyes were huge, black with terror. Tears ran down her cheeks, dripping onto the collar of her nightgown. She pressed herself against the column, trying to disappear from all of this, but her hand clutched at her shoulder, where red marks from Geta’s fingers were imprinted.

"Helena," her father’s voice became soft, almost frightened. He stepped toward her, but she did not move. Her lips trembled.

"She is mine!" Geta exclaimed even louder.

The Emperor lazily lifted his gaze. The wine in his cup swayed slightly.

"How interesting…" he smirked.

"Emperor," the general bowed his head. "My decision remains unchanged. If you allow…"

Acacius did not wait any longer. Gently but firmly, he took his daughter by the hand and led her out of the garden. They walked in silence until the palace walls hid them from prying eyes. Only then did the general stop, kneeling before her, placing his hands on her small, trembling shoulders.

"Helena…" his voice was low, warm, but tired. "Forgive me. I lied… but only to protect you. You were never supposed to be there. That wretch…"

The girl lifted her eyes to him, and they filled with tears once more. She sobbed, her breath unsteady, her lips quivering.

"You… you said it…" her voice was barely audible. "And I believed you… even though I knew…"

The general carefully clasped her hands in his—firmly, but gently. He lowered his head as if trying to hide his exhaustion and slowly ran his hand through her disheveled hair.

"Sometimes, a lie is the only thing that can save," he spoke slowly, as if weighing every word. "You are always my girl; nothing else matters. Do you understand?"

Helena sobbed louder, burying her face in his shoulder. The general embraced her, sheltering her with his strong arms, as if protecting her from the entire world.

"I am here," he whispered. "And no one will harm you. As long as I live. I promise."

Helena took a deep breath, clutching his clothes tighter in her small fingers. She knew this moment wouldn’t change everything. But in her father’s embrace, the fear receded for just a moment. And that was enough.

A few hours later, they left the palace.

And then, years passed.

Geta rarely saw Helena, but rumors about her spread throughout Rome. He heard them.

She danced like a goddess. She was called the Sun of Rome, its light—for her kindness. They said her laughter was like the chime of spring, that her smile illuminated anyone near her. And she became something he could not have, though long ago, he had decided she belonged to him alone.

But even the sun could not hide from the gazes that followed her everywhere. Geta heard the stories—of her grace, of her gentle voice that could melt even hearts carved from stone. He imagined her—surrounded by hundreds of admirers, flatterers, hungry eyes. Every time he thought of someone else daring to look at her, his fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms, leaving painful marks. He could not allow this to continue.

And because of this, he wanted her even more.

And because of this, his obsession grew, like a black, poisonous flower.

Helena was the only thing he could not take. And the only thing for which he was ready to crush Rome.

I don't know English. Maybe there are a lot of mistakes. ♡♡♡

My AO3^ My Tiktok^

[kirikorik]

Dawn over Rome

Emperor Geta / OC (Helena - Acacia's daughter)

Part1! Part2! Part3! Part 4...

Summary: “General Acacius has fallen,” exclaims Emperor Geta. “But he left us the most precious thing he had—his daughter! The sun of our Rome!”If the road leads to the abyss, only a madman would walk it with submission. But does a prisoner have the right to choose?“In the name of peace, I shall take his daughter as my lawful wife!”Peace is merely a word behind which violence hides. Oaths sworn in blood do not smell of blessing but of a curse. “Smile, my little bird, you are to bear the emperor's child,” a warm, sticky whisper. “And remember, your whore of a mother is still alive.”She is his. She will be his. Just as the sun belongs to the sky, just as fire devours wood, so too was Helena made to burn for him alone…

DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18+!

Chapter 3

The stone corridors of the palace prison stretched in endless shadows, cut through by the trembling tongues of torches. The walls here reeked of dampness, decay, and something else—ancient, rotting, as if the very history of these stone dungeons, locked in their depths, had long begun to decompose. The air was thick, saturated with moisture, stagnant water, and something else—old, decaying, like the breath of ancient ghosts forgotten in these dark depths. The cold slabs underfoot were damp, absorbing moisture from dark cracks, and each step echoed dully, slowly fading into the impenetrable darkness.

Geta walked lazily, with aristocratic carelessness, but his hands kept nervously pulling at the golden edges of his tunic, afraid of getting dirty in the filth of this place. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, casting a quick glance at the mold-damp walls, and stepped over a dead rat with quiet revulsion. His fingers idly twisted the rings on his fingers, yet his gaze constantly wanted to linger on Helena. He liked it: her tense posture, trembling fingers ready to clench into fists at any moment, the way she held her breath so as not to give herself away.

Helena walked slightly behind, hiding her hands in the folds of the finest silk chiton, embroidered with golden threads. The pale blue fabric fell in light waves, but she felt that this attire constrained her more than chains. On her feet—sandals, thin straps wrapping around her ankles, chafing her skin into barely visible red marks. Her hair was arranged in an intricate hairstyle, heavy with precious pins—a symbol of her new cage.

"You are so silent, meus sol," his voice was melodic, drawn-out, as if he were tasting the words before letting them out into the air. "Could it be that you are moved by my generosity?"

They stopped at the door. One of the guards pushed the bolt. They entered, and the massive door closed behind them.

The smell hit like a slap—thick, putrid, musty, soaked with sweat, blood, and urine, like the belly of a dead beast, swollen under the scorching sun. The air was viscous, heavy, as if it refused to move. In the stone corner, illuminated by the narrow, grated slit of light, a woman crouched. Her skin—earthy, covered in sores, stretched over bones—seemed almost like parchment. Her hair was tangled into filthy icicles, hiding her face, and the miserable rags that had once been a tunic clung to her body, soaked with dust, sweat, and filth.

She rocked back and forth, muttering something, but fell silent as the presence of strangers penetrated her world. Slowly, painfully, she raised her head. Her eyes—dark, deeply sunken—glistened with wet emptiness, but for a moment, something recognizing flickered in them. Galia shuddered, her gaze darted to the man in the center of the room. To the emperor.

"Mama…" Helena whispered.

At that moment, Galia lunged forward like a living shadow, rushing with a hoarse cry. Her bony fingers curled, nails—broken and black—clawed at the empty air, just an inch from Geta’s face.

The emperor did not even flinch. He merely, lazily, with mocking indifference, stepped aside. The woman collapsed as if she were a puppet with its strings cut. Her thin body trembled pitifully on the stone floor.

"What a pity," he muttered with slight disdain, as if he had seen a dead rat. "You wanted to hurt me? You can barely stand."

Helena rushed to her mother, knelt beside her, grasping her trembling hands. Her fingers touched her face—hot, sticky, skin stretched over her cheekbones like parchment.

"Mama, mama, it’s me… it’s Helena, your daughter," her voice trembled.

But Galia did not hear. She only swayed, tugging at the torn edge of her clothing, crawling back into the corner, whispering indistinct words—either prayers or curses. Geta exhaled noisily, rolling his eyes theatrically.

"How touching. Come on, continue. Maybe she will remember you?" he chuckled. "Ah, no. She is no longer human." He smirked, knowing these words caused pain.

Helena sharply raised her head. Anger flared in her eyes. The next moment, she jumped up, rushed forward. Her fists clenched so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

"You… monster!" Her voice tore through the heavy silence, thick with the stench of stale sweat. Helena jumped to her feet, ran, struck him in the chest. Useless. The blow was weak, desperate, but Geta did not step back. He caught her wrist with lazy ease and, before she could break free, pulled her toward him. Their faces were only inches apart.

"You did this to her! Let us go! Let us go!"

"Oh, my little bird…" His voice was low, purring, almost affectionate. "I like it when you fight. Such passion… A pity that soon you will have no strength left for it."

He released his fingers. Helena recoiled, breathing heavily. Geta ran his fingers along her shoulder—slowly, barely touching, as if playing with prey.

"You are free, Helena," he whispered with a smirk. "You can leave… right now." His grin widened.

"Or what?" Helena spat out. Her voice trembled with rage. With hatred and contempt. Never in her life had she hated anyone so much. Every villain and scoundrel must have a reason to act dishonorably, to act cruelly and wickedly. But not a single one of Geta’s actions could she justify.

In her life, Helena regretted only one thing—that once, in childhood, when faced with a choice that seemed to have no consequences, she chose—Geta.

"Be free. You are free to do whatever you want."

Helena stared at him with a frozen gaze, feeling icy sweat trickling down her back. Geta tilted his head slightly, as if admiring a rare treasure whose value he had yet to determine. Pleasure flickered in his eyes.

He is lying.

He will not let her go.

"But if you leave… your mother stays." Seeing Helena’s face turn pale, Geta stretched his predatory grin. "Oh, don’t be afraid, she won’t be killed. We will simply return her to where she truly belongs. You know, don’t you, how much demand there is for women like her…"

Helena jerked forward, but Geta caught her wrist before she could reach her mother. He yanked her so sharply that her back slammed into his chest, the air escaping her lungs in a short, frightened gasp. Her shoulder blades flared with pain, but what burned even more was the hot, damp breath at her temple.

"Do you think men won’t want to touch the former concubine of a general? The mother of the emperor’s bride?" His voice was low, viscous, as if seeping into her skin like sticky resin. "Believe me, there will be plenty of them. Every slave, every soldier, every merchant in the market will want to taste what was once the privilege of the nobility. And they will not be patient. They will not be kind."

Helena gasped for air. Something pounded wildly in her chest, pressing against her ribs from the inside. Her fingers trembled, nails digging into her palms. Something warm, bitter rose to her throat—nausea.

"You… you wouldn’t dare… " she mouthed, but her voice betrayed her, breaking into a hoarse whisper.

Geta laughed. Quietly, deeply, with that lazy mockery that sent an icy spike down her spine. His laughter echoed off the stone walls, filling them, as if forming the chains that already bound her.

His fingers slid over her waist—softly, yet with authority. The warmth of his palms seeped through the thin fabric of her chiton, imprinting itself deeper into her skin with every passing second. Slowly, almost teasingly, he squeezed her side, his fingers sinking into her flesh—not to hurt, but to create that agonizing sense of control.

Geta smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. He wasn’t laughing, wasn’t jeering. He was simply letting her grasp the horror, the sheer threat behind his words.

His hands found her waist, slid lower, tightened. His fingers weren’t rough, yet there was no doubt about their strength. It didn’t matter how exactly he held her. What mattered was that he did.

His palms—warm, dry, knowing how to hold, accustomed to human flesh.

"Wouldn’t dare?" he leaned in closer, letting his breath brush over her skin. Heat spread across her neck, trailed along her jawline. For a moment, she thought he would touch her lips, and the thought made something inside her coil in cold horror. But he didn’t.

That was worse.

The tension, stretched taut like a string, snapped inside her with a painful crack. He could have. But he didn’t. And he made sure she understood that.

Her shoulders tensed, but he kept playing his game. Barely touching her temple, as if inhaling her scent instead of the rot of this place, he repeated:

"Wouldn’t dare?"

Helena jerked forward, but at once felt his hands tighten. He didn’t let her go. His grip turned iron, her ribs pressing painfully into his fingers. She felt him digging into her, pressing in with his body, his breath, his flesh.

"I would," he whispered, brushing his lips against her ear. "Imagine that…"

His voice was thick, slow, like poison trickling down her skin.

"How she’ll ride cocks again, just like before your father dragged her out of the brothel. One after another. Or, if she’s lucky, several at once. Every day. You think anyone finds her body repulsive? Oh no. Men love withered whores, especially when they once belonged to..."

"Speak for yourself!" she snarled.

Helena screamed, choking on revulsion, jerking in an attempt to break free, but Geta only tightened his grip on her wrist. Her face twisted in a silent scream, and he leaned in closer, just to see it. To relish it.

Geta pressed his cheek against hers. His skin was warm, alive, foreign. Her stomach clenched under his fingers as he yanked her toward him even harder, as if deliberately pulling her back.

A little more—and she would lose her balance, collapse into him completely, with no chance to resist.

He wasn’t rushing. He knew she already understood.

I would.

"Every day. New faces. Sometimes one by one, sometimes in groups. Oh, they will be grateful to me for such a gift!" hissed, almost growled, the emperor into Helena’s ear, savoring every note of her horror, every convulsive shudder, every glimmer of tears in her widened eyes. His voice was soft, almost gentle—and it was precisely this tender intonation that filled her with disgust.

Helena swallowed, but her throat tightened in a spasm, and something warm and nauseating churned in her stomach. She tried to strike him as her father had taught: shift weight back, step on his foot, twist away… Geta only snorted and shoved her sharply into the stone wall. The air was knocked from her lungs, and pain seared down her spine like a hot blade. Galia cried out, muttering incoherent prayers, but did not even look at her daughter—she merely collapsed to the floor, rocking back and forth, spitting out the name of General Acacius like a mantra…

"How do you not understand, foolish girl?" his voice was thick, cloying, like over-fermented wine. "You belong to me. Just like she does. Just like hundreds of others. If I wish, she will crawl through the foul alleys of Subura until someone breaks her bones for a handful of coins. But if you stay… maybe I’ll even let her live a little longer. Maybe I’ll even give her some food."

The emperor moved closer, yanking Helena upright, forcing her to rise from the floor. His fingers gripped her wrists so tightly that future bruises flared beneath her skin. He stared into her face—greedily, unblinkingly, as if burrowing into her thoughts…

Where was that boy Helena had fallen in love with when she was seven?

"You can still leave," his voice softened, but that only made it cut deeper. "You can abandon your mother, flee the palace, and I won’t even send the guards after you. But…"

Geta seized her chin. His thumb dug into her cheek, nails slicing into her skin. The rings on his fingers chilled her flesh. Helena’s lips trembled with rage and helplessness. But he only smirked.

"Where? Tell me. Do you think someone will shelter you? You are the emperor’s bride. If you leave the palace, every man will want you." His knee pressed against her thigh. The belt holding his toga bit into her stomach. "They are beasts, Helena. They will crave you not as a woman, no… as a prize, a trophy. They will fight over who gets to tear your tunic first, who gets to take you first, right there on the filthy stones of the forum. Who gets to be the first to put you on his cock." The last words he practically spat into her face, his eyes burning.

"Don’t be like this…" Helena exhaled, and a cold horror coiled inside her like a sticky serpent. Disgust clenched her throat, and Geta’s hands, gliding over her skin, in that instant felt even more foreign, revolting, hairy, and clammy. "You weren’t like this…"

But the boy whom Helena once knew had vanished long ago. The one who caused her no pain, who did not press upon her, who dared not seize her hands, fearing he might harm her, had disappeared long before that ill-fated night when her father rejected the proposal of betrothal with Geta. It seemed as if the world itself had gone mad when she was but eight years old.

When Geta reached the age of twelve, a new persistence, jealousy, and anger awakened within him. He shamelessly encroached upon her personal space, disregarding all boundaries, fiercely proclaiming to the world that she belonged to him—her hair, her eyes, her face, her body, even the garments she wore. And the elders, in their blindness, saw no fault in this.

"Children," they would say, "perhaps the boy simply desired a younger sister." And even if that were not the case, what harm could there be in the fact that the emperor’s son had become so attached to the daughter of the general? It was nothing more than a passing amusement.

Was there truly anything objectionable in the fact that he would not allow even the servants near her, and demanded that Helena stay in the palace longer than she did in her own home? Was it so grievous that he refused to leave her, even when the time came for her to bathe, and the maids had to beg him to leave the room? There was nothing strange in the fact that, in the mornings, they would find him asleep in her bed, holding her in his embrace. He was merely a sweet child.

But as the years passed, even the most carefree began to grow uneasy. Geta, once a boy, was now becoming a young man, while Helena, four years his junior, remained a child. It was then that the nurses began to worry. Yet even then, no one dared speak aloud of concern. On the contrary, the talks of marriage began: as soon as the girl had her first blood, they must be betrothed.

Early marriages were not rare, yet among the nobility, it was customary to wait until an older age. What was wrong with a union formed between those who had known each other since childhood? She was the daughter of a valiant general, he the son of the emperor, the heir to the throne. A noble match. It was only necessary to make it lawful.

No longer did the fact that Geta was four years older than Helena matter. What mattered now was that he was a young man, and she still a child. She was ten, he was fourteen—when they were forbidden to remain alone together, when their games in the garden became unacceptable, when even innocent touches—strong embraces or playful gestures—became subjects of suspicion. They were no longer called children, although Helena remained one.

Geta, having overheard gossip among the servants, found a solution. If they sought to take her from him, then he must possess her forever. What could be more binding than marriage? Let the emperor not value his wife greatly, let his father have concubines, but if Helena became his wife, his Augusta, she would never leave him. And so, full of resolve, he went to his father with his request. The emperor listened, offering a rare smile—more mocking than benevolent. Perhaps there was some benefit to it, perhaps a whim, but no promises were made to his son.

Helena was a frequent guest at the palace: her father was ever away on campaigns, and her stepmother Lucilla had yet to fear the imperial twins. And so, when General Acacius finally returned to Rome, that very night Geta, creeping into Helena's chambers, dragged her from her bed, nearly dragging her across the marble floor of the inner courtyard, to announce the joyous news: now no one would forbid them to play, now she would be with him forever, no one could take her from him.

But General Acacius rejected the proposal of betrothal. And from that night, he forbade Helena from stepping foot in the palace or leaving the house. Helena was hidden from Geta for six years, and Geta came to hate her father.

And when, after the emperor’s death, Geta and his brother were declared rulers of Rome, he realized: even now, he could do nothing against Acacius. As long as the general lived, Helena would never be his…

She did not even have time to comprehend the moment he moved.

The stone of the wall was icy, soaked with dampness and time, as though eternity itself had absorbed it. It was unmoving. Unlike Geta—warm, oppressive, greedily drawing closer.

One hand pressed against the wall near her face, blocking any possible escape. The other rested upon her throat—not to choke, no. It was not the desire to inflict pain, but a reminder: here you are, here I am.

His thumb traced the pulsing vein in her neck, as though listening to the rhythm of her fear.

She did not move.

He was not in haste.

There was less space between them than between the lips of the supplicant and the god who does not hear. Geta removed his hand from her throat, but it only made things worse. She felt his fingers slide down to her collarbone, tracing its line, then slowly creeping further, to her shoulder, where the skin was softer. It was not cruelty, yet there was no tenderness either. It was control—absolute, cold, and inevitable.

"What not to be?" his voice was low, lazy, almost mocking, but she knew he wasn’t expecting an answer. He already knew it.

His fingers slowly and methodically ran down her arm, leaving behind the sensation — not pain, but the knowledge that he was doing it. That he could.

"I do what I want," he finally spoke. And this simple phrase sounded more terrifying than a threat.

Helena swallowed, and he felt it.

She didn’t try to break free. Not because she couldn’t. But because she knew — it was pointless.

He smirked.

"Will you choose me… or?" his breath scorched her ear, and the words sank into her skin like drops of hot lead.

Fear is not a blow, not a sudden jerk. It’s a slow immersion in cold water, inch by inch, until you realize you will drown.

Geta moved slowly, with the refined cruelty of a person accustomed to power. Her own body betrayed her: goosebumps, tension, breathing that had treacherously faltered. And Geta knew it. He enjoyed it.

He ran his fingers across her shoulder — a light teasing touch, as if testing how sensitive she was. She flinched. But not from fear. No, fear had long since become part of her breathing, soaked into her bones. It was disgust — viscous, sticky, sliding down her spine.

The smell of Geta hit her nose: it wasn’t the scent of laurel and rosewater, which the patricians used to anoint themselves. It was the smell of blood, sweat, and hundreds of hands that had touched what wasn’t theirs.

"Are you afraid?" his voice dropped lower, deeper, rumbling right by her ear. "And you should be."

Helena gritted her teeth, but her body betrayed her again. He knew. He felt it.

His fingers seemed to reluctantly slide down the line of her tunic before closing on her thigh. Almost gently. He was enjoying this. He was breaking her slowly, savoring the process step by step, like an ancient god offering a sacrifice to himself.

"Don’t pretend," he almost purred, touching her neck with his lips. "You understand how this will end."

Helena remained silent. She didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. But her body betrayed her again — tense muscles, air caught in her throat.

And suddenly, Geta sharply pulled away, forcefully pushing her aside. Helena staggered, barely steadying herself, feeling how the places he had touched burned with fire.

"Take her away," he threw, carelessly shaking invisible dust off his fingers.

Helena sharply inhaled, casting one last glance at her mother.

But she was just swaying, immersed in her mad world…

I don't know English. Maybe there are a lot of mistakes. ♡♡♡

My AO3^ My Tiktok^

[kirikorik]

Dawn over Rome

Emperor Geta / OC (Helena - Acacia's daughter)

Part1! Part2 ! Part3! Part4...

He never loved children. But he needed an heir. He needed the very fact — proof that Elena had not remained untouched, that he had taken root in her life, in her body. Proof that her light had not remained unblemished.

Geta knew that she hated him. He saw it in her eyes, felt it in every touch — strained, restrained, as if poisoned by fear and contempt. He took her as one takes power — without hesitation, without doubt. There was no tenderness in his hands, no plea in his words. He made her bow, as he had made Rome bow. But even then, even in the darkest moments, he knew: it was not enough. And now she was holding their child. Geta stood by the cradle, not knowing why he even stopped. What to do with something that wasn’t afraid of him, that didn’t bow, that didn’t seek his favor? He didn’t want the child, but here it was. And for some reason, he couldn’t look away. He didn’t know how to love. But why, then, did this tiny creature not repulse him?

The child slept, pressing its face into the palm of its mother. And Helena… she looked at him the way she had never looked at Geta. With love. Her hands protected him the way they had never protected him, had never caressed, comforted, or reached out to him…

And then Geta understood: he no longer needed to try to leave marks on her skin, no longer needed to try to bind her to him and make her love him the way he desired her. A part of him had already settled in her heart. And for the first time in his life, he didn’t want to tear that heart out for himself. And that was enough.

Summary: "General Acacius has fallen," exclaims Emperor Geta. "But he left us the most precious thing he had—his daughter! The sun of our Rome!" If the road leads to the abyss, only a madman would walk it with submission. But does a prisoner have the right to choose? "In the name of peace, I shall take his daughter as my lawful wife!" Peace is merely a word behind which violence hides. Oaths sworn in blood do not smell of blessing but of a curse. "Smile, my little bird, you are to bear the emperor's child," a warm, sticky whisper. "And remember, your whore of a mother is still alive." She is his. She will be his. Just as the sun belongs to the sky, just as fire devours wood, so too was Helena made to burn for him alone…

Warnings: Forced Marriage, Rape, Rough Sex, Possessive Behavior, Obsession,Sex Dubious, Consent Mildly Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Vaginal Sex, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, public sex,Sexual Overstimulation, Depression, Angst, Drama, Blood and Violence, Unrequited, Love, Sexual Content, Complicated Relationships, Sexism, Sexual Inexperience, Cruelty, Feelings, Possessive Sex, Pregnancy, Forced Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Breeding.

[kirikorik]

Dawn over Rome

Emperor Geta / OC (Helena - Acacia's daughter)

Part1! Part2 ! Part3! Part4...

Excerpt from:

The one who caused her no pain, who did not press upon her, who dared not seize her hands, fearing he might harm her, had disappeared long before that ill-fated night when her father rejected the proposal of betrothal with Geta. It seemed as if the world itself had gone mad when she was but eight years old.

When Geta reached the age of twelve, a new persistence, jealousy, and anger awakened within him. He shamelessly encroached upon her personal space, disregarding all boundaries, fiercely proclaiming to the world that she belonged to him—her hair, her eyes, her face, her body, even the garments she wore. And the elders, in their blindness, saw no fault in this.

"Children," they would say. And even if that were not the case, what harm could there be in the fact that the emperor’s son had become so attached to the daughter of the general? It was nothing more than a passing amusement.

Was there truly anything objectionable in the fact that he would not allow even the servants near her, and demanded that Helena stay in the palace longer than she did in her own home? Was it so grievous that he refused to leave her, even when the time came for her to bathe, and the maids had to beg him to leave the room? There was nothing strange in the fact that, in the mornings, they would find him asleep in her bed, holding her in his embrace. He was merely a sweet child.

But as the years passed, even the most carefree began to grow uneasy. Geta, once a boy, was now becoming a young man, while Helena, four years his junior, remained a child. Yet even then, no one dared speak aloud of concern. On the contrary, the talks of marriage began: as soon as the girl had her first blood, they must be betrothed...

She was the daughter of a valiant general, he the son of the emperor, the heir to the throne. A noble match. It was only necessary to make it lawful.

She was ten, he was fourteen—when they were forbidden to remain alone together, when their games in the garden became unacceptable, when even innocent touches—strong embraces or playful gestures—became subjects of suspicion. They were no longer called children, although Helena remained one.

Geta, having overheard gossip among the servants, found a solution. If they sought to take her from him, then he must possess her forever. Let the emperor not value his wife greatly, let his father have concubines, but if Helena became his wife, his Augusta, she would never leave him. And so, full of resolve, he went to his father with his request.

And so, when General Acacius finally returned to Rome, that very night Geta, creeping into Helena's chambers, dragged her from her bed, nearly dragging her across the marble floor of the inner courtyard, to announce the joyous news: now no one would forbid them to play, now she would be with him forever, no one could take her from him.

But General Acacius rejected the proposal of betrothal. Helena was hidden from Geta for six years, and Geta came to hate her father. And when, after the emperor’s death, Geta and his brother were declared rulers of Rome, he realized: even now, he could do nothing against Acacius. As long as the general lived, Helena would never be his…

Summary: "General Acacius has fallen," exclaims Emperor Geta. "But he left us the most precious thing he had—his daughter! The sun of our Rome!"If the road leads to the abyss, only a madman would walk it with submission. But does a prisoner have the right to choose?"In the name of peace, I shall take his daughter as my lawful wife!"Peace is merely a word behind which violence hides. Oaths sworn in blood do not smell of blessing but of a curse."Smile, my little bird, you are to bear the emperor's child," a warm, sticky whisper. "And remember, your whore of a mother is still alive."She is his. She will be his. Just as the sun belongs to the sky, just as fire devours wood, so too was Helena made to burn for him alone…

Warnings: Forced Marriage, Rape, Rough Sex, Possessive Behavior, Obsession,Sex Dubious, Consent Mildly Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Vaginal Sex, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, public sex,Sexual Overstimulation, Depression, Angst, Drama, Blood and Violence, Unrequited, Love, Sexual Content, Complicated Relationships, Sexism, Sexual Inexperience, Cruelty, Feelings, Possessive Sex, Pregnancy, Forced Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Breeding.