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solxamber · 2 months ago

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"Let's Break Up" with: Vice-Housewardens + Ruggie

more hurt/comfort for the soul

Other parts: Housewardens ; First Years ; Cater, Floyd, Silver

Trey Clover

The words slip out in frustration, sharp and final.

"Let's break up."

The mug in Trey's hand shatters.

The crack of breaking porcelain jolts you, the sound cutting through the tense silence like a gunshot. Shards spill across the floor, tea splattering everywhere, but Trey doesn’t even flinch.

Before you can react, before you can take back what you didn’t mean, he’s there—crossing the space between you in an instant, his uninjured hand cupping your face, warm and trembling.

His chest rises and falls too fast, his breath unsteady. His eyes search yours desperately, raw emotion flickering in their depths. “Please,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Reconsider.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. His grip tightens, just enough to ground himself, just enough to keep you here, with him.

“Take it back,” he pleads, his forehead nearly pressing against yours. “Tell me you didn’t mean it.”

Your heart is racing, but all you can focus on is his other hand—the one that had been holding the mug. Blood is pooling in the creases of his palm, little crimson beads welling up where porcelain had cut into his skin.

You inhale sharply. “Trey, your hand—”

“I don’t care,” he says, and he means it. He would let it bleed if it meant keeping you here for another second. “Please.”

Something inside you cracks.

Your anger, your frustration—none of it matters when you see the way he’s looking at you. When you hear the break in his voice. When you realize how much he loves you, enough to throw away every bit of his usual calm, enough to bleed for you if it meant making you stay.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice tight with guilt. “I didn’t mean it. I—of course I didn’t mean it.”

His shoulders sag with relief, a shaky breath escaping him as he presses his forehead against yours. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Your fingers curl around his wrist, pulling his injured hand between both of yours. “We need to take care of this.”

He exhales, his body finally catching up to the pain now that the panic has subsided. “Yeah,” he says, but instead of letting you go, he pulls you into his arms, wrapping you in a firm, desperate embrace.

“I’m sorry too,” he murmurs against your hair. “I didn’t mean for things to get like this. I should’ve listened more. I should’ve—” He swallows hard. “I’ll do better.”

You squeeze him back just as tightly, breathing in the scent of him, the warmth of him, the realness of him. “We both will.”

For a long moment, neither of you move, holding onto each other as if letting go would undo everything. Eventually, you tug him toward the sink, already fussing over his hand.

Trey watches you, still catching his breath, still feeling the lingering ghost of fear in his chest. But for now, you’re here. He's still yours.

And that’s all that matters.

Ruggie Bucchi

The words slip out before you can stop them.

“Let’s break up.”

Ruggie freezes.

For a second, there’s just silence—heavy, suffocating. Then he lets out a laugh, but it’s wrong. It’s forced, brittle, a sound that cracks at the edges.

“That’s a joke, right?” His voice is light, playful—too playful—but his hands reach for yours, gripping them tight. “Your sense of humor sucks.”

His fingers are trembling.

You feel something deep in your chest twist at the sight of him, trying so hard to brush it off, to act like you didn’t just rip the ground out from under him. His tail is stiff behind him, his ears twitching with every unsteady breath he takes.

You want to say something, to take it back, but the argument still lingers in the air between you—frustration, hurt feelings, words neither of you should have said.

He swallows hard, staring at you like he’s willing you to laugh, to say just kidding, to let him believe this isn’t real.

But you don’t.

And in that moment, something in him wavers. His ears droop, and his fingers tighten around yours like he’s scared you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on.

His voice is smaller this time.

“…You didn’t mean that.”

You inhale shakily, stepping closer.

“No,” you whisper. “I didn’t.”

He exhales a shaky breath, and before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you into his arms, holding you so tightly it almost knocks the air from your lungs.

His face presses into your neck, his whole body going slack as if he’s only now realizing just how much those words had broken him. You can feel his breath against your skin, uneven, like he’s trying to keep it together, like he doesn’t want you to see how much it hurt.

You hold him just as tightly, one hand coming up to thread through his hair, the other rubbing circles into his back.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against you. “I shouldn’t’ve—I didn’t mean—”

You shake your head, cutting him off gently. “Me too.”

His arms tighten around you.

For a long time, neither of you speak. He just holds you, pressed close, his tail weakly brushing against your hand in a silent plea—stay.

When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are misty, his lip caught between his teeth.

“Don’t say that again.” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not even as a joke."

You cup his cheek, wiping away the dampness there with your thumb.

“I won’t.”

Ruggie exhales shakily, leans into your touch, and this time, when he lets out a breathy laugh, it’s real.

“…Guess we both suck at fighting, huh?”

You let out a weak chuckle, pressing your forehead against his.

“Yeah.”

And for now, that’s enough.

Jade Leech

The words slip out before you can stop them.

"Let’s break up."

Silence.

Jade just stares at you. The ever-present amusement in his eyes is gone, leaving them bare, unguarded in a way that makes your stomach twist. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t scoff, doesn’t even tilt his head in that condescending way he does when he’s about to say something cutting.

He just looks at you, frozen in place.

You don’t know what you expected—maybe anger, maybe something cruel and sharp to push you further away, to give you an excuse to slam the door behind you. Instead, there’s nothing. Just the way his eyes widen ever so slightly, like you’ve said something impossible.

Your chest feels tight, but you force yourself to turn away. You don’t get more than two steps before a hand grips your wrist—firm, but not forceful. You barely have time to react before he pulls you back, arms wrapping around you from behind, his face pressing into the crook of your neck.

"Don’t go."

It’s a whisper, but it shatters something inside you.

You tense, your breath catching in your throat. And then—you feel it. The faintest, almost imperceptible wetness against your skin.

Jade is crying.

A cold wave of fear crashes over you. You’ve never seen him cry before, never even imagined him capable of it. He’s always so composed, always in control, always one step ahead. But right now, he’s shaking.

Your frustration dissolves instantly, replaced by something heavier, something unbearable.

“I didn’t mean it,” you say, barely able to get the words out. “Jade, I didn’t mean it.”

His grip tightens around you, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers. His breath is uneven, ragged in a way that makes your heart ache.

You turn in his hold, reaching to cradle his face in your hands. His eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, his expression raw in a way you’ve never seen before. He looks lost.

“I—” His voice breaks, and he swallows hard, trying to compose himself. “I didn’t think… you would ever say that.”

You shake your head, your own eyes stinging. “I was angry. I didn’t mean it.”

For a moment, he just stares at you. Then, with a quiet, shaky exhale, he presses his forehead against yours.

“I pushed you too far,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse.

You close your eyes, fingers curling into his shirt. “And I let it get to me.”

Neither of you say anything after that. You just stand there, holding each other, breathing in the quiet between you. The storm of emotions still lingers, but it’s softer now, no longer a force trying to tear you apart.

Jade exhales slowly, his hands settling on your back, grounding himself. When he finally speaks again, his voice is steadier—but there’s still a fragility to it, something uncertain.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispers.

You nod, wiping a stray tear from his cheek with your thumb.

“I won’t,” you promise.

He doesn’t let go for a long, long time.

Jamil Viper

The words leave your lips before you can stop them. Sharp, impulsive, thrown like a dagger meant to wound.

“Let’s break up.”

The room falls into an unnatural silence.

Jamil stands frozen, his expression unreadable—no anger, no sadness, just… blank. It’s unsettling. You almost wish he’d lash out, argue, anything but this suffocating stillness.

Then, he laughs.

It’s soft, bitter—nothing like the amused chuckles you love hearing from him.

“…Okay,” he says.

Two syllables. Two syllables and he sounds so distant, so removed, like he’s already walking away from this, from you. Like it doesn’t matter.

But it does. It does, you can see it in the way his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, in the way his breath shudders ever so slightly, like he’s forcing himself to stay composed. Like he’s holding himself together by sheer will alone.

“If that’s how little this meant to you…” His voice is calm, even. A practiced neutrality. But you hear it—the smallest break, a splinter of something raw and aching beneath the surface. “Then fine.”

And he turns away.

And you see them.

The tears in his eyes.

He turns too late to hide them from you, but he still tries, tilting his head just enough that you almost don’t catch it. The effort, the control, the desperate attempt to maintain his composure even now.

Your stomach twists violently.

“Jamil.”

You reach for him without thinking, grabbing his wrist, tugging him back. His skin is warm beneath your touch, but his body is stiff, unyielding. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look at you.

You don’t let go.

“I didn’t mean it,” you breathe, voice shaking. You’re already shifting closer, hands moving from his wrist to his arm, to his shoulders, to his face, desperate to get him to look at you. “I didn’t mean it, I swear.”

His breath catches. He still won’t meet your eyes.

“You can’t just say things like that.” His voice cracks, and your heart breaks into pieces. “You can’t.”

The weight of what you’ve done crashes down on you. You had wanted to make him feel the frustration, the anger, the helplessness you’d felt in the heat of the argument. But not like this. Never like this.

His shoulders shake.

“Jamil…” Your hands cradle his face now, fingers trembling as you wipe at the tears streaking his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

For a moment, he stays frozen beneath your touch.

Then, with a shuddering breath, he moves.

His hands grasp at the fabric of your clothes, clutching onto you as if you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tightly enough. The tension that’s held him rigid for so long crumbles, and he presses his forehead against your shoulder, his entire body trembling.

“I don’t want to fight,” he whispers. “I don’t—” A breath, uneven, desperate. “I don’t want to lose you.”

The sheer vulnerability in his voice threatens to unravel you.

“You won’t,” you swear, voice raw with emotion. “You won’t.”

He lets out something like a laugh, but it’s broken, strained, wet with the remnants of unshed tears.

Then, his legs give out beneath him, and you both sink to the floor, tangled together, arms wrapped around each other like lifelines.

Neither of you let go.

Rook Hunt

"Let's break up."

The words barely leave your lips before Rook is on you.

One second, he’s standing before you, the next, he’s grasping at your arms, pulling you close, desperate. His hands tremble as they cradle your face, and his voice—normally so composed, so theatrical in its beauty—is breaking apart at the seams.

"Non, mon amour, non, non, non—tu ne peux pas—please, don’t do this." His words spill out in frantic, overlapping murmurs, a tangled mix of languages, as if one language alone isn’t enough to hold the depth of his despair. His breath is uneven, his hold almost frantic. "Je t’en supplie, tell me this is but a cruel jest. Tell me you do not mean it!"

You’ve never seen Rook like this before.

You've seen Rook in many states—amused, playful, reverent, even solemn—but never like this. Never so utterly shattered. His eyes, always gleaming with some unreadable mystery, are bare now, stripped of all their usual playfulness. He looks at you like a man standing at the gallows, waiting for the final blow.

His hands tighten around you, as though afraid you might slip through his fingers. "I will fix it, I swear it! Whatever it is, however I have failed you, tell me, je t'en prie! Let me make amends!" His voice hitches, and when you finally dare to meet his gaze, your breath catches.

His eyes—so often gleaming with mirth, with mischief—are glossy with unshed tears.

Your heart clenches. "Rook—"

His hands cradle your cheeks, thumbs brushing over your skin with a reverence that makes your chest ache. "I love you, mon cœur. I love you more than words can weave, more than poetry can hold." His voice breaks—an unsteady breath, barely a whisper—"Ne me quitte pas."

You reach up, pressing your hands over his, steadying them. "Rook, stop."

He freezes, breath caught in his throat, as if waiting for a verdict that will decide his fate.

You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I didn’t mean it.”

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then, a sharp inhale—a breath of air after near drowning—and suddenly, he’s crushing you against him, arms winding around you with near bruising force.

"Mon dieu," he breathes, his face buried in your shoulder. "Merci, merci, merci—" His grip tightens, as if he still can’t quite believe it, like he needs to feel every inch of you to be sure you’re still here.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper against him, voice thick with emotion.

"Non, mon amour, I'm sorry." He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, shaking his head, remorse etched deep into every line of his face. “I have hurt you, haven’t I? Tell me how, tell me where, and I shall do better, I promise.”

You nod, hands gripping the fabric of his shirt. "Then we’ll both do better."

A breathless laugh escapes him, half relief, half lingering disbelief. And then he's pulling you close again, arms firm around you, his lips pressing against your temple, your hair, your hands—anywhere he can reach as if to assure himself you won’t slip away.

And you let him, because neither of you are willing to let go.

Lilia Vanrouge

"Let's break up."

At first, Lilia laughs.

It’s soft, breathy—almost amused. “Oh, that’s quite the joke,” he chuckles, his usual teasing lilt in place. “You nearly had me for a second.”

You don’t respond. You just look at him, expression unreadable, arms crossed, waiting.

His smile twitches, just barely, but you catch it. His amusement fades as realization sinks in, and something shifts in his eyes.

“…Oh.”

The room feels quieter now, despite the argument that had sparked this in the first place. He tilts his head, as if examining you from another angle will make this not real. Then, slowly, he reaches for you, his movements careful in a way that is deeply uncharacteristic of him. His fingers hover near your face, uncertain, hesitant—like he’s waiting for you to flinch, waiting for you to pull away.

"Come now," he says, softer now, a touch strained. "Don't do this. You don't mean it."

Your lips press into a thin line. You’re still frustrated, still convinced you have a point, but the sight of him—his sharp, knowing eyes turning glassy, the slight tremor in his breath—makes something uneasy settle in your chest.

"Lilia," you say, but you don’t get to finish.

Because he pulls you in.

His grip isn’t suffocating, but it’s desperate. One hand cradles the back of your head while the other clings to your waist, firm and pleading. His breathing is uneven, his usually composed demeanor cracking at the edges.

"I—" He stops, swallows, tries again. "I am sorry. I never meant to make you feel like this." His voice is quiet now, almost fragile. "If you truly wish to leave, I won’t stop you. But please, tell me—tell me this was only spoken in anger."

You exhale, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders, feeling the tension in them. His heartbeat is rapid against your own, and for the first time since knowing him, you think he’s the one who might fall apart first.

"It was," you say at last, barely steady. "I didn’t mean it."

Lilia lets out a breath that shakes, just slightly, before pulling you in impossibly closer. His fingers curl against you, grip tightening for a fraction of a second before he steadies himself.

He exhales a weak laugh against your skin, a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You mustn’t be so cruel to this old heart of mine,” he murmurs, his voice uneven with something too raw to name. “One day, you’ll be the death of me.”

His hold lingers—just a little longer than necessary—before he pulls back, just enough to look you in the eyes. There’s something softer in his gaze now, something fragile and achingly sincere.

"Promise me," he says, and though his voice is gentle, it leaves no room for refusal. "Never again."

You huff softly. "Alright."

Lilia presses his forehead to yours, exhaling slowly. “And I’m sorry for pushing you to that point.” His voice is quieter now, reverent. “I love you.”

You nod, your grip tightening around him. “I love you too.”

Lilia hums, gently swaying as he holds you. “Then let’s stay like this a little longer, hm?”

And you do. You stay, wrapped in his arms, letting the warmth of his embrace soothe the lingering ache.

Masterlist

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lovebugism · 6 months ago

Text

✶ ┄ HOLY GRAIL !

part one | part two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was known to everyone in Rome except its Emperors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Death is death.

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

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

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

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

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

Marcus nods wordlessly in response.

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

“Well… What is it?”

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

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

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

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

The ground sways beneath Geta’s unsteady feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Geta mistakes your fear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just giving you your privacy, your majesty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Geta grins wide. “Good answer, Acacius.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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