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ekkkkey · 3 months ago

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vestal (chapter II)

…in which Geta acts like an utter buffoon, and the ginger cat—well, acts like a ginger cat.

summary: Livia, a young Vestal Virgin, is bound to Vesta's eternal flame and the vow of sacred duty. In Rome, it's common knowledge; touch a Vestal, and the wrath of the gods will descend upon you. But what if someone dares to defy that rule?

chapter I

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon

tags: caracalla is a freak, darkfic, no softboys here

word count: ~3k

ৡ ৡ ৡ

On one of those warm, cozy days, Livia sat in her chamber in the House of the Vestals, just a short walk from the temple. Caesonia lay at her feet, reading aloud from Hesiod, while Livia slowly braided her hair, slipping into a light trance. The steady rhythm of her sworn sister’s voice lulled her, and every so often, she startled, lifting her head to keep from drifting off.

"You’re falling asleep!" Caesonia exclaimed, breaking off mid-sentence. "Is this how you study?" Her tone was scolding, but not entirely serious. They had been sitting there since dawn, and for most of that time, Livia had listened diligently.

"Sorry, I’m listening," she mumbled, trying to gather her thoughts as she straightened up, letting go of her sister’s hair.

"No, this won’t do. Let’s go get some fresh air."

The garden surrounding the Vestals’ house was vast yet felt intimate, a peaceful refuge tucked away behind the temple walls. A narrow, shaded path lined with cypress trees wound through it, like a quiet green corridor. On either side, the garden cascaded down in terraces, filling the air with the sweet fragrance of roses, wisteria, lilies, and narcissus. White marble benches and small, graceful gazebos rested beneath the shade of almond trees, magnolias, and acacias, their branches heavy with delicate blossoms, offering quiet spots for reflection and rest.

They settled on a bench, letting the soft sunlight warm their pale skin, savoring the sweet scent of the flowers. Livia’s hair was loose, and she wore a simple white tunic and sandals. At home, she rarely wore jewelry or styled her hair, unless they had guests.

"The High Priestess is in a foul mood today," Caesonia said lazily, squinting and basking in the sun.

"She’s always in a foul mood," Livia replied, catching a faint smile from the Vestal out of the corner of her eye.

"Careful! One day I’ll tell her all this, and she’ll have you whipped," Caesonia teased, playfully grabbing Livia’s side and tickling her ribs, making her laugh.

"Stop!" Livia caught her hands. "Then you’ll be the next one whipped!"

It was indeed a fine, warm day, despite the onset of autumn. The priestesses stopped laughing and gazed thoughtfully at the clear sky, enjoying the peace and quiet.

Then, from somewhere in the treetops, came a sudden rustling—leaves stirring, birds startled into flight. Livia flinched, her eyes darting toward the tangled branches of an acacia. The dark green canopy shifted restlessly in the breeze. And then, from deep within the foliage, a flash of red shot downward, streaking straight toward the Vestals’ feet.

Caesonia yelped and pulled her legs up, clutching Livia’s shoulder.

"That bandit again!"

The ginger cat, entirely unbothered by her fright, wove around Livia’s legs, rubbing against them insistently. She gave a faint smile, bent down, and scooped the animal onto her lap, stroking it between the ears. It purred deeply, kneading her with its claws, scratching even through the fabric of her tunic.

"Oh, sister, at least one man is touching you," Caesonia chuckled, finally relaxing. "Only tomcats are ginger—and this one has no shame at all."

The cat stretched luxuriously on Livia’s lap, rolling onto its back with a pleased rumble. She ran a hand over its warm belly, and in an instant, it seized her wrist with all four paws, biting and kicking. Livia bore it without protest, unwilling to push it away, while the cat stared up at her with wide yellow eyes. A strange shiver ran through her—then came a particularly sharp bite. She finally brushed the cat off.

It flicked its tail, let out an indignant meow, and vanished into the garden.

Livia’s tender skin stung where its claws had dug in. She glanced at her hand without much interest—one scratch was especially deep, a long, bloody line running from her index finger to her wrist.

"You should take better care of yourself! We should have the slaves keep him out," Caesonia gently blew on the wound as she stroked Livia’s hand.

"It’s nothing," Livia replied lightly, wiping away the blood to reveal a faint pink line. "See? It’s already fine."

They sat quietly in the sun, but the stillness didn’t last long. Near the villa, slaves had begun moving about under the gatekeeper’s direction, their voices breaking the afternoon hush.

"Are we expecting someone?" Livia asked, watching the commotion.

"No, the High Priestess didn’t mention anything," Caesonia said, squinting as she tried to make out what was happening.

Life in the House of the Vestals was one of routine and devotion—days spent in study, interrupted only by prayer before lessons resumed. Moments of peace like this were rare, especially for Livia, who hadn’t even served a full decade yet.

The gatekeeper was already making her way toward them. Their solitude was over. With a sigh, Livia rose to her feet, brushing ginger cat hairs from the folds of her tunic. As she tucked her hair behind her ears, she silently cursed herself for not covering it with a veil. If they had guests, appearing like this—bareheaded, in a plain white tunic, with her hair simply loose—was hardly appropriate.

Suddenly, she recalled how the citizens of Rome had stared at her in the Colosseum, their mouths agape in awe… A pleasant shiver ran through her. She was still a priestess of Vesta, and in any guise, she inspired reverence.

The High Priestess had once said that Christians considered pride a sin. If so, Livia was the greatest sinner, for more than anything, the young priestess took pride in her position. Though her family had once been respected, they were far from wealthy, meaning her fate might have been that of an unloved wife to some old man, like Cassandra. Had that brought her much happiness? Claudia, though married to a man she loved, hardly looked happy—more sickly and pale. While other priestesses sometimes found themselves intrigued by gossip and the mysteries of love and passion, Livia lived only for the love of Vesta. Caesonia said that this was for the best. Livia herself agreed.

Her gaze drifted to Caesonia’s white garments, and she noted to herself that the tunic was less than perfect—its whiteness tinged with gray, the fabric wrinkled. Livia primly smoothed the folds of her own impeccably white tunic. Even now, at home, bareheaded and unadorned, she never forgot who she was.

At the house, on the open marble terrace, guests were indeed waiting. The slaves serving the Vestals were easily recognizable by their white attire, but the young men and women dressed in red and gold were unfamiliar to Livia.

Her lips tightened, her brows furrowed. Who had disturbed their peace?

A chill ran down her spine when she finally saw the cause of the commotion.

"Emperor Geta, what an honor," - she bestowed him with a light nod, then immediately lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders. Here, on her own ground and surrounded by her people, Livia felt confident.

The young emperor stood in the shade under the terrace roof, as if reluctant to step into the light. Why was he alone, she wondered?

"Lucilla is at the temple with your High Priestess," - he explained. His voice was hoarse, sounding strangely unsure, as if the presence of the Vestals made him uncomfortable.

"And you are curious about how the Vestals live? We are flattered, it’s been quite a while since emperors have graced us with their presence," Livia quipped, and Caesonia pinched her hand—subtly, but firmly enough to make her hold her tongue.

"Perhaps His Imperial Majesty would like to see our garden? Livia would be honored to show you the most beautiful flowers while you await your mother," Caesonia slyly set her up, but there was no way out. At the word mother Geta grimaced, but still nodded eagerly and stepped into the sunlight.

Livia immediately noticed that the Emperor rarely spent time in the sun. Dressed in a white tunic and a gilded toga with a purple border, he looked out of place among the pristine white garments of the priestesses and slaves. His ginger hair was neatly curled and styled, a small golden laurel gleaming in the sun. Yet, to her surprise, there was a restraint in his dress today, a simplicity that stood in stark contrast to their first meeting.

He orders the servants not to follow them, though Livia can tell he’s overheated—powder has smeared on his neck, and the skin where it wasn’t applied has immediately turned pink.

"We can stay on the terrace if you’d prefer," she offered, more out of courtesy than true concern as they made their way down the cypress-lined path into the garden.

"And you’re not feeling the heat?" His question, though a bit silly, makes Livia feel a wave of discomfort. She doesn’t like being flustered. Still, she nervously tucks her hair behind her ear, wishing once more that she’d covered it with a veil. She feels his dark eyes on her, studying her with interest, and again she’s certain there’s no respect in that gaze.

For a young, unmarried woman, being alone with a man like this was hardly proper. But she was not just any woman, and he was not just any man.

She comforted herself with that thought as they walked beneath the cypress shadows.

"You don’t visit the city often, do you?" He was making an effort to be polite, and it amused her. Why was he trying so hard? Their order was loyal to Rome, and the emperors were Rome. Even if they were the worst people on earth, the Vestals would stand by them.

"Nor do you and your brother, do you?" They stopped at the same bench where she and Caesonia had sat earlier. "I find the world’s bustle repulsive, Caesar. How people live, what they think, what they talk about… it’s all empty, fleeting. Entertainment, finery, words—just tinsel they drape over their aimless existence. Do you understand me?"

He likely didn’t. He enjoyed entertainment, finery, and idle talk himself, but he listened so superficially that he didn’t even realize she was speaking about him. Instead of offense or anger, his dark eyes held only curiosity, even delight.

Emperor Geta sat a short distance away, careful not to touch her, but she caught the sharp, pine-like scent emanating from him. While he studied her shamelessly, like a child, she only watched from the corner of her eye, unwilling to show interest.

Of course, it flattered her to be speaking, for the second time, with a Father of Rome—one who smiled foolishly and nodded at her every word. Where was his brother? Livia thought of Caracalla—not out of genuine curiosity, but simply because the emperor had dared to touch her, pretending as though nothing had happened! Insolent, pompous…

"I’d like us to meet more often," Geta interrupted her thoughts. "Our father wasn’t particularly devout, so the Vestals didn’t receive the attention they deserved." His gaze swept over her, far too openly, as if she were some common street girl rather than a priestess.

Livia pressed her lips together and looked away, conceding defeat in their silent staring contest with the emperor.

"Yes, your father was rather occupied with persecuting Christians and crucifying them across the streets of Rome," she said. Even with all the authority and privileges her position granted, she was still beneath the Emperor. Provoking him wasn’t wise, but she despised his tone—the way he looked at her. Let him complain to the High Priestess if he wished.

Geta froze as if she had struck him. Her words about his father unsettled him in a way she hadn’t expected. His powdered face tightened, lips pressing into a thin line, jaw clenching.

"Do you speak this way to everyone, or have I earned special treatment? Because it seems to me you’re taking too many liberties," his voice turning cold, laced with quiet menace.

She flushed with shame, stung by his words. It was true—she had thought him less educated, less clever, treating him more like a boy than the man who had caused Rome to burn for months. He was dangerous, and angering him was foolish.

"Who am I, Livia?" His next question followed her silence.

Forcing herself, she turned to face him. He sat rigid, his pale fingers gripping the edge of the marble bench so tightly they seemed to blend into it.

"The Emperor," she answered, avoiding his probing dark eyes, regretting her earlier sharpness. "Father of Rome and Pontifex Maximus. Forgive me, Caesar, I got carried away. Vestals don’t often speak with men," she added, hoping this conversation would end soon.

He squinted slightly, his taut lips easing into something resembling satisfaction.

"Messengers of the gods," he lifted a finger adorned with a heavy ring, first pointing at her, then at himself, "must have a strong bond to ensure Rome’s strength. After all, the sacred fire of your temple is the fire of the emperors, isn’t it?" He tilted his head slightly, his eyes locked on hers, waiting for her answer. Geta was pressing on their divine connection, and it was clear he knew more about the temple and its priestesses than she’d assumed.

"Yes, Caesar," she replied, her voice steady but with a hint of resignation.

The sun climbed high into the sky, relentlessly baking her dark hair. Livia fidgeted, the heat growing unbearable. She felt a bead of sweat trickle down her neck, and she noticed that Geta’s dark eyes followed it, tracking the drop with an unsettling focus. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his pale skin.

"I’d like you and the other priestesses to attend the games again in two weeks," he said, sensing her discomfort, his tone confident as though he knew she wouldn’t dare refuse. "The plebeians were thrilled by the last games, and seeing you…" His eyes swept over her from head to toe. "The white robes, the veils—it drives the common folk wild," a strange smirk tugged at his lips, "and not just them."

The silence hung awkwardly between them, the conversation taking an uncomfortable turn. Were all men like this?

"You should discuss that with the High Priestess, Emperor," she replied, her voice steady despite the tension. He simply nodded and rose from the bench, stepping in front of her and blocking the sun. His towering form loomed over her, and the boyish air that had accompanied him earlier was gone, replaced by an aura of overwhelming authority.

Livia glanced up at him, and Geta smirked, a self-satisfied grin curling on his lips as he extended his hand, fully aware she wouldn’t take it, nor would she ever touch his pale palm. Did he think she’d break her vows just to lay her fingers on the divine emperor? In her mind, the priestess wondered what his skin would feel like and, oddly enough, she imagined it would be as cold as marble.

They returned to the terrace in silence. The High Priestess and Lucilla, back from the Temple of Vesta, were already waiting. Livia, lost in her thoughts, almost misses the sympathetic glance from the emperor’s mother. The daughter of Marcus Aurelius was a striking woman, though no longer young. She seemed as if she wanted to speak to Livia, to approach her—but Geta got to her first, leaning in close and whispering something in her ear. His grip on her forearm was anything but gentle.

Livia caught only fragments of his words:

"…where is he?"

The senior priestess noticed her lingering and, displeased, sent her off to the temple. Under Geta’s mocking gaze, Livia once again felt the sting of shame and frustration. Still, she lifted her head high and, escorted by her assigned guards, left the Vestals’ house.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

The sunlit marble walls of the Temple of Vesta gleamed, a dazzling white against the deep green of the laurels and cypresses. Livia stood before the grand temple once again, mesmerized. She saw it every day, yet each time, a wave of awe and reverence washed over her anew. As she approached the entrance, the dark thoughts that had been clouding her mind dissipated, replaced by a profound stillness.

The men who had accompanied her remained below, at the foot of the steps leading to the sacred house of Vesta. Men were strictly forbidden from entering, and any who dared defy the law faced a dreadful fate.

Inside, the temple was cool and serene, untouched by the outside world. Livia made her way toward the sacred fire, her steps measured and slow. She paused, allowing herself a moment to stare into the flames. For a long while, an unbroken peace lingered in the air, the flickering light of the altar dancing across her face, its glow reflected in her eyes.

In this place, Livia always felt a profound sense of calm and protection, as if the very walls of the temple held her in an embrace. Here, she was the vessel of the goddess—pure, untouched, like the sacred flame itself.

That’s why the voice—a man’s voice—that suddenly echoed behind her was such a shock.

"So, this is the legendary eternal sacred fire?" the intruder drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Her heart jolted, the blood rushing to her ears. An intruder! A man! In the temple of the Great Goddess! Her hands flew to her chest, and she spun around instinctively, positioning herself between the flame and the interloper. No man could enter the Temple of Vesta. Everyone knew the consequences would be terrifying. If someone was brazen and fearless enough to break this rule, that person was undoubtedly dangerous.

"You have no place here!" Livia’s voice rang out, sharp and steel-like, before she even cast a glance at the uninvited guest. Her words echoed loudly beneath the temple’s vaulted ceiling.

Only then did she see the one who had disturbed the temple’s serene silence. The faint, melodic chime of his golden bracelets echoed softly, and Livia’s fingers tightened around the folds of her tunic.

"And why is that?" the emperor replied tauntingly, taking a few slow, deliberate steps forward, his blue eyes glinting in the light of the sacred fire, never leaving her.

If his brother, Emperor Geta, had dressed modestly today, Caracalla was once again flamboyantly adorned and painted in striking colors. The first thing she noticed was a small golden earring with a white pearl that shimmered red and yellow in the firelight. She should have called the guards, shouted for help, driven him out—but he… he was an emperor. If they had let him in, would anyone help her expel him?

He took a step forward; she stepped back. A quiet, satisfied laugh echoed in the temple, rising to the high ceiling. The heavy burgundy fabric, embroidered with gold, rustled as Caracalla stopped in the center of the sanctuary, clearly pleased by her frightened expression.

"Are junior Vestals even allowed near the fire?" The earring clinked softly as he tilted his head, studying her. The pearl rested against his pale skin, nearly blending with it.

His lips seemed even redder than she remembered—bright, vivid, and strangely cruel. He smiled, but she felt no warmth or mirth, only a stifling irritation and an unsettling fear.

"You’re breaking laws established long before either of us was born, Emperor," she tried to steady herself, though it was no easy feat. "Twice now."

"Enlighten me, priestess," Caracalla replied, his smirk widening as he clasped his hands together. Her gaze lingered on the endless array of massive rings adorning his delicate fingers, but she quickly forced herself to meet his eyes, determined not to reveal how terrified she was. She knew the fate that awaited any Roman citizen who dared break the laws—but what punishment awaited an emperor?

"You touched me when we first met, though you knew it was forbidden," her frown deepened. "And now you’ve entered the temple, fully aware that’s prohibited too."

Caracalla moved his lips from side to side, as if truly reflecting on his past actions, then flashed a wide grin, a gold tooth catching the light. He took a few unhurried steps, narrowing the distance between them until he was just a breath away.

"Yes, I did." A sweet scent wafted from him, reminiscent of the temple during festivals—the fragrance of incense burned to honor the gods. He wasn’t a god, so why did she feel such trembling unease? "Should I be punished, Amata?" The mockery in his voice was so blatant that she nearly choked with rage. How dare he!

Livia faltered, lowering her gaze to collect her thoughts, but the soft rustle of his heavy garments made her tense again and look up.

A faint breath of air skimmed her cheek, though there was no breeze in the temple… only him. His hand, pale and delicate, almost feminine, nearly brushed her face—but no, it lingered in midair, achingly near, cloaked in that faint sweet scent.

With his fingertips, he followed the shape of her face without touching her, tracing the curve of her cheek, the angle of her jaw, the trembling line of her mouth. A ghost of a touch. And yet, she felt it—the phantom heat of his fingers crawling over her skin.

The emperor didn’t touch her—so why did it feel like sacrilege?

As a priestess, she should have cast him out, gotten rid of him as quickly as possible. Instead, she found herself holding her breath, terrified he might lean in closer and press her right up against the altar.

"Please, leave," she rasped, all her bravado gone. Rules and laws didn’t frighten him—so how could she make him go? And more importantly, why was he here? "What do you want?"

"I wanted to see the one who caught my brother’s eye," he lowered his hand slowly but didn’t step back. His presence filled the space, and she found herself looking down to avoid his gaze. "Li-vi-a," he dragged her name out, savoring each syllable.

"Emperor Geta, like you, I assume, came here because of your mother, Lady Lucilla." The priestess chose her words carefully, steering the conversation away from the disturbing direction it was heading.

"You really think he cares about Lucilla’s wishes?" He ignored the word mother entirely. "Geta wants you, but he’s too cowardly to take you. So he just stares and then has the others—dark-haired, pale-skinned slaves. Only they can’t give him what my brother so desperately craves…"

His hand hovered near her cheek again, then slid lower, as if the emperor was about to grab her by the throat, but then, still, he changed his mind, curling his fingers into a fist and pulling away.

"They’re all whores, not Vestal virgins, Livia. That’s why he keeps seeking you out," he leaned in, pushing into her space closer than any man ever dared, his hot breath brushing her ear as he whispered, "to keep your image sharp in his mind while…"

What he said next made her flush a deep red. Not here, not in the Temple of Vesta, pure and sacred like its priestesses, should such blasphemy be spoken! His very presence was a desecration, a strike against everything they stood for. How dared he speak to her like this?! How dare he whisper such filth in this holy place!

"Get out!" Her voice rang with fury, her anger rising like a storm, giving her strength she never knew she had.

She had already realized that Caracalla was dangerous—much more so than Geta, even if what he said about Geta was true. If her defiance had angered Geta earlier today, what would Caracalla do? Would he order her to be flogged?

No, the young emperor doesn’t get angry. On the contrary, he laughs loudly, visibly pleased with her reaction, and Livia, mesmerized, watches as the white pearl sways, lost in his red hair.

"So alike in appearance, yet so different at the same time, little bird!" He cut himself off, his smile fading, and his gold-lined eyes narrowed.

"My brother told you about the games, didn’t he? Of course, he did. Well, see you later, priestess, though…"

Without finishing, Caracalla strode out of the temple, and Livia followed to ensure he was truly gone. At the exit, he turned, flashing a crooked smile over his shoulder, showing his profile.

Livia squints, blinded by the sun behind the emperor, by the glare of his golden laurel and the shimmering brilliance of his ornaments and robes.

"Not Jupiter, fierce and stern, but Sol—the god of the sun and light," she thought with a strange thrill. Radiant, luminous, fair-skinned, youthful, with a wild mane of unruly red curls—he struck her as beautiful for the first time. And that thought horrified her.

"…Perhaps we’ll meet much sooner," he winked at her boyishly, as if they shared some delicious secret.

Livia stepped back into the shadows, her sweat-dampened hands hidden behind her back, watching him until he left the temple grounds.

Only then did she lean against the wall, exhaling shakily. Her perfect composure had cracked. The sun beat mercilessly on her head, but she couldn’t move—just as she couldn’t under Caracalla’s piercing blue gaze.

"If Emperor Geta is the moon—cold, silent, enigmatic—then he, Caracalla, is surely the sun: bright, scorching everything in its path, neither gentle nor warming," she thought, wringing her hands nervously.

At the foot of the stairs, a slave boy in white robes appeared, gesturing for her to come. She hurried down, noticing the small bundle in his hands.

The message was indeed for her, from Claudia. The news was far from joyful. When Cassandra, before… before her death, had sent a plea for help, Livia hadn’t responded. It had been spring, the festival of Vesta in full swing, and there’d been no time… and then her sister was gone.

Claudia begged her to visit, pleaded desperately, for Livia was her last remaining kin.

This time, Livia wouldn’t abandon her sister. She’d fulfill her request after speaking with the High Priestess, but… as fate would have it, Claudia and her husband were now residing in the emperors’ palace. Nausea gripped her.

As if mocking her, that same ginger cat appeared at her feet, purring deeply and rubbing against her.

Truly alike, indeed.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

note: this story is directly connected to there will be games! Livia is the sister of Cassandra, the protagonist of that story. It’s been about two months since the events of the finale and what Geta did.

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yellosnacc · 4 months ago

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Oc art I was leaving to die in a folder until now.

The faceless, from the city of demons, and their two companions.

Slay bonus

#art #digital art #speculative biology #artists on tumblr #artwork #worldbuilding #speculative evolution #spec bio #uniima #land uniima #faceless #freaks #uniima ll #aliens #ocs #oc art

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dailygtwsshitdoodles · 11 months ago

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#127 Stop using anti-self language 😜

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multific · 7 months ago

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The City of Rome at Your Feet

Emperor Geta x Reader

Warnings: hint of insanity (a lot), spoilers for the movie, blood, soft mention of smut

Summary: It was always about the pleasures of the body. But your soul was happiest just around him.

Two souls have never been more intervened.

It was almost frightening.

How can two people be meant for each other so much?

They weren’t much different. Both wicked in their own ways.

Geta being the loud Emperor, while you remained the quiet Empress.

Same temper, same goals and the same love for violence.

You just expressed yourself differently.

You being a lady, were elegant and enticing.

Your marriage was only a wish. A wish which came true.

You prayed to the Gods, hoping for a husband who is just like you.

And you met the Emperors.

Caracalla enjoyed your wit and even if you weren't blood related, called you sister. But Geta enjoyed you as a woman and ordered you to marry him.

You had no choice but to accept.

You never expected for your marriage to turn into such greatness.

It was a marriage filled with fire and blood.

A love filled with passion and power.

And each night, not only your bodies but your souls also melted into one.

You noticed as time kept going on, slowly, the lines between you and Geta slowly blurred.

When Acacius returned from yet another victory. You stood by your husband.

"Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla, Empress Y/N." he greeted you as you looked at him, his words failed to get to you after that.

All that you remember is heading back into the palace then Acacius' words finally reached your ears.

"My wife has many subjects. She has to feed them." Acacius said and you looked at him.

Caracalla spoke up before you could.

"And you suggest my sister is not doing a proper job of that?" your eyes snapped at Acacius, who looked at you with regret in his eyes.

"I hope your wife will be able to come and join us for the games tomorrow. I appreciate she is busy with her... subjects, but I don't see why she won't be able to join us."

Caracalla laughed and your eyes never moved from Marcus instead, you took a step closer to him.

"In case you forgot who you were talking to, Marcus." you finished and raised your cup. The man nodded.

---

You enjoyed Gladiator games as much as the next person.

Watching men fight for honour and freedom. It was truly magneficent.

Marcus and his wife were also present after Marcus' lovely speech, you felt a dark presence.

The row behind you were making plans.

But you were a step ahead. Watching Lucilla look at the new Gladiator, Hanno.

You tilted your head and smirked.

You will have some fun with those three.

Your husband squeezes your hand as you turned and smiled at him.

Later that evening, you sent word, asking a guard to report to you as soon as someone visits the new Gladiator.

And someone did.

Lucilla.

You smiled.

"My Love! So happy today?"

"Of course I am. I just found out something very interesting."

"Dare to share?" he grabbed your waist and pulled you close.

"Maybe later, once I have it all laid out."

"I would like to lay you out right now." he moved his head into your neck and started biting your neck.

---

Your husband was yelling, you looked at the traitors in front of you.

"Torture me, but do not lecture me." you smiled at Marcus' words.

"You two are truly stupid." you spoke up and everyone in the room looked at you. "You thought you could save him. Your beloved son. Lucius? Is that his name? You are truly foolish."

"What are you talking about?" asked Lucilla.

"He's dead. Killed him myself." you watched as both looked at you in disbelief.

Then a guard walked out with a head on a plate.

"The same fate Macrinus wished for my husband." You turned to the man sitting on the bench while Lucilla broke down and Marcus moved. "Silly man." with one movement you stepped out of the way as the guards brought him to the floor.

"I wonder how the people of Rome will think of their beloved General once they learn how he attached their Empress. In her sleep none the less. Snuck in and tried to kill her. Sent by his wife, who wished to rule."

"You-" but Marcus couldn't finish his sentence as he was dragged away along with his wife and Macrinus.

"Sister, you are something else truly!" Caracalla laughed and you grabbed a knife and a silver plate, looking at yourself, you cut along your neck. "Genius!" Caracalla continued.

"Why did you have to do that?" Geta rushed over to you, worried as he put his hand on your bleeding neck.

"Proof to the people of my attack. Oh, Geta I was so worried! He came out of nowhere! Hiding in the silk curtains, he told me Lucilla wanted to take my place! I was so scared." your eyes were shiny with tears as Geta shook his head and looked at you.

Caracalla left moments before, laughing still.

Geta watched you and he let out a long sigh. "How did you know?"

"Lucilla was so obvious I'm surprised not everyone noticed. As for Macrinus... I never liked him."

Geta let out a laugh, this is when the healer arrived to check out your neck and put bandages on it.

The next day, you watched Marcus fight and fail.

You managed to put on the show of a life time with your injury, the people of Rome had no reason not to believe you.

All they saw is a hurt poor woman, their Empress.

This not only earned you but also the Emperors sympathy as everyone chanted for Acacius' death.

You felt your husband move his arms around you, pulling you close.

Rome was yours.

Geta was yours and you were only his.

Gladiator II Collection

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ladybirdswritings · 6 months ago

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HUNTRESS, FIC — emperor geta x reader.

DESCRIPTION: the blood of the emperor’s brother is on your hands, a betrayed huntress facing death in the colosseum. your every move watched by the vengeful emperor who loathes you as much as you despise him. but amidst blood, betrayal, and survival, hatred begins to twist into something dangerous. NOTES - little enemies to lovers fic !! leave me all your thoughts and opinions. i love them <33 | next part

one;

The thrum of hundreds of drums cocooned your ears in an awful medley, vibrations snaking like vines across your very skin.

Here and now, standing before scorching iron twisting into mangled gates, you allowed a chill to kiss your skin.

You were afraid—very afraid—and for good reason. But even so, gladiators didn’t cower before their fate.

It was a good thing that wasn’t what you were.

This was all just an unfortunate consequence of one painfully violent decision.

For my brother… you had whispered into the chill of the winter season as you plunged a gold, ornate blade into the chest of the wrong ginger.

Sure, the younger one was no better than the older. Even so, it was not his crimson you had wished to coat your hands with, for he had not killed Pietro. Geta had.

And Geta would kill you too. Whatever growled beyond these iron gates was no better than a gruesome death.

“Huntress,” Lucien called, clad in bronze armor and pleated wraps. You winced.

“Don’t call me that.”

But he paid you no mind as he stepped forward, wrapping your lanky arm in a cuff of gold.

“It’s what you are, what you must be, if you intend to slay whatever beast lurks beyond these gates. Listen to me: do not be foolish in there. Do not give them a show. You run, and you hide in the very dirt if you must. Here.”

With a worried glance toward the guards, he hastily pulled out three violet berries and pressed them into your palm. His calloused skin guided your hand to wrap around them.

“This is poison. You squeeze, and it erupts into a sea of death. Use these, and you may survive.”

May.

It was too awful a word—too insignificant.

“Bring out the girl!” a horrid, broken voice roared to his many peasants. The iron groaned in deep complaint as the gates began to part.

It was then that you felt every bit the weak, fearful girl you truly were. Your doe-like eyes locked on Lucien’s. His palms gripped your biceps, a huff of frustration escaping him as he scanned your face—perhaps to remember it. Then he leaned forward to press a warm kiss to your forehead.

He was saying goodbye.

“You will survive,” he murmured against your skin. All you could do was nod with a gulp as he pulled away.

Facing the liquid gold rays of the sun now blinding you, you stepped through the gates.

Despise was not a strong enough word to describe just how much these people loathed you.

So destroyed over the death of half of their precious emperors. You scowled at the thought—the same emperors who kept them on pretty leashes.

Slickened tomatoes crushed beneath your boots as you limped forward. You were no better than Pietro here, and it seemed as though history was only going to repeat itself.

Bruised beneath the bronze armor, thirsty and starved, they had purpled your skin, nearly dislocated your hip, and robbed you of any sustenance that could aid you in this impossible battle.

They had cheated, just as they had with your brother in this awful colosseum.

You would die on the very same dirt as your brother had—your twin.

Even so, a vicious grin tugged at your lips when your eyes locked on the lone ginger emperor scowling down at you. His jaw was taut, his arms littered with veins, but his eyes—they gave him away. Dark. Exhausted.

Even if you were to stain his dirt with your blood, he would remain as you were now: a lone twin. His brother in the dirt, too.

Perhaps your revenge had not been such a disaster after all.

“Traitorous whore!” he screeched at you, and the peasants roared in agreement.

His words were no bother. You’d fight well enough—and when you died, you’d die with a smile.

“Bring out her death!”

Vibrations crawled up your calves as you squeezed the oak wood bow clasped in your hand—your only weapon.

The gates opposing you parted, welcoming two awful horns held back only by frayed rope and a growling man atop the beast.

“He shall impale you as you impaled my brother!” Geta growled from his castle above, his voice guttural and animalistic.

“BEGIN!”

His roar was so vicious you swayed on your feet.

Perhaps the bow was meant to deter you from survival, but you were grateful for it now. With your weak bones, you had no chance of surviving close battle. No chance of escaping a sword fight or a seething rhinoceros.

But your bow—you could fight from afar.

Thrum-thrum-thrum-thrum. The beast neared closer, working into a charge so vicious it drowned out the crowd’s excitement. You could feel Geta’s eyes scorching your skin.

He did not simply want you dead. He wanted you mangled.

“HUNTRESS—KILL THEM!” Lucien roared from behind the gates, snapping you back into the present moment.

Your purpled hands trembled as you grabbed an arrow and loaded your bow. You had to treat this as any other time—locked away in the forest with just you, the glades, and your bow.

A rhinoceros could be no different from a fawn, right? Animals—all the same. And you were starving now, just as you had been all the other times you hunted.

Closer, closer. You steadied your rapid breaths best you could— imagining doe-eyes approaching as opposed to horns and squinting as you found the place between the beast’s brows.

Closer.

Even closer.

A moment more and you’d lose your shot, so you released the tension-bound arrow.

Laughter—cruel, cold, and entirely at your expense—rattled the stadium.

Your eyes fell to the ground, where the arrow landed not two feet away from your boots.

No, no, no.

Your fingers trembled against the string. It was loose.

Bastard.

Your eyes flicked to Geta’s, cold and swimming with satisfaction. He had rigged your bow.

And the beast was still charging.

“HUNTRESS!” Lucien’s cry was lost on your ears as you steadied your feet. Your heart hummed like a bird in your chest.

You hissed as sharp pain licked the flesh of your wrist. Violet trickled from your cuff.

The berries.

Crying out in exasperation, you shook the berries free.

You would be impaled in a moment, but at least the poison would piss the wretched thing off.

With a cry, you crushed the berries in your palm, tossing the violet liquid into the air just as the horn grazed your bronze armor.

And you waited.

No darkness or light found you.

A screech so awful it could have burst your eardrums shook the colosseum. The beast reared back, thrashing in a violent dance before collapsing to the dirt.

Its tongue slack, its eyes white, it crushed the man commanding it.

You breathed then. For the first time.

As your eyes lifted, you found a flicker of awe in Geta's gaze-beyond his rage.

The colosseum roared in disbelief as Geta flipped the fruits and wine before him, storming away.

And you breathed.

Alive.

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hachiibun · 4 months ago

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Patreon Requests from last month!

Dan/te (DMCV) for @skybeck-gamer, @sneezywoowoo's OC Gevy, and Lau/nch for Benjamin

Dan/te (DMC4) for @skybeck-gamer, @collectivelyallergic's OC Jasper & my OC Antoni, and Chi-Ch/i for Benjamin

@kittensnz7's OC Spade, Se/th for @accidentalmistress, and my OC Aubin for @sneezywoowoo

@heavyeditsnz's OC Ren, @goodlucksnez's OC Sky, To/wa for @indulgnc, and @rachwavs's OC Aoto plus a bonus sketch of Quinn by N

If you like my drawings, and are willing and able to do so, please consider commissioning me, pledging to my Patreon, or donating through ko-fi ☕! You're not obliged to, but every bit helps to keep me living decently and I really do appreciate it!

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#snz #snz kink #hachiisnzart #hachiibunocs #d/m/c #d/m/c da/nte #ppls ocs #dr/agon ba/ll #z/zz #se/th low/ell #snz oc aubin #snz oc antoni #snz oc quinn #summer oc gevy #squish oc jasper #mari oc asahi #mari oc ren #heavyeditsnz

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kenchann · 4 months ago

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twst ocs doodles

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kirikorik · 3 months ago

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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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#emperor geta #emperor caracalla #the emperor #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #gladiator geta #gladiator movie #fanfik #gladiator ll #Publius Septimius Geta/Original Character(s)#Publius Septimius Geta #Publius Septimius Geta/Original Female Character(s)#Publius Septimius Geta/Original Female Character #Emperor Geta/Original Female Character(s)#geta and caracalla #Emperor Geta/OC #emperor geta fanfic #emperor geta x femOC #emperor geta x oc

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mostclevermiss · 4 months ago

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Marcus gazes upon his daughter and he thinks back to the day Bellona placed her in his arms. She was a small babe but her cries rang throughout the camp like a war horn and she would only be soothed by her father's voice, bouncing from side to side as he went through different strategies. His friend and Captain of his armies, Quintus, always laughed when he told of how the feared Marcus Acacius discussed invasion plans with the other commanders with a baby girl strapped to his chest - of how he would take every one of her babbles as if it was an excellent question and jump to another point to answer it.

(“sic semper tyrannis” on AO3, featuring Marcus Acacius being the best father in all of Rome and his unhinged demigod daughter)

(Art by the amazing and incredible @palluniskillas - who I would give my life for)

#pedro pascal gladiator #pedro pascal art #pedro pascal fanart #pedro pascal fanfiction #gladiator fanfiction #gladiator ll #gladiator 2 #gladiator oc #gladiator ii #general marcus acacius #gladiator marcus #marcus acacius #marcus acacius fanfiction #Marcus Acacius art #marcus acacius angst #valentina acacia #lucilla aurelia #lucius verus

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missadangel · 1 month ago

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⊱ AMOR MEUS AETERNUS ⊰

(Marcus Acacius x Ofc)

IV. Matrimonium

prev chapter series masterlist next chapter

Chapter Summary: Here comes the -unfortunate time-traveller- bride! Ceremony: check, Applause: check, Sacrifice: check, Wedding band: check, Love: nah, Desire: unknown Groom: not leaving unlike the previous one Bride: thinking about escaping. Chapter W. Count and warnings: 11k; denial of feelings, blood, mention about sex, mention about virginity, a little fluff, angst injury, romantic comedy, ancient rome, using drugs (tranquilizer), anxiety attacks, violence, waxing, power imbalance, marriage, wedding, wedding night discussion, embarrasment, alcohol consumption. authors note: Pronuba: The Pronuba, the matron of honor, was still married to her first husband. She is univira, a one-man woman. Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Ofc!Reader (Her name is Rose, and her hair is dyed) Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI, Smut General Warnings: Harsh, cold, grumpy Marcus, and the reader is NOT innocent a little bitchy, Lucilla is mean, Lucius is a jerk(but falls in love with reader), its Septimius Severus' era but Geta and Caracalla are the prince of Rome, time travel, modern-ancient era travels, falling in love, slow burn, rough sex, smut, sex, oral sex (both f&m receiving), all sex, dirty talk, gladiators, battle, war, violence, blood, ancient time language, fluffy, injury, forced marriage, arranged marriage, sexism, haters to lovers, first love, angst, vestal virgins, vestal priestesses, age gap; reader is 25 Marcus is 42, reincarnation my masterlist

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Theme....

"Julius, are you trying to kill me?"

He looked at you, eyes wide, still glistening with tears though. "Are you well?"

You stood up angrily, still reeling from the heartbreaking story he had just shared. "What exactly was the purpose of telling me all this? Because I'm about to have an anxiety attack." Your hands trembled.

"My apologies. I wanted you to understand the weight of my brother's burdens and the struggles he faces regarding this union—similar to yours."

"I get it; he’s still got that girl in his heart. But honestly, I don’t care. It’s not a real marriage, is it? By the time I get back, it’ll all be over—end of story. I should take my pill now or I won’t be able to sleep tonight due to nightmares." You said, then turned to leave, but he followed. You raised your hand to stop him, needed to be alone—just you and your pill, your best friend.

Trying to push thoughts from your mind as you walked through the dimly lit courtyard towards the stairs was a challenge. Tension gripped you again, a reminder of how cruel this ancient world can be, and you had no clue when you’d escape this nightmare. Your head spun as you climbed the stairs; you had to take your pill, and fast.

Lost in the darkness, your senses dulled by anxiety, you didn’t notice Marcus standing on the balustrade ahead. He noticed you, but just watched you walk by, still in shock and uncertain about what to do.

Upon entering your room, your eyes immediately searched for your bag.

There it was, on the bed. You unzipped it quickly, reaching for your medicine and popping one into your mouth. When you stood to grab the water from the table, you clumsily bumped your knee on the chair.

Yes, the same knee you had hurt earlier.

“Ah, damn!” You plopped onto the bed, lifting the hem of your dress. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was bleeding a bit. You thought you should apply some hand cream to it; after all, there was no pharmacy around.

“Rosa?”

Startled by Marcus’ voice, you looked up, and he froze at the sight. Oh, right, your legs were exposed again. He averted his gaze, but not before noticing your wound.

"How can you just barge into my room like that?"

"I heard your voice. Are you hurt?" he asked, turning his head slowly, his attention fixating on your knee.

"Why? Are you worried about me now? I thought you came to cut out my tongue."

He exhaled sharply and faced you. "Forgive me, Rosa. I was a bit angry."

"A bit?"

He stepped closer, reaching out to touch your knee, but you instinctively pulled back. “Let me see,” he said, sitting beside you and gently touching your knee. "How did this happen?"

What was going on?

Why was he acting so tender all of a sudden?

"I fell, and Lucius carried me here. Oh right, you didn't bother to ask; you preferred to threaten me instead," you said sarcastically.

"Lucius," he murmured. "Are you interested in him?" His tone sharpened, hinting at something deeper.

Puzzled by his reaction, you decided to tease him. "I don't know; he’s a handsome man."

His brow furrowed. "Keep that opinion to yourself. You’re about to be married."

Ignoring his awkard-possessive tone, you reached for your bag. "Can you hand me my bag? I need some cream for my knee."

He obeyed, passing you your bag while watching intently. His gaze traveled over your face, still stunned by the revelation from earlier. He was trying to reconcile the features of the woman he loved, finding uncanny resemblances in you that sent his mind spiraling.

So this is how she would have looked like if… if they hadn’t taken her from me, he thought.

The same frown line etched on your forehead, the delicate slant of your eyes, your long, lush eyelashes framing your gaze, your perfectly sculpted nose, and, most strikingly, your lips.

Those lips.

They were exactly the same.

Once again, he was taken aback.

How had he not noticed before?

Just the sight of your lips pulled him back into treasured memories, reminding him of their first kiss—a fleeting moment that was forever seared into his mind. So entranced by your lips, he nearly leaned in to kiss you.

Almost.

“Well, I guess this will do,” you said, slipping the cream back into your bag.

Your voice jolted him from his reverie. “That photo,” he said, peering into your bag with curiosity.

“Which one?” You reached into your wallet. “Oh, this one? It’s an old picture of me as a kid. Look, I was really young here—about 11 or 12—and Liz was just five. It was her birthday.” You sighed, gazing at the photo. It held a different meaning for both of you. “I miss her so much,” you whispered.

“Your family... you mentioned that your mother has passed away and that your father is currently experiencing health issues. Is there anyone else in your family?” His serious tone caught you off guard; he seemed genuinely interested, not just asking out of politeness.

“My dad’s in the hospital, in a coma, but I guess you wouldn’t really understand what that means. I have an aunt, but we’re not on the best terms. Why do you ask?”

“Have you always lived in Rome?”

“What’s with the sudden barrage of questions?”

He remained silent, clearly waiting for your response.

“Well, no, I was very young when we moved to Italy from the States— that’s where I was born.”

“States?”

Oh right, how could he know? America hadn’t even been discovered yet; it was still thousands of years away.

“Another... well, another country. Never mind, it’s a long story. I’m not sure I can explain it to you, and honestly, I don’t think you’re ready to hear it.”

You realized he seemed lost in thought, and you wondered what was going through his mind. You broke the silence. “Okay, your turn to answer, Mr. General. Julius said..."

'that the woman you loved when you were younger had a tragic end.'

How could you have said that to him?

The thought twisted in your mind; you could scarcely bear to face it yourself.

“What did he say?”

You took a moment to gather yourself. “Well, he said you visited that place I mentioned. Is that true? Did you go there?”

Nice save.

He looked you square in the eye and stood up. “I appreciate that you informed me,” he said, leaving you bewildered.

“What does that mean—yes or no?”

“You don’t need to concern yourself with that matter now. The wedding is the day after tomorrow. Have some rest. Sleep well, Rosa.” He turned and walked out.

“The day after tomorrow?” Frustrated, you grabbed the pillow and hurled it at the door. “'Have some rest,' you say? You rest!” you shouted as you flopped onto the bed in a fury. “Please, God, help me get back home.”

It was one of those mornings again—heavy, disorienting, melancholic.

Those mornings when you open your eyes and instantly realize that both the place and time you occupy no longer feel familiar. A wave of emotions crashing over—disappointment, longing, a sense of confinement, anger...

And then there’s that other emotion, one that seems to be trying to break through: acceptance.

But surrendering isn’t an option.

No matter what happens, you tell yourself you won’t despair; you’ll find your way back.

You know you will.

Because the moment you let go, the moment you lose hope, this harsh and unforgiving world would consume you whole. You didn’t fit in here; you felt like a puzzle piece that doesn’t belong.

You pulled your phone out of your bag and turned it on, having a sinking feeling when you saw the battery down to 17%.

Just like your hopes, just like your patience, it was wearing thin.

If that weren’t enough, what awaited you in the courtyard with Julius and the others tested your limits further.

"What do you mean I have to stay in another house?" you exclaimed, your voice bouncing off the walls of the courtyard.

Julius placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, trying to soothe your rising frustration. "Please calm down. You only have to stay for tonight."

Balbina lounged in her usual spot, seemingly relishing your discontent, while Lydia stood nearby, smiling awkwardly. "Since you're an outlander, allow me to explain," Balbina started, her tone dripping with condescension. "According to Roman law, the wedding occurs in the bride's home. As patricians, we must adhere to this tradition. Since you don't belong to the patrician class, you might not be familiar with this terms."

"She will be part of our class upon her marriage to my brother," Julius stated, maintaining a respectful tone. He then presented you with a meticulously crafted leather-bound scroll. "This document signifies your new status; you are now a Roman citizen."

You took the document, untying the thread that bound it, and opened it. All you recognized was your name, along with the word 'Roman.' Beneath your name was the seal of Emperor Severus, complete with his likeness. “Well, my Latin isn't great, but is this some kind of identification like an ID?”

“Indeed, it is,” he replied with a smile.

“But why do I have to stay in another house?”

“It’s part of the ritual. You must be brought from the bride's house to the groom's house.”

“Fine, but my house...” -is in Rome in the year 2025.

"You required to stay at Claudia’s house." Balbina instructed, not looking at you. "Julius, take her there at once. We have much preparation to undertake here already."

Julius nodded and turned to you. "If you're ready, we need to leave now."

As you walked to the garden together, ensuring you were away from others, you said, “Julius, please, I don’t want to go. I’m still trying to adjust to this place.”

“You’ll only be there for one night.”

“Where’s Marcus? Does he know about this?"

“He left early for preparations. He chose Claudia’s house—it’s trustworthy and conveniently close to our house. Remember, the law dictates that the wedding must take place at that house, you need to emerge there as the bride, as if the daughter of that house. Marriages within the same family are forbidden, simply as weddings cannot occur in the groom's house.”

“A mere formality, is it?” you muttered, grimacing. Suddenly stopping in your tracks, you added with anxiety, “My bag, I left it in the room.”

“Leave it,” he said as he helped you into the carriage. “Your belongings will be moved to my brother’s chambers tonight, along with your dowry.”

“Dowry?”

He settled next to you in the carriage. “As I mentioned, Marcus is busy with the arrangements.”

It seemed that Marcus had shouldered the burden of all wedding arrangements, paying out of his own budget. Julius had made it clear from the outset that such an approach was rather atypical.

“Your mother, Balbina, asked me to stay in another house to avoid dealing with the wedding preparations she didn't want any part of, right?” you said.

Julius was silent, and you knew that meant yes.

"I'm not surprised," you replied, "after all, she doesn’t like me. But I thought Marcus was the head of the family, that he was in charge. Apparently not, huh?"

Julius chuckled lightly. “You still don’t seem to grasp the seriousness and significance of the situation.”

"What do you mean?"

"You are marrying the head of the Acacius family, and general of Rome. Just imagine how hard this must be for my mother. Soon, you’ll be addressed as 'domina' in the villa. Can you grasp that now?"

You paused, realizing the gravity of his words; you never fully acknowledged how important this was. “But I didn’t ask for that.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Rosa, but your desires are beside the point. What truly matters is what my brother wants. This is the strongest way he can protect you, even from my mother.”

He was kinda right; if you compared it to the modern day, 2025, Marcus was akin to the top soldier in the army, something like a chief of staff. His wife would be both important and respected.

Yet, despite all that, it was an arranged marriage, and the bride had zero desire to marry.

None whatsoever.

The villa where Lady Claudia lived was indeed close by. It was smaller than Marcus’s but still lovely—typical for a Roman villa, modest yet charming. You felt a knot of anxiety in your stomach; staying there even for one night seemed unbearable. As you entered the courtyard, the buzz of activity caught your attention.

Slaves—poor souls—were dashing around: some were decorating with white flowers, others carried trays, while still more were busy cleaning the upper floors. It was a pre-wedding frenzy...

All for you.

Great.

When you spotted a slave who had dropped a cup while rushing along with a tray, you quickly picked it up for him. His eyes widened in surprise, and he bowed his head in gratitude before hastening back to his tasks.

“Julius.”

A woman’s voice called out moments later.

Julius replied, “Lady Claudia.”

At first, you brushed off the similarities in her voice; it had been over a decade since you had last heard it. But as you turned to look at her, shock coursed through you. Lady Claudia’s face mirrored your mother’s—warm smile intact. As she drew nearer, your body trembled, and your heart raced.

The peaceful, lifeless visage you had seen at the funeral was now alive and smiling again. After seeing your father's doppelganger, this was truly mind-blowing.

You covered your mouth, stifling a sob.

"Rosa?" Julius’s voice dripped with concern.

Claudia frowned, her expression a mix of confusion and worry. “Are you well, dear?”

You forced yourself to regain composure, feeling as if you were trying to escape from an invisible weight pressing down on you. "I- I am..." you stammered, struggling to find the right words.

Julius placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. "What’s the matter, Rosa?"

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from Claudia. “Forgive me, I'm just confused. You resemble my mother, whom I lost years ago.”

Claudia smiled softly. "How unfortunate. Please accept my condolences."

Oh, she seemed like a better person than your dad's evil twin.

Overcome by a sudden yearning, you hesitated but then mustered the courage to ask, “Can I hug you?”

The slaves around looked surprised, but Claudia nodded and opened her arms. You embraced her tightly, closing your eyes and burying your head in her shoulder, filled with longing. Claudia wrapped her arms around you, taken aback by the warmth of your affection. "You loved your mother very much, I can tell." You nodded, sniffling, still resting against her. “I hope you meet her again in another life.”

Oh well, that's precisely what is happening now.

Suddenly realizing you were clinging to her a bit too tightly, you pulled back and managed a nervous smile. “Thank you.”

Claudia returned the smile. "That was a warmer greeting than I expected, wouldn’t you agree, Ennius?"

You noticed a young boy beside her looking at you with judgement. He didn’t resemble anyone you recognized, hopefully. “I’d call it slightly inappropriate, Mother.”

“Now, now, my son. Remember, she’s a woman about to marry General Acacius—show some respect. Now, come, dear, there’s much to do.”

“I must take my leave,” Julius said, glancing at you. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

You waved goodbye. "See you."

Normally, you would be in a panic right now—left alone in a place surrounded by strangers. But Claudia reminded you of your mother, not only in appearance but also in her behavior. It was almost enough to make you feel at ease, and you couldn't tear your gaze away from her.

As the hours slipped away, a growing sense of unease began to creep into you while Claudia passionately delved into the traditions surrounding a Roman bride. She described it in vivid detail, almost as if you were her own daughter. Although your grasp of history equipped you with knowledge, nothing compared to experiencing these customs firsthand.

By evening, when the slaves arrived carrying large shells look like plates, you asked Claudia about the sticky substance they held, her response left you stunned.

“Beeswax,” she explained. “Now, undress, please.”

You instinctively wrapped your arms around yourself. “I don’t have any unwanted hair, I swear.” You lifted your skirts to show your smooth legs, a result of your regular laser hair removal sessions.

"I insist on seeing the rest of you," she said firmly.

At her command, the slaves began to undress you, treating your body with the indifference of peeling fruit. Despite their casual handling, you couldn’t shake the feeling of discomfort; thankfully, Claudia exuded a maternal aura. When she glanced at your armpits and noted the absence of hair -due to the laser treatments-, she couldn’t help but express surprise. However, the pubic area was another story. You had let that grow a bit over the weeks, and Claudia’s solemn words echoed in your ears: “We must remove the hair here.”

“But I usually use a razor for that area; my skin is too sensitive for laser treatment, and waxing, I can't even think of it,” you protested.

She didn’t seem to hear you, -probably didn't understand what were you saying- and you flushed with embarrassment as the slaves guided you to sit on the lectus. “I should’ve just done it myself,” you muttered, remembering the sting of waxing in a sensitive area from a previous experience.

Shaking slightly with trepidation, you settled in. One slave held your arms while another nudged your legs apart, and a third applied the honey-scented wax to your skin, coating the hair with it.

Claudia leaned back, chuckling at your plight. “Stay still, dear. You’re a Roman lady now; all the hair must be removed. Agreed?”

Your answer was nothing short of a shrill scream, piercing the quiet, startling any birds perched nearby on the balcony.

Once the brutal hair removal was complete, pain pulsed through you, mixing with a simmering frustration aimed at Marcus. “This is all your fault, Marcus; I hate you,” you grumbled. Slaves girls and Claudia quietly laughed while leaving you alone to nurse your throbbing discomfort.

Thinking twice, maybe you didn't like Claudia that much.

As dusk settled in, you took a moment to gaze from the balcony of your new room in that villa. Earlier, you had a special pre-wedding bath in the private bathhouse, accompanied by Claudia's advice for your wedding night, which made your face turn red from embarrassment. Below, the slaves still scurried about, busy with their tasks, just as they had been all morning. The area they waxed was still a bit sore, but thankfully, Claudia, being the considerate woman she was, had sent you some soothing oil to ease the discomfort.

You couldn’t help but feel sorry for the women of this era.

When some of the slave girls entered to apply the soothing oil for you, you thanked them gratefully. It worked somehow.

"My lady," one of them giggled, "Maybe you could ask the general to help ease your pain tomorrow night when you’re alone together.”

Confused, you asked, “How?” as you rose from the lectus.

Their laughter rang out, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks as you realized the implication of their words.

“Don’t you girls have something better to do?” you scolded them.

They bowed their heads and apologized, still snickering as they left the room.

Once they were gone, you felt your blush deepen at the thoughts they had put in your head.

Damn estrogen.

This marriage was a sham after all; why were you feeling so anxious?

Seeking some fresh air, you made your way to the courtyard. You found a quiet corner away from the noise of the slaves and the chatter surrounding you, retreating to one of the gardens.

A wave of melancholy washed over you; you were off your anxiety pills and struggling to believe this was actually happening. Just a few weeks ago, if someone had told you that you’d be kidnapped to ancient Rome and thrust into marriage, you would have laughed until it hurt.

Yet now, you were living through this absurdity, constantly wondering, 'Why me?'

Looking up at the sky, you noted the crescent moon—perhaps two weeks until the full moon? You hoped to find a way back home then.

Suddenly, a crunching sound drew your attention. Before you could react, a large hand clamped over your mouth. You turned to see Lucius and his intense blue eyes signaling for silence.

He slowly removed his hand.

“What are you doing here? Why are you sneaking around?”

He was wearing a black robe. “I came to take you away from here.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. “What? What do you mean?”

“I can see that marrying him isn't what you truly want. Let me help you.”

“How can you help?”

“I’m heading out of Rome tonight. I can take you back to your family, your homeland. I promise, I’ll make sure you arrive safely,” he urged, determination flashing in his gaze.

You felt a mix of emotions. “Oh, Lucius, if it were only that simple.”

“Where does your family live? No distance is too great for me. I will find a way to take you there."

Confusion clouded your thoughts. “Lucius, why would you do this for me?”

His gaze dropped to your lips as he took a deep breath. “I…” he hesitated. “You’ve changed something in me. I think I’m in love with you,” he confessed with a grin.

“What? You must be joking. Why would you fall for me? Surely, you have plenty of women around,” you countered.

He shrugged. “I’ve never met anyone like you. But that’s not why I’m offering to help. I am here because Acacius is forcing you into this marriage. I can’t allow it.”

With a heavy sigh, you conceded, “Lucius, you need to understand—I appreciate your offer, but I can’t accept. Marcus isn’t forcing me. I want to marry him,” you lied, hoping to sound convincing. After all, Marcus was your only ally in this unfamiliar world, even if he made you furious.

“Are you certain, Rosa? If it’s protection you seek, I can give that to you.”

You shook your head, your gaze steady. “I have faith in Marcus to look after me. He has promised to reunite me with my family someday. Despite the way he can irritate me at times, he’s a man of his word.”

“But you won’t find happiness with him," he murmured.

“Why are you leaving, by the way?” you asked, changing the subject.

His expression turned serious. “Things might get complicated soon. I need to leave before it does, much like I’ve done before. My whole life has been a series of escapes anyway.”

“Why?”

He let out a sad laugh. “Because I’m an unfortunate, damned prince of Rome.”

He touched your cheek, and you swallowed hard, feeling a strange connection between you. “I hope you find happiness, flower. Take care until we meet again.”

Suddenly, he leaned in and pressed a brief, light kiss on your lips. You barely had time to react before he slipped away into the darkness, lost among the trees and shadows. You stood there, stunned, your lips lingering in shock as you blinked away the moment.

As the morning sun poured into your new room, a battalion of slave girls invaded, bustling in with an eager excitement that danced in the air. One girl flung the thick curtains wide, allowing a cascade of golden sunlight to spill into the space, while another approached with the most exquisite wedding dress, placing it delicately upon the bed like a treasure awaiting its moment. A third girl laid down a long, ethereal tulle in shades of soft yellow and orange, and yet another carefully peeled back the sheet, revealing you to the ancient world once more.

Today, as the bride, you were the center of attention, and all eyes would be on you.

The time traveler bride.

The girls began to dress you in a flowing white dress when Claudia entered the room. Instinctively, you smiled at her. She returned your smile warmly and tenderly touched your cheek. “Rosa, did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you, Lady Claudia,” you replied.

“Do you feel ready?” she asked.

“For what?” you said, smoothing the hem of your dress.

She laughed gently. “It’s your wedding day, dear.”

"Oh, right,” you said, nodding, trying to mask the tumult of emotions swirling within you. You didn’t want her to sense your unease.

Claudia placed her hands on your shoulders. “I don’t know what you feel about him, but I’ve known General Acacius since he was young. He’s a good man, and I’m certain he will treat you well.”

“I guess he is,” you said, pursing your lips. You wanted the day to be over as soon as possible.

It felt like you were reliving a bad dream.Your previous wedding ended with the groom leaving you at the altar, but now it feels like you want to leave the groom this time.

You wished for a way out, but there was none.

As your hair was braided, the other slave girls announced the arrival of the guests. Soft music and quiet chatter came from downstairs. Soon, they informed you that the general and his family arrived. The girls placed the long, yellowish veil on your head, so long that you had to twist it around your arm a few times. Worse still, it obscured your vision.

“Am I really supposed to wear this all day?”

Claudia chuckled. “Have you forgotten already? Your husband will lift your veil when you reach his home. But first, he’ll unveil your face to kiss you.”

The word “husband” hit you like a punch to the gut.

Claudia took your arm as you made your way down the stairs, and the music shifted to a slower tempo, the atmosphere becoming lighter. As she had mentioned, she was taking you to your groom. It was an ancient ceremony, surprisingly representing a modern one: the groom waits by the priest while the bride walks through the guests.

The only difference was that this was ancient Rome.

You sighed, wondering what Lizzie would say if she saw you like this. She’d probably laugh a lot. Smiling to yourself, realizing you had many stories to share when you returned home.

As you approached Marcus, thoughts began to spiral in your mind. What if you couldn’t go back? What if you were destined to live here forever as his wife?

How could you endure this sham of a marriage?

Would you ever come to love him?

Would he ever soften his hardened demeanor?

If you considered things from the perspective of an ordinary woman living in this era—not as a time traveler—perhaps you could find something to appreciate in him or love him. He was handsome and, despite his tough exterior, a really good man.

But you still couldn’t forgive him. He had pulled you into this situation and forced you to marry him. No matter his reasons, it felt wrong. He still had someone else in his heart, and you had no feelings for him that would ever change.

You stood directly in front of him, dismissing the curious gazes around you, while the high priest began his ceremonial speech. As you caught a glimpse of his face, you couldn’t help but stare.

He looked undeniably handsome.

When you suddenly heard the sound of the sacrificial pig, you found yourself gaping at Marcus, disbelief washing over you.

What the hell?

Did he notice you staring?

Yes, he did, and he was looking right back at you.

That smirk—damn.

Oh no.

Why was your heart racing?

Get a grip, Rose. You’re angry with him—cool your jets.

Why was there this sudden flutter in your chest, especially when you hadn’t felt an ounce of excitement since morning?

You weren't marrying the man you loved; you didn’t love him at all.

You hated him.

The high priest’s words sounded like murmurings, lost amid the cacophony of voices swirling in your head and heart. He gestured for you to raise your hands, and Claudia, as your pronuba, grasped your right hands with both of hers, intertwining them. Marcus slipped a gold ring onto your finger, featuring the image of two hands clasped together, reminiscent of the ones you’d seen in museums.

Oh great, the anxiety was creeping in again.

When he lifted your veil, it became time to recite the words you’d been trying to memorize since the night before. “Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia,” you said, your voice steady but avoiding Marcus's gaze, opting instead to focus on his chin.

“Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius,” he replied softly. As he leaned in for the kiss, you held your breath; even though it was obligatory, you weren’t prepared for it. Yet, his kiss was gentle and brief, and you were surprised to find his lips warm and soft against yours.

“And the contract is signed. General Acacius, this woman is now yours,” the high priest announced, his voice resounding like a solemn bell. The guests responded with a warm blend of applause and joyful laughter.

Claudia then handed Marcus a cake that one of the slaves had brought on a special plate. You swallowed hard; your stomach grumbled—hunger gnawed at you, and you couldn’t wait to eat something. Marcus made you take a bite of the cake, but he didn’t offer you much. He chuckled when you frowned at him, especially since he broke the cake over your head as part of a Roman wedding tradition.

Damn ritual cake.

You should be enjoying it in your belly, not having it drop on your head.

Fortunately, the rituals wrapped up, and the feast commenced. The food was delightful—lamb, fresh and dried fruits, bread, and, of course, wine.

Okay, the Romans knew how to celebrate.

Laughter filled the air as people indulged in food and drink, coming over to congratulate you both. If you weren’t so busy devouring everything in sight, you might have noticed Marcus watching you intently all night, but your hunger took precedence. You probably ate so eagerly on your wedding night that your appetite became the subject of conversation throughout the entire city more than your beauty did. Julius and other men approached and exchanged words with Marcus. Soon, Lucilla came over to congratulate Marcus as well. He responded to her with a cold but respectful thank you.

“That’s enough,” Marcus said all of sudden, taking your hand to stop you from reaching for the wine cup.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Isn’t this my wedding night? I can drink as I please.”

“Then I’ll stop you, as your husband.”

“I thought this marriage wasn’t real,” you muttered.

Marcus glanced around and then leaned close. “Be quiet; someone will overhear.”

His tone conveyed anger, but it felt more like a warning than a rebuke. Something had changed in him but what?

Or was he merely playing the part of a devoted husband?

After the banquet, you walked from Claudia’s villa to Acacius', accompanied by the sound of drums. To your surprise, the streets outside were crowded with people cheering for Marcus while gazing at you with wide-eyed awe. Their excitement felt genuine, unlike the women who had eyed you with envy during the banquet. As you attempted to walk beside Marcus, young men, including Julius with torches in hand, accompanied the procession. Occasionally, you stumbled over your long veil, prompting Marcus to offer you his arm. Accepting it made navigating the dark streets easier, but by the time you finally reached the villa, your legs were exhausted. After enduring a few more rituals, your patience was wearing thin.

Sure, they knew how to celebrate, but their devotion to ceremonies was grueling.

Once the fire and water rituals concluded in the villa’s courtyard, everyone suddenly turned to stare at you. You were accustomed to the typical glares from Balbina and Lydia, but the attention from even the slaves was unsettling.

Did you miss another ritual?

Marcus leaned in close, whispering, “My apologies.”

“Apologize all you want; I won’t forgive you. How dare you force me to—ah! What are you doing?”

He suddenly scooped you up, tossing you over his shoulder. Others laughter echoed as you thrashed about.

“I meant to say, ‘apologies for this.’”

“Marcus! My stomach is full; put me down now or I swear I’ll throw up! I mean it!” You struggled, but then his hand found your backside, you froze.

“Calm down; I’ll lower you down shortly.”

You couldn’t see much being upside down, but he turned left after ascended the stairs, veered a little, passed through a grand doorway, and behind a satin curtain, gently placing you back on your feet. It took a moment to regain your balance, then you took in your surroundings.

This must have been the biggest room you’d ever seen—a large bed, a big wardrobe, a hefty desk, chairs, and a passage that led to a balcony.

“Wow, so this is Mr. General's room,” you said, glancing around.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

You turned to him. “I prefer my own room, but this isn’t bad. Oh, I’m so tired; let me just sit here.” You plopped down on the edge of the bed. “Hey, this bed is really comfortable,” you remarked, bouncing slightly and testing the mattress. Although spring mattresses didn’t exist back then, this one was surprisingly soft.

Marcus approached you. “Let me help you with your veil; it seems tangled in your hair,” he offered, reaching out.

“Yeah, I’m finally getting rid of this annoying thing.”

“It suits you,” he said with a smile.

You squinted at him.

“I didn’t intend to call you annoying; it suits you beautifully I meant to say.”

“Whatever,” you yawned. “What a long day.”

“Yes, it truly was,” he murmured.

You both stared at each other in awkward silence for a moment until you finally broke it. “It feels strange, doesn’t it? The fake wedding, and now we’re pretending to be husband and wife.”

Suddenly Marcus frowned, turning away to lift the curtain and scold someone outside. “Return your quarters immediately. No one is allowed near this room."

Once he was came back, you were taking off your shoes. “What just happened?”

“Slaves. Must be Balbina’s doing.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, removing your other shoe.

Marcus let out a weary sigh. “She’s intent on finding out if the marriage has really been consummated.”

You widened your eyes in surprise. “They were actually waiting to listen? Wow, you people surprise me every single time.”

Marcus began to remove his shawl. “It’s tradition. Isn’t it the same in your time? The married couple does something different on wedding nights?”

“At least no one eavesdrops on you there, except in some narrow-minded cultures,” you replied, struggling to untie the belt around your waist. “Ugh, it’s too tight.”

He stepped closer. “Allow me,” he said, effortlessly untying the knot.

“Wow, you follow traditions so well. Are you taking this marriage seriously or what?” you said with a smirk.

But you immediately regretted the joke when he shot you a piercing look. “If I truly took this marriage seriously, I wouldn’t be standing here having a conversation with you. Instead...” He tilted his head, gesturing the bed.

You turned your head away, swallowing hard. “Okay, okay, it was just a joke. By the way, where’s my bag?” you asked, glancing around.

Marcus unfastened his belt and left it on the bed, then retrieved your bag from the wardrobe and handed it to you. “Here.”

“Oh, my bag,” you exclaimed, taking it from him and giving it a tight hug.

He laughed. “You must really have missed it.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” you admitted. “Thanks for looking after it.” You pulled out your cell phone. “Now I can finally clear my head,” you said, sitting back on the bed.

Marcus came over and perched on the edge of the bed. “What are you doing?”

“I need to jot down the lunar calendar and important dates. The battery might die soon,” you explained while searching for your notebook in the bag.

“You mean you need to write? You can use my desk,” he suggested, glancing at it.

You peeked over and noticed a reed pen, ink, and parchment set up nicely. “Thanks, Mr. General, but I’ve got something better.” You pulled out a ballpoint pen and a small heart-shaped notepad.

Marcus frowned. “You’re going to write with that thing?”

You chuckled. “Oh, I’m sorry; you don’t know about this invention, do you? It has a little reservoir for ink, so you don’t have to keep dipping it.”

He examined the pen and scribbled something on the paper. “If I’d known about this earlier, I would have written my letters faster.”

You took the pen back from him. "Just be careful; you might change history in a dangerous way."

You both smiled.

He stood up and grabbed some fruit from the table while you continued to write on the notepad.

“Care for a taste? Or perhaps you've had your fill after the banquet,” he asked with a teasing glimmer in his eye, lifting a luscious grape to his mouth.

“Yeah, I’d love some grapes, please.”

“You certainly possess a much appetite for a woman,” he teased, placing a plate of grapes on the bed.

“Hey, it says here that the next full moon is in six days,” you remarked, focused on your screen while popping a grape into your mouth.

Marcus seemed to enjoy watching you. “Six days,” he echoed, and a strange sensation pricked at him. He didn’t like the thought of you going back home in six days; it stung.

“Yeah,” you replied cheerfully. “I hope it works this time,” you said with a grin.

“And what if it doesn’t?”

You frowned at him. “Hey, let’s steer clear of negative thoughts; we need to stay positive.”

He couldn’t fault you for that; he understood. He had already promised to help you return, yet he found it increasingly challenging to let you go, as the mere thought of it hurt him.

“Oh shit, no fucking way.”

“What happened?” he asked, bending down to look at the phone's display.

“My battery's almost dead, the phone's going to shut off,” you said sadly.

“This little device was everywhere in your time; every individual was holding it. It must hold a lot of significance.”

“Yes, very much so. Some people walk around never putting the phone down. You can keep up with the news, chat with your friends, get recipes, take notes, anything you can think of.”

"It allows you to send messages and speak with each other, it does not?"

“You are a good observer, general. You know, you could have called the barracks with it,” you laughed at the prospect. “Of course, first you'd have to have a cell phone and a cell tower nearby."

He laughed softly. "It could've simplify things."

“Yeah. You know what I say? Since the battery is running out, I might as well look at the photos for the last time. I miss my sister. Do you want to take a look? After all, you're stuck here with me tonight.”

“True, I have nothing else to do,” he said, smiling nervously.

He asked you a lot of questions as you showed him the photos from the gallery, he didn't look amazed like Julius, just observant and detailed. When you mentioned that Claudia looked like your mother, he was surprised and even more surprised when you showed him an old picture of your mother.

And then he was lost in thought.

When you paused at a picture, he realized that your face had fallen.

“I should have deleted this photo,” you said angrily. And you deleted it and threw it in the trash.

“Why?”

“I mean, I tore that stupid wedding dress and seeing it again made me angry.”

“You never mentioned that you were married before.”

“I wasn't, the asshole left me on my wedding day.”

"What kind of man would do such thing," he muttered.

“Someone who's not a man, obviously,” your voice cracked.

He touched your shoulder. “Rosa,” he whispered. You looked at him, his brown eyes were intense, sparkling. "He is not worth your sorrow; do not allow yourself to feel sad because of him."

What the hell?

Your heart raced, pounding against your ribcage like a drum—thump thump thump thump.

“Thanks, Marcus,” you said, feeling warmth spread through you at his kindness. His hand lingered on your shoulder, igniting a flutter of nerves within you—not in a bad way but in a thrilling, electric way as he looked you over, his features undeniably charming.

Suddenly, the phone vibrated, and then the screen went dark.

“Shit,” you said and threw the phone across the room.

Marcus picked up the phone from the floor. “It might be broken now,” he said.

“Forget it,” you said, standing up. “There's no electricity anyway, I can't even charge it, so it doesn't matter.” you said, pouring the wine decanter on the table into a cup. Then you took your pill out of your bag and were about to pop one in your mouth when Marcus came up to you and stopped you by grabbing your wrist. "You have consumed enough wine already, and I've noticed you reaching for that medicine too frequently."

“What, have you decided to pretend to be my husband?” you asked sarcastically.

He took you in his arms without breaking his serious expression. You gasped. “Hey Marcus, I was joking!”

He approached the bed and laid you on it. You opened your eyes wide when he leaned over you, but he was bending down to pull the covers over you. “Sleep now, you must be tired.” he said, turning around to extinguish the oil lamp.

“But where will you sleep?”

“Here,” he said as he lay down on the lectus.

You sat up on your elbow and looked at him. “Hey that thing looks pretty uncomfortable.”

He smiled and put his arm over his face.“I’ve endured far brutal conditions during the war. This is comfortable option compared to that one.”

“Hmm, okay then,” you murmured and lay back down. “Good night, Mr. General.” As you closed your eyes, a wave of unexpected drowsiness washed over you, and you drifted into sleep almost instantly.

Marcus shifted his arm from his face and turned to watch you slumber, a soft smile gracing his lips. “Good night, Rosa,” he whispered, his voice barely audible in the quiet darkness.

Marcus awoke before you, the remnants of a restless night still etched on his face. He had spent countless hours watching you sleep, captivated by your peacefulness, while thoughts of you swirled in his mind. In an attempt to quell his overwhelming desire to reach out and touch you, he had paced the room like a caged animal, frustration simmering beneath the surface. A nascent anger bubbled up within him—for your inability to remember him—but he quickly quelled those feelings, aware that neither of you held the power to change things.

It felt as if the gods themselves were casting a mocking smile in his direction.

As you stretched in bed, you were pleasantly surprised to feel refreshed when you opened your eyes. It had been a long time since you had slept this well. Marcus's bed was far more comfortable than you had expected.

But where was he?

You sat up and scanned the room, yawning.

Just then, he lifted the curtain and walked in, his face lighting up with surprise at the sight of you awake. "Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"Yes. You won't believe it, but I actually slept great," you replied. He approached the bed and lifted the covers, which caused you to startle. "What are you doing?"

When you spotted the dagger-like knife in his hand—an instrument used by Roman soldiers—you instinctively pulled back and curled your legs up. "Marcus, are you out of your mind?"

“Easy now, I won't hurt you,” he reassured you. “The slaves will be here shortly to collect the sheets."

He pressed the knife into his palm. You were shocked that he didn't even flinch when he cut himself. He placed his hand firmly on the sheet and clenched his fist, few drops of blood trickled down and stained the fabric. You looked at him in confusion, but he seemed completely at ease, as if he were completing a task.

"Geez, we should have poured some wine or something. Did you really have to cut yourself?"

"Balbina would have noticed."

"What is she, Sherlock Holmes or something?" you muttered, wrinkling your nose in disgust at the sight of blood on the sheet.

As he wiped the knife on a piece of cloth, you stood up, reached for his hand, and examined it. The cut was deep, but it was nothing Marcus would worry about. "You're quite determined to cut yourself, aren't you?"

He frowned at the insinuation in your voice.

“Julius told me you were willing to die.” He looked into your eyes, waiting for you to continue. You sighed before you spoke again. “He also mentioned why that is.”

You both locked eyes in a moment that stretched on, the air thick with unspoken words. “Do you really feel that way? Do you want to die so badly because it would take away your pain?”

He didn't answer, he was still looking into your eyes, but he wasn't angry, as if he had a lot he wanted to say but couldn't put it into words. He looked at the piece of cloth again and picked up the other one, but you took it from him. “Let me do it,” you said as you wrapped it around the cut on his hand.

He watched you intently as you worked, swallowing hard, captivated by the sight of your eyelashes and the beauty in your eyes. Resisting the urge to touch you, to kiss you... Such a strong urge that it felt far more challenging than facing an enemy on the battlefield. He knew he would have to learn to cope with it.

“Don't die,” you whispered, not taking your eyes off his hand as tears began to trickle down the sides. "If anything happens to you, I can't go back. You're the only one I trust here. I need you." When a tear fell on his palm, he surprised, took your face in his hands. “I assure you that I won't. I no longer have a desire to die, so please, do not cry.”

You smiled and wiped your tears, sniffling. “We have a deal.”

He smiled and wiped the other tears with his thumb, nodding.

"Besides, you promised to help me back. You can't die without keeping your promise." you said, teasing him.

He nodded again. "You have my word."

And at that moment there was a knock at the door. Marcus withdrew his hand and returned to the bed. He picked up the sheets and walked to the slaves waiting at the door. Then he came back. "I have some duties in the barracks and need to leave soon. You shall have this room—and the entire villa—as your own home now. Feel free to indulge in whatever pleases you."

You looked around. “Okay, I'm sure I'll find something to do.”

"And please, don't go out unannounced. Now that you are my wife, you can put me in a difficult situation, you understand? It's essential to consider the reputation of your general husband."

With a playful salute, you nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He chuckled and took one last look at you before leaving the room.

After he left, you sat on the bed. It felt peculiar; something had changed within Marcus—he was softer now, more open than before. Even when you brought up the past with him, he didn't get angry or avoid the subject. Maybe he felt sorry for yelling at you last time, who knows.

Later in the day, the slaves entered the room to change the sheets and dress you in your new attire. You walked around, feeling uncomfortable in the elaborate attire. Sewing and designing appeared to be easier than actually wearing it. The gold bracelets on your arms and the necklaces and earrings around your neck clinked with every movement. Typically, you weren't fond of wearing so much jewelry, but it seemed that being a married woman in this era came with such expectations.

How lovely.

Your heart sank when one of the slaves informed you that Balbina wanted to see you. You hesitated, dreading the encounter with her, but you had no choice; your step mother-in-law called for you. Sooner or later, you would have to face her, given that you lived in the same house.

As you descended the stairs, you stumbled a few times, struggling with the stola while trying to keep the shawl wrapped around your arms. Balbina was seated in the courtyard with Lydia and Claudia. Once they spotted you, all heads turned in your direction. You smiled at Claudia, you were pleased to see her. She stood up and greeted you, “My lady.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Me?”

She chuckled. “Now that you’re the General’s wife, you must be treated with respect.”

Lydia looked away, while Balbina stared at you intently. “What wife? Your husband left the villa early, it seems he’s not quite satisfied with you. You obviously failed to please him.”

You rolled your eyes, trying hard not to say anything bad.

Claudia joined you on the same lectus, making herself comfortable. “Come now, Balbina, isn’t that typical for the first night?”

Lydia let out a sarcastic laugh. “Lady Claudia is right mother. It’s quiet impressive they even managed it.”

They all burst into laughter.

What the fuck?

Were you really being interrogated about your wedding night? And worse, being ridiculed for it?

What was wrong with these people?

The rest of their conversation was nothing short of appalling, filled with discussions about blood on the sheets and other cringeworthy topics. It seemed normal to them to make the newlywed woman feel embarrassed, part of their tradition.

Before she take her leave, Claudia discreetly spoke to you in the garden by the fountain. She not only resembled your mother but treated you like one too, almost. “I noticed the sheets. Are you in pain or bleeding?”

You sighed, feeling annoyed. “No, I’m fine, really.”

“I’m relieved to hear that. Try to gather strength for the next time you’re together. I know it’s tough, but I assure you you’ll adjust in time, Each time, it will get easier."

Your face flushed, but you felt irritated. Remembering your first time, you hadn’t even thought about it, much less discussed it. It was just a fleeting memory. Yet, in this era, it seemed to carry immense weight. But it was hard to listen to her, not only because you are not inexperienced but because you and Marcus are not really husband and wife, and you had not done it but pretending like you did.

“To earn Balbina's admiration and respect, you must bear a child. If you give the General a son, you’ll earn the highest respect in this villa.”

You pursed your lips, still pretending as if you cared. “Does it really matter that much?”

“Indeed. When you’re together, after he finishes inside you, I advise you to lie back, stay still, and place a pillow under your hips—it will help."

Oh, damn, you were well aware of all this and more, coming from a modern era.

But how could Claudia have known? You wouldn't blame her for that.

You nodded, your cheeks burning. “Well, thank you,” you replied nervously.

What she suggested got something stirring inside you; it had been so long since you last hooked up that it was hard not to feel anything.

Yet, there was no fucking way you were going to sleep with someone in ancient Rome.

“Damn it,” you sighed softly as you sank onto Marcus's bed in the dim light of the evening, squinting into a small mirror you had fished out from the depths of your bag. The roots of your hair stood out starkly against the golden caramel hue, begging for attention. Your natural color contrasted sharply with the caramel hue. As you fidgeted with your hair, frustration bubbling beneath the surface, Marcus stepped into the room. He caught sight of you—holding the mirror in one hand, your fingers tugging at the offending roots with the other. He couldn't help but smile as he observed you from behind the curtain. “Is it your hair that’s making you so angry?”

You turned to face him, noticing he was wearing his dark red tunic. You hadn’t seen it on him before because he usually kept it hidden under his armor. That’s right—you were in his room, and you were technically his wife, so he felt at ease around you.

“As soon as I get back, I need to get it root-dyed again,” you sighed.

“The color of your natural hair is more beautiful,” he said.

You rolled your eyes. "Thanks, but you're not helping. And my French nails are a disaster, too. I need to get those done as well. You have no idea how tough it is for someone who goes to the salon every week.” You stretched out your hand to him.

He took your hand , observing. “I think your nails are perfect."

"Why am I even asking for your opinion?” you complained.

“How was your day?” he asked, settling on the edge of the bed.

"It was a bit dull. It’s so hard without my phone."

"I am considering forgoing my duties at the barracks tomorrow. Would you be interested in joining me for a horseback riding excursion?"

You raised your eyebrows. “Really?”

He smiled, and for the first time, he enjoyed saying the word from your time: “Really.”

"That would be fantastic, Marcus. So you can skip work whenever you feel like it?"

"Not quite," he smirked. "Julius and my second-in-command will be present in my absence."

"Your second-in-command? Since you're a general, is he a lieutenant general, major general, or something? I’m not great with military ranks."

"I do not understand the terms you are using. A second-in-command is called Optio."

“Hmm.”

A peculiar silence fell between you.

Normally, as newlyweds, you should have been preoccupied with other activities during your alone time at night, but this wasn’t a real one. You both exchanged anxious smiles that lingered until the silence became nearly unbearable.

You finally broke the stillness.

“Marcus, I just had a great idea. Since we have some time to sleep, why don’t we play a game? It would help us get to know each other better. What do you think?”

“A game?”

You stood up. "A drinking game—It called 'I Never.'"

He frowned. “I am uncertain about what that is.”

You set the wine decanter and cups on the tray, returned to the bed, and placed them down. “It’s quite simple,” you explained as you settled cross-legged in the middle of the bed. "You say 'I never,' and finish the sentence. If it’s something you did, you drink; if not, you don’t."

Marcus positioned himself more comfortably at the edge of the bed, facing you with his arms crossed. “It doesn’t seem to make much sense.”

You rolled your eyes. "That’s why it's called a game. Learn by example. I’ll start: I never killed a man. Now you drink, because you did, right?"

"True, I killed many." He smiled slightly as you poured him some wine. “I think I understand the logic now.” He took a sip.

"Yes. Now, Mr. General, your turn.”

Pursing his lips, thinking. “I never had a phone."

You laughed. “You’re getting the hang of it.” Pondering your next move, you continued, “I never fell in love.”

He met your gaze.

You shrugged. “I thought I was in love with that jerk, but I was mistaken.”

Marcus took another sip of his wine, clearly enjoying what you just admitted, a smirk playing on his lips as he spoke. “I never dyed my hair.”

You chuckled. “I'd pay to see that.” You considered the things you were curious about him. “I never slept with a woman.”

Marcus shot you a look. “Do you think I’m pure?”

“Okay, let’s put it this way: I never slept with a whore.” You raised your eyebrows, waiting for his response.

He sighed, taking a sip of his wine sheepishly.

“Aha, not quite so innocent, are we?”

"I never claimed that I am an innocent man," he explained, smiling.

"Wait, are you actually playing or just saying?"

"Just saying," he echoed your words, looking at you piercingly, which left you blinking and swallowing.

“I’m not judging. I don't care who you slept with or... how many." You cleared your throat. "It’s just a game. Okay, your turn.”

“I never slept with a man.”

You rolled your eyes. "Come on, really? You know I’m not a virgin."

He tilted his head curiously. “The game, you said.”

“Fine.” You squinted and took a drink. “Just one man, and you know who.”

He nodded in understanding.

And the game continued on.

By the time the jug of wine was empty, your head was spinning. “I think I’m getting drunk,” you admitted, feeling a bit woozy. "I guess you won," you said, laughing uncontrollably as you clapped your hands and leaned your head on his shoulder.

He wrapped his arm around you gently. "Are you well? Rosa?" He lowered his gaze, checking your face, but your eyes were closed—unconscious. Brushing the hair back from your face, he sighed softly.

"I regret having made that promise. How can I endure watching you leave?" His fingers gently caressed your hair. "After all these years of yearning, how can I allow you to slip away once more?" He leaned down and placed a tender kiss on your temple.

"When will you truly remember, my love?”

“It’s beautiful here.”

As the midday sun bathed the landscape in a golden glow, Marcus led you to that enchanting spot he had spoken of. The meadow unfolded like a green carpet, vibrant and alive, with a shimmering pond nestled at its center, reflecting the azure sky above. You eagerly took off your shoes, walking barefoot on soft grass that tickled your toes as you stepped onto the earth.

“What are you doing?” Marcus asked, astonishment written all over his face.

“Earthing. I’m just savoring the feel of the soil,” you replied.

“Be careful, Rosa—you might step on a thorn."

But then, a realization struck him; this moment felt oddly familiar.

“Relax, I’ll be fine. It’s good for your feet and body; it helps you unwind, lowers the stress. Just give it a try, Marcus.”

'Come now, Marcus. Try.’

He smiled.

The way you pronounced his name was like music to his ears, just as she used to say it. In that moment, he realized that no one else could say his name quite like you did. He had brought you here hoping to spark some memories, but he felt uncertain.

This was where he had first met her—a sanctuary, a place of refuge where they had spent countless moments together. Now, as he heard that familiar phrase from you, it ignited a flicker of hope in his heart. He needed to try something different.

He removed his sandals. “It might be a bit challenging to fasten these later. Would you be able to lend me your assistance?” he asked, his heart racing in anticipation, waiting for your answer.

The response he received wasn’t what he expected—not even close. “What am I, your babysitter, old man?" you laughed while reaching for an apple on the tree. "'Ain't your mama. Oh, I love that song. I wish I could listen right now.” you kept murmuring the song unaware of Marcus' feelings.

He frowned, feeling annoyed.

Still, he shook off the momentary disappointment; he was determined to keep moving forward. While you dipped your legs into the cool pond, he wandered through the meadow, gathering a bouquet of wildflowers bursting with colors—bright yellows, violets, and whites. He returned to you, presenting the vibrant collection with a hopeful smile.

“Okay, you’re starting to freak me out,” you said, your eyes wide in surprise.

He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”

“Because you’re being way too nice to me.”

He took a breath and said, “I realize I haven’t treated you as kindly as you deserve. How about these flowers I collected for you? Will you accept my apology?"

“No, but it’s a step in the right direction, I guess,” you said with a wry smile as you accepted the flowers.

“Which one do you like more?”

“Hmmm. The daisy. It’s simple and lovely, just as it is. Plus, it doesn’t have a scent, which is perfect because I’m allergic to pollen.” Just then, an itch made you sneeze.

He frowned. “What about jasmine?”

“No way, the smell will make me sneeze even more,” you grimaced in response.

Marcus was taken aback; this was different—she had loved jasmine. What was it that made you so uniquely distinct, yet somehow mirrored her in so many ways?

As the days went by, that day finally arrived; the radiant full moon loomed ever closer on the horizon. You and Marcus had agreed to head to the temple that evening together, so you found yourself anxiously waiting for him all day. But he never arrived; in fact, Julius was nowhere to be seen either. You ventured down to the courtyard and glanced around. Balbina and Lydia were in their usual spot, chatting with some other women. Ah, those curious ladies again—the type who scrutinize you with interest and pepper you with questions about your family, homeland.

Luckily, they didn’t notice you slipping away.

On your way out, you spotted one of the slaves and told him you were headed out to meet Marcus. It wasn't a lie; he would have suspected you were at the temple anyway. You could no longer bear staying cooped up, especially with your phone out of battery and only two anxiety pills left.

The soldiers at the gate hesitated to let you leave alone, insisting one of them accompany you to the temple. You had no choice but to accept their escort; the general had given strict orders not to let you wander off unaccompanied.

Minutes felt like hours as you arrived at the temple, and yet, no one awaited you there. The soldier lingered on the stairs, while you gazed into the stillness of the temple. Suddenly, you heard the familiar sound of a horse's neigh, and Julius arrived. He instructed the other soldier to return and approached you with a serious expression. “Rosa, it would be better for you to leave right now.”

“What do you mean?” you replied, confusion twisting in your gut. “Marcus said we were to meet here.”

“Emperor Severus has been poisoned. Prince Geta and Caracalla are preparing to seize the throne.”

“What?”

“We’re keeping all soldiers on high alert,” he continued, glancing around as if the shadows held unseen threats. “We’re prepared for an uprising at any moment.”

“Julius, I need to go back. The full moon is up there; it'll be even more prominent at midnight. This time, I know it’ll work.”

Julius sighed, troubled. “Marcus is gathering a force to counter the praetorians' threat. However, If he promised to arrive, he will. My orders are to control the city’s entrances. Stay hidden. I’ll try to return shortly.”

“Okay. Just be careful, Julius.”

He smiled reassuringly and hurried down the stairs. You settled into the quiet of the temple, waiting, but no one came. The silence felt suffocating. You couldn’t go back to the villa; your patience had worn thin.

Just then, you heard the quick gallop of horses outside. You instinctively hid, unsure who rode by. Another minute passed; this time, footsteps echoed on the stairs. You glanced up to see not Marcus, but a young boy who gazed at you with curiosity. "Lady Acacius?"

You tensed but nodded.

“The general is wounded and sent me to deliver a message. He said 'if I don’t make it in time, you should leave without waiting for me.'”

The boy glanced over his shoulder before dashing down the stairs. You wanted to ask how he was hurt, but he was gone in an instant, swallowed by the shadows.

What was happening?

Why was he wounded?

You pulled out the parchment, reading the words just to try, shock washing over you.

It had worked.

Your mouth fell open as a wave of joy surged through your body. Instinctively, you took a step toward the rift of bright light, but then stopped. The last time you saw Marcus was that morning, and now he was hurt, maybe close to death.

Panic tightened your chest.

How could you abandon him like this?

What if something happened to him?

No, you couldn’t let that happen. The rift would have to wait. You couldn’t leave without seeing him safe and sound. Determined, you knelt by one of the temple pillars and prayed—both to your god and to all the Roman gods.

Fear crept into your heart. For perhaps the first time, you found yourself crying for him.

If it was before weeks ago, you wouldn't care about his well-being and would jump at the chance to leave here.

But now...

Now you couldn't leave without seeing him.

Had you truly fallen in love with him?

You pushed the questions aside, focusing only on your desire to see him safe.

A little later, you peeked over the pillar as hoofbeats approached. When you saw him, you quickly stood up.

“Rosa!”

You scrambled down the stairs to meet him, your heart fluttering. “Marcus!” you wailed, throwing yourself into his arms. He caught you, his warmth enveloping you, but the moment was cut short as he pulled back to gaze intensely into your eyes. “You were awaiting?” His eyes widened in disbelief as he noticed the pulsating rift shimmering within the temple. "You managed..."

“Forget that. Where are you hurt?” You noticed the rag wrapped around his calf, which was stained red with blood.

“It’s nothing—”

Suddenly, an arrow flew from nowhere, piercing the air, striking him in the shoulder. He stumbled toward you, and you cried out in shock, “Marcus!”

“Acacius is here!” someone shouted, followed by the clamor of more horses approaching.

He shielded you behind him and drew his sword. “Run into the temple! Leave now, while you can!”

“No!”

Struggling but determined, he grabbed your hand and urged you into the temple. “Rosa! I said leave! I can’t let anything happen to you!”

“I won’t leave you in the middle of this chaos! Come with me. That wound looks serious; you need modern treatment!”

Just then, several soldiers arrived, clashing with the guards as the sounds of swords echoed around you. “Leave now! I can’t abandon my men!” Marcus yelled.

“No, I can't leave you like this!”

Suddenly, another arrow flew through his stomach. Then, another one, from behind, all from behind, dastardly, cruelly.

Another arrow plunged into his chest. Marcus spat blood from his mouth yet forcing himself to stand. You froze, shuddering with terror.

“NO! Marcus!” you screamed.

You forced your brain to think.

As soon as Marcus sank to his knees, struggling to catch his breath, you slipped under his arms and hoisted him up with every ounce of strength you could muster, ignoring the sting in your muscles, ignoring your dress covering in blood, his blood. You focused entirely on saving him. "Come on, Marcus, don't die, please! You promised me! Don't die!“ You cried out as you pulled Marcus toward the rift. "Please, God! Don't let him die! Help me! Marcus, I can save you. Please don’t die; the doctors can help you. You have no idea what they are capable of. Please, just stay with me!"

“Amo te, Rhea,” he murmured, his voice barely escaping his lips as he surrendered to the darkness, closing his eyes. You heard that name for the first time, but you didn't care. Panic surged through your veins. "Marcus, open your eyes, damn it! Don’t you dare slip away from me!”

You dragged him into the light, leaving his blood painting everywhere, and then something happened.

A blink.

A blinding light, intensely bright.

An unusual wind, chilling and invasive, seemed to seep into every cell.

And then, once more.

A blink of the eye.

And darkness.

But not just any darkness—the deep, enveloping darkness of the night. Rain poured down, heavy yet warm. You stood up in shock, taking in your surroundings.

Tall buildings loomed over you, street lamps flickered, the car horns filled the air alongside the tangles of wires on electric poles.

You were back.

Tears of joy streamed down your face, blending with the rain. Then you came to your senses, you had just been crying—for him.

For Marcus.

You turned around, frantically scanning the area, searching the ground. The shadows from the trees cloaked everything in darkness.

But there he was.

Marcus lay there, motionless.

You rushed to him, heart pounding.

"Marcus! What the fuck-"

There was no blood on him, just a few scattered drops. You ran your trembling fingers over his armor. The holes in his armor were visible, but the arrows had vanished along with the wounds they caused. Placing your head on Marcus's chest, you listened intently. His heart was beating.

His face was wet from the fall of rain. As you gently brushed your fingers against his cheek, you felt warmth.

Not dead.

He was alive.

It was absurd, impossible—even miraculous—but he was alive.

Your jaw dropped, then a grin spread across your face.

And then he opened his eyes, blinking as raindrops fell on his eyelashes. Relief washed over him as he saw you, yet confusion clouded his gaze as if he couldn’t believe it was happening again.

You smiled at him, “Marcus, I know this sounds crazy, but you’re not dead. We’re back. Together.”

hope you enjoyed the chapter babies, thanks for reading ❤️

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ekkkkey · 3 months ago

Text

there will be games! (final)

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

warnings: 18+ minors dni, this is dark, noncon

word count: ~4k

chapter I chapter II chapter III chapter IV chapter V

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

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

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Claudia twirled before her, showing off, stretching out her slender wrists adorned with expensive bracelets.

"If I had known Livia would send us such gifts, I wouldn’t have cried so much when they took her from us," she spun once more and, laughing, sat beside Cassandra, wrapping her arms around her, pressing her forehead against her shoulder. "I know you’re sad… About Father, about me, and… about your husband. But please, you’re the last person I have left to talk to! Don’t be so grim! It’s been over a year—you don’t have to wear mourning anymore! You’re young, beautiful…"

"Enough," Cassandra cut her off, her voice tired, her thoughts even darker.

A year had passed. A year since she became a widow. A year since her life was shattered, destroyed. It was true—she no longer had to wear mourning for her husband, and she could even remarry, if not for the stigma of a traitor's widow, the stain of an adulteress, and if not for the scars left on her skin, pale and inescapable.

Claudia, one of her younger sisters, had never seen the marks. Cassandra hid them, too ashamed to speak of what had happened in the imperial palace. How shocked Claudia had been when she learned that Cassandra—the luckiest among them, married, happy—was returning home in disgrace, back under their father’s roof.

Tiberius’ family had not accepted her. And she herself had no desire to live in a home filled with hatred.

But the girl who returned was not the same quiet, dreamy Cassandra who had left. What came back was only a shadow, an empty shell—pale, hollow-eyed, covered in wounds and bruises, with her hair cut short. Her father had known what had happened but had been powerless to change anything. Then, three months later, he died. His old heart couldn’t take it. And Cassandra blamed herself for that, too.

Without a man in the house, she had been doomed. But Livia, the youngest of the three sisters, had spent the last seven years training in the Temple of Vesta, and with that came privileges—privileges that saved Cassandra and Claudia from a fate worse than death: being handed over to some stranger.

Normally, the fate of widows and orphans—those who had lost their fathers but had not yet married—was decided by the Senate, sometimes even by the Emperor himself. Just the thought of it sent phantom pain burning through the place where he had carved his name into her skin. Cassandra’s fingers twitched, running through her short hair, tucking the strands behind her ears. He had cut those, too, to make sure no one would dare look at her, as if that had ever been possible.

"I’m begging you!" Claudia knelt in front of her, gripping her hands tightly. "Just one evening! My wedding, Cassandra! Rome is not a trap!"

Cassandra exhaled, pained, unwilling to listen to her sister’s pleading. She should be happy for her, and yet all she felt was fear and unease. She had not set foot in Rome for a year. The quiet, forgotten province suited her. She no longer wanted to see the world—her past had killed all curiosity in her. Everything had been peaceful… until history started repeating itself.

After the conspiracy of General Acacius and several senators was uncovered, a great purge followed. The ranks of Rome’s elite were drastically thinned. The executions went on day after day, and the Praetorians crushed rebellion after rebellion. The discontent had been widespread—many had loved the general—but steel was the best argument an emperor could make. And when the executions spread beyond the nobility, the people fell silent.

That was when Appius entered their lives—or rather, Claudia’s life. A newly appointed senator, he had taken the seat of one of the traitors.

The first formal meeting had sealed everything. He was too young for the Senate, but he had been utterly captivated by Claudia’s charm, her brightness. Cassandra could only watch in horror as history repeated itself… though there was one difference. They loved each other.

"Livia already refused me! At least don’t refuse me, too!" Claudia’s tearful pleas continued. "It’ll just be his family!"

Cassandra couldn’t bear to see her like this. She agreed.

If just one of her sisters had been with her at the imperial court, maybe—just maybe—things would have been different. Wouldn’t they?

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Rome no longer seemed beautiful to her.

The further they traveled, the heavier the weight in her chest became. It was only when they passed the Colosseum that she could breathe a little easier.

But just as her anxiety began to subside, it flared up again. The villa of Appius’s family wasn’t just large and beautiful—it was enormous. Green branches, golden and red ribbons adorned the already magnificent residence, proudly declaring where the groom lived.

Claudia was quickly pulled from her arms by the firm hands of the wedding matrona, who was to prepare the bride. Cassandra simply followed the flock of women, obedient and silent. The wedding had not yet begun, but the villa was already filled with guests.

It reminded her of her first time stepping into Senator Thraex’s home. A shiver ran down her spine, and she pulled her dark brown cloak tighter around her, telling herself that everyone who had once known her was probably dead by now.

"Ah, Cassandra! What a surprise!"

Appius caught her in a warm embrace, as if he truly was delighted to see her.

As custom dictated, the groom wore only a simple white toga and a pair of bracelets. His sharp blue eyes swept over her, like a man surveying goods at a market.

For the first time in a long while, she was not wearing black—the color that marked her as a widow. She didn’t look so bad, she told herself, if not for the short hair, barely reaching her chin.

"Appius, what a wonderful reception! So many guests!" She lied, feigning admiration for the sheer number of extravagantly dressed people in the vast, opulent hall.

Claudia had assured her it would only be the groom’s family. But surely not all these people were his relatives.

"Oh, thank you!" His voice was just as honeyed, though his sharp gaze noted her unease. "The rest of the guests will arrive later, for the ceremony itself. After all, my position now requires a little less modesty than before, wouldn’t you say?" He bowed to her with mock politeness and disappeared into the crowd.

The guests didn’t interest her. Neither did the villa, nor the wine, nor the food.

Cassandra retreated to the farthest corner, doing everything she could to remain unseen.

As the halls grew more crowded, the chatter louder, and the evening sky darkened, Claudia finally appeared.

The ceremony began.

Cassandra stepped closer. She saw her smiling sister, her head covered with a delicate orange veil. The same vows, the same rings she herself had once exchanged with her husband. It felt like a lifetime ago, though not even two years had passed.

"It can’t be!" A woman’s hushed, excited whisper sounded close by.

"I told you! Appius didn’t become a senator just like that! And he’s been friends with the emperors for a long time," replied another muffled voice.

Cassandra froze. Her sister’s face blurred, and the ceremony’s noise faded away, leaving only the quiet murmuring of two women she didn’t know. The happiest moment she had experienced in years was once again overshadowed. And once again, he was the reason.

The ritual continued, the lovers exchanged their vows, but Cassandra was entranced by the conversation she should never have overheard.

"Friendship, ha!" A quiet, eloquent giggle made her twist her lips. Could it be that her sister’s husband… "But who would refuse the emperor?"

"You’re lying! That can’t be!"

"It’s the truth!" More quiet giggling. "I saw him once. Oh, it was a sight! He waved to us, and I swear, I was ready to leave my husband forever just for one night with him! That deep blue cloak embroidered in gold, the golden cuirass with the sun shining in the center—"

"Which emperor?"

"Caracalla. They say he’s cruel and insane, but we all know those vile tongues." The voices grew even quieter.

"I heard he’s ill…"

Cassandra stopped listening. She didn’t want to drown in memories any further.

For a brief moment, she felt free, light. Her sister, now a wife, embraced her, pressing warm kisses to her cheeks, flushed and happy. Even Appius hugged her—more modestly, of course—but Cassandra forced herself not to dwell on it or on the conversation she had overheard.

Her sister was happy. And so, for her sake, was Cassandra.

Then came laughter, music, and wine. As the bride’s sister, she couldn’t avoid attention for long. Guests pulled her into idle conversations, politely avoiding questions about her husband. A few young men even tried to steer the talk into something indecent, but she brushed them off.

"What’s the matter, my dear lady? Has your heart already been claimed by someone?" He was charming and young, but just the thought of closeness with a man filled her with dread.

But dread awaited her ahead. The evening picked up pace, more and more wine loosened tongues and hands, and she once again felt nervous.

Something was wrong.

She blushed from a sudden wave of emotion, then turned pale with fear, hearing a piercing animalistic screech, high and loud. The fear was sharp, painful, as though her past had caught up with her once again. Conversations swirled around her, but she only clutched the silver cup in her hand, desperately trying not to panic.

They were here.

The play of light and shadow, the darkness of evening, and the flickering torchlight deceived the guests, but she saw him. He was just as he appeared in her nightmares.

His delicate features, a high forehead framed by unruly red curls, and beneath pale brows, those mocking blue eyes gleamed.

Why was she looking at him? Why was she staring?

Yet she couldn’t stop, her gaze drifting lower—to those defined red lips, the soft curve of his chin and neck… He hadn’t changed a bit, except perhaps for the feverish flush that now colored his face even more vividly.

A shadow shifted, and torchlight illuminated his brother’s face—pale, tight-lipped, dark eyes sharp, and furrowed brows.

The emperors were sober. And completely joyless.

Though Caracalla smiled.

He always smiled. She remembered that well—smiled even in rage.

Appius quickly made his way to the noble guests, gracefully gesturing for everyone to continue the celebration, all while taking turns kissing the emperors’ hands.

Cassandra cast a desperate glance at her sister, seated among the women. But Claudia didn’t notice—too thrilled by the presence of Rome’s rulers.

Yet the air in the room had changed.

She saw the way the lutenist’s hands trembled, how he licked his suddenly dry lips, terrified of plucking the wrong string. Gossip or not, many still believed in the emperors’ cruelty. The proof hung in the streets—rebels crucified and tortured, all those who dared rise against the Caesars.

Voices lowered. Laughter grew restrained.

After all, everyone only had one head.

"Hail the Caesars!" the crowd roared, and finally, smiles spread across the emperors’ faces.

Slaves swiftly cleared space in the grand hall. The young rulers took the place meant for the newlyweds, but it seemed no one dared object.

Appius, forgetting his young wife entirely, hovered around the emperors like a fawning servant, laughing and pouring wine into their goblets as if he himself were a slave.

Like in a dream, Cassandra watched them from the shadows, catching every gesture, every lazy movement of their hands. Caracalla was bored, the tip of his tongue tracing his upper lip, still sober and thus irritable. Geta, with a forced smile, nodded at Appius, clearly sharing his brother’s mood.

Her heart pounded with fear and dread when the young senator waved Claudia over, clearly eager to present her to the emperors. Caracalla sat up straighter, tilting his head to appraise Appius’s young wife. Oh, Cassandra knew that look—evaluating, languid, always bored and never passing up a chance for amusement. Geta mirrored his brother, wiping his chin as he studied Claudia. There was no honor in their gazes, only cold, slippery intent, but her sister didn’t see it—just as Cassandra herself hadn’t seen it once upon a time.

Appius held Claudia by the fingertips, spinning her in a circle as she laughed, clearly more intent on showing off than entertaining his bride. Caracalla leaned forward with a smirk, his pale, delicate hand, adorned with gold and gems, reaching out toward her sister. Without thinking, Cassandra stepped forward in fear for Claudia.

"Claudia!" she called out before she even realized what she had done.

Her fragile shield of shadow fell away as she emerged into the light. Appius and Claudia stared at her, puzzled, but they weren’t the ones who mattered. Along with them, those feverish blue eyes fixed on her. Her legs weakened, her palms grew slick with sweat, but it was too late—she was caught again.

"Oh, Cassandra, come here!" her sister called. Appius clearly disapproved but couldn’t object.

On unsteady legs, she still managed to approach them, feeling the crowd's eyes on her. And their eyes. God, she hated them both with equal ferocity! The fact that Geta tormented her less didn’t lessen his guilt—after all, it was with his casual approval that Caracalla had started this whole twisted game.

Appius introduced her, and she bowed her head in feigned reverence. When she looked up, Geta’s unblinking gaze met hers—he recognized her, how could he not, after all he’d witnessed? Her scar throbbed painfully, and she averted her eyes, unable to withstand the oppressive blackness of his stare. But it was much harder to meet Caracalla’s gaze… though, to her surprise, he clearly didn’t remember her. Still, relief didn’t come. In his eyes, she saw curiosity, a spark, excitement! He feverishly licked his lips, his red mouth curling into a smile, his hand tightening around his cup. Gods, had they truly cursed her, binding him to her, sending him to torment her again and again? He didn’t even recognize her, and yet he was intrigued!

Then Emperor Geta leaned toward his brother, whispering something in his ear, and Cassandra realized she was doomed. Now, recognition appeared on Caracalla’s face, and he burst out laughing like a child, patting his brother on the shoulder as if he’d just made a brilliant joke.

"Little bird?" His voice was hoarse, deceptively soft, as if they were old friends.

Claudia looked at her, confused, but Cassandra couldn’t answer. Worse still, her sister was witnessing this entire humiliating spectacle.

"My emperor," she replied quietly.

"It really is you!" He scanned her from head to toe, his mouth slightly open, never ceasing to smile, his obsessive gaze drinking in her face.

"So, this is your sister?" She nodded. "And where’s your husband?"

Her breath caught, and Appius and Claudia froze beside her. Even Emperor Geta stared at his brother, one eyebrow raised in evident confusion. It took every ounce of her strength not to break down in tears right then and there. Instead, she exhaled shakily and answered, "Dead. You killed him, Caesar."

The delight on Caracalla’s face was a mockery. He didn’t touch her, but she felt as if he’d slapped her across the face.

"Did I? Really?" He leaned back, spreading his legs, clearly pleased with himself. "So, you’re a widow now? What wonderful news!"

Was he taunting her, or was he truly so sick? She couldn’t tell, but judging by Geta’s heavy gaze, he was concerned.

"Come here, little bird," he said, spreading his arms in a welcoming gesture, and she obeyed, stepping closer. "I’ve never had a widow before," he purred, trailing his hand along her thigh, still sitting, lazily, almost weightlessly, touching the thick fabric of her clothes with his fingertips. Yet, she felt the long-forgotten heat of his touch. He himself, like his hair—blood, fire.

Geta nodded to Appius, who took Claudia’s hand and led her away. Cassandra wanted to protest, to reach for her sister, to beg for rescue, but instead, she caught only a worried, strangely hurt look from Claudia—a look that cut her heart deeper than all the emperor’s cruelties.

"You vanished, my dear," Caesar said, yanking her hand down and forcing her to sit beside him, at his feet, like some nameless slave. Long-forgotten humiliation flushed her neck and cheeks red, especially as the guests still stole glances their way. "I missed you so much," he whispered in a singsong tone, his ring-laden fingers burying themselves in her short hair, stroking it. "I liked your hair," he said, his hot hand sliding lower, down her neck, then beneath the fabric, nearly brushing her chest. But it wasn’t lust that drove the young emperor—Cassandra felt his tender fingers trace the pale outline of her scar, following the path of the blade that had left it there.

"Brother, not here," Geta warned, clearly uneasy. "Have you forgotten the uprisings the Praetorians worked so hard to crush? Leave her be—you’ve already taken enough from her, so…"

"And I’ll take her again!" A grimace of rage twisted Caracalla’s powdered, delicate face. He released her, nervously twisting the rings on his fingers. "Don’t lecture me—you, of all people, should know that, brother."

"I’m just asking you not to do this in public!" Geta relented. "This is a wedding…"

"If I want, our dear Appius will take her place with a snap of my fingers," Caracalla hissed, clearly displeased by his brother’s words. "Or, if I desire, his little wife will do."

She looked up at him in horror, silently begging him not to.

Geta merely clicked his tongue and turned away, taking a sip from his goblet. Caracalla, however, shifted from rage to tenderness, gazing down at her once more, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone, her lips.

"Missed me?" A soft, playful slap to her cheek made her close her eyes. "I know you did, little bird. I imagine you often thought about our little meetings." He paused, a sly grin tugging at his lips. "To be honest, I don’t remember our sweet little dates all that well, but no one can stop us from repeating them, hmm?"

Angry tears welled in her eyes, but they didn’t fall—she kept fighting to hold herself together. Her husband was dead, her father was dead, and her sisters… her sisters were relatively safe.

"You can’t treat me like this," she said, hardly believing the words had left her mouth.

Caracalla laughed, his laughter echoing through the hall, but the nervous twitch of his mouth betrayed that he was far from amused.

"Can’t I?" he taunted, his fingers digging into her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You’re a widow and an orphan! Who but the father of Rome would open his arms to you and offer you shelter?" But his touch brought only pain, and the look in his darkened eyes promised suffering.

Then his grip softened, his hand stroking her cheek tenderly, as if he truly meant to comfort her. But instead, Caracalla leaned in, his hot breath laced with the sweet scent of oils and powder, and whispered heatedly in her ear, "Now I am your husband, your brother, your father, understand? You are mine." His lips nearly brushed her temple. "Now you are my property, and I will do with you as I please, my dear."

A single tear rolled down her cheek, and Caracalla, sealing his words, kissed her forehead in a fatherly gesture before pulling back.

The music played on, life buzzed outside, but for her, everything had stopped right there. Caracalla, pleased with the impression he’d made, like a street magician, opened a particularly large ring on his index finger.

Through a veil of tears, Cassandra saw the Emperor bring the ring to his nose, inhaling the powder that filled the hollow space of the ornament.

"What do you like most about me?" he asked, still mocking. Geta grimaced, clearly starting to get irritated.

She wanted to say she hated him, that she wanted to wipe that smug grin off his face, but the fear for her sister’s fate was overwhelming, so she bowed her head and whispered quietly, "Generosity, my Caesar."

"Great answer!" He snapped his fingers and turned to his brother. "Hear that? I’m generous!"

"Of course she’ll say whatever you want," Geta’s displeasure was plain to see. The way the young emperor curled his lips, furrowed his brow, and tapped his fingers—all of it spoke of a foul mood.

Could Caracalla’s behavior truly anger him so much? The brothers quarreled often, but they always seemed a united front—so what had changed? Why was Geta looking at his brother with such tight-lipped disdain? Then his gaze shifted to her, and Cassandra understood. He hated her. The mere fact that she had reappeared in their lives and captured Caracalla’s attention infuriated him.

"And since I am generous," Caracalla continued grandly, ignoring his brother’s words, "I will be generous to you." The emperor extended his hand to her, as if for a kiss, but the ring was still open, and she understood exactly what he wanted her to do.

Cassandra pressed her lips shut, turning her head away, and the smile vanished from Caracalla’s face. Emperor Geta, on the other hand, leaned over his brother’s palm, inhaled the powder, and quickly wiped his nose. Now two pairs of eyes bored into her, waiting for her to submit.

"Who are you hurting more?" Geta said, licking his lips and leaning back, far more relaxed than he had been a moment ago. "You’ve been told countless times, but you’re still stubborn as a mule—or are you just an idiot? A brainless, obstinate wench whom, by some twist of fate, my brother lusts after? Huh?"

Caracalla hated disobedience and had no patience for coaxing, so he seized her jaw, pressing painfully until she opened her mouth and looked up at him. His eyes had darkened, and in the halo of red paint and the dim torchlight, they looked utterly mad.

He released her face for a moment, but only to scoop a handful of powder from the ring and shove it into her mouth. Cassandra couldn’t withstand the force and obediently opened her mouth, fearing he’d dislocate her jaw.

Suppressing the urge to bite him, she waited for the humiliation to end, but Caracalla’s breathing grew heavier, and he continued to force her to lick the bitter powder from his delicate fingers. In the end, he always got his way, no matter how much she resisted.

Finally, he stopped tormenting her mouth, wiping his wet fingers on her cheek and leaning back, satisfied, glancing at his brother with a wide grin that revealed a golden tooth.

She turned away again, hoping no one had seen. Fortunately, her sister was speaking with her husband, but there was one witness to her shame. The young man who had flirted with her earlier was staring right at them, and the confusion and disgust on his face were yet another invisible slap.

Caracalla sees him too, and it excites him, turns him on. She feels her head start to spin, her eyelids grow heavy, as the emperor presses her head against his leg, as if she’s one of his many slaves, showing everyone who she belongs to now.

"Who’s that, little bird?" His tone promised nothing good.

"I don’t know him, Caesar," she replied, her voice trembling, clenching her fists tightly, trying to think clearly.

"Lie to me, and I won’t be kind," he said, his fingers in her hair tightening, pulling, causing pain.

"It’s the truth! We spoke today, nothing more, he’s just…"

"Do you want him? Shall I bring you his head? It’d make a fine wedding gift, don’t you think?"

She couldn’t think. Tears blurred her vision, and her thoughts tangled further. She saw Caracalla’s pupils dilate, his gaze growing heavy, languid, his breathing quickening—surely, she looked the same, drugged and dazed. A wedding gift? What was he talking about?

"Bedding ceremony!" Caracalla drawled in a sing-song voice, rising and immediately stumbling, grabbing his brother’s shoulder.

The guests looked at him in confusion, as did the newlyweds.

"But, Emperor, it’s still early…" one of the high-ranking guests began obsequiously.

Caracalla merely snorted and extended his hand to her. And then it hit her. This was their bedding ceremony. He was playing out his own perverse version of a wedding, twisting everything to suit his depraved whims. The sanctity, the sacred rite meant only for Claudia and Appius, was trampled underfoot, but no one dared object to the emperor. They all smiled saccharinely, unwilling to provoke his wrath.

Caracalla was too unsteady to lift her himself, so Geta hauled her to her feet with a sharp tug. The moment she was upright, Caracalla wrapped an arm around her waist, pressing his nose against her neck, grinning lazily in satisfaction, utterly dazed from intoxication.

"Don’t take too long," Geta muttered.

Caracalla only laughed.

The guests echoed him, their laughter swelling to fill the hall. Only Claudia remained silent, her face drained of all color, watching-unblinking—as her sister was dragged toward the room meant for the newlyweds.

"Save me. Save me!" The words pounded in her skull like a funeral bell.

But no one would save her. There wasn't a soul in Rome who would stand against the Emperor, who would shield her from the emperor's hungry gaze.

Nothing from her wedding to Tiberius was happening now. No ritual, no solemn rites—only crude, mocking songs. The men scattered, whistling and shouting obscenities, as if they had already forgotten that the woman being taken was the bride’s sister, handed over to the Emperor against her will.

The women were quieter, but even among them, some did not look at her with pity. Some watched with envy, some with scorn.

All of Rome would know. She had no doubt. If she had managed to keep what happened in the palace a secret from her sisters, there was no hiding this. The stain of shame had already settled over her like a black shadow—right before Claudia’s eyes.

The tears broke free. She couldn’t hold them back anymore.

Caracalla didn’t like that.

His grip on her waist tightened as he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. In that same soft, honeyed tone, he purred, "Smile, little bird. Or we won’t even need a separate room. I’ll take you right here, in front of everyone. Then, I’ll let them all have their turn—Appius included—while your dear sister watches."

He smiled as he said it.

She forced a smile, too, wiped her tears, and felt her legs trembling beneath her.

A moment later, the clamor faded, the door closed behind them, and they were alone.

Everything inside had been carefully arranged for the young husband and wife. But no one else would be entering this room tonight.

Tonight, it was her cage.

And in front of her, smiling softly, drunk and amused, stood her tormentor.

Her knees buckled, and she sank onto the edge of the bed, sitting stiff as a bowstring, clutching at the fabric of her clothes, her cheeks burning.

Caracalla rubs his nose childishly, pulls the laurel wreath from his head, sending his red curls into a wild disarray, then he steps closer and mockingly places it on her head.

"A virtuous matron you will never be. What a pity," he sighed. "But you can still be my sweet little pet, Cassandra."

Her name was another lash of the whip.

The crown on her head feels like thorns, heavy, as though the world’s troubles have been laid upon her.

"Undress," he commands, his voice dropping lower as he positions himself at the head of the bed.

He didn’t undress himself, but she could see—he was aroused. His pale skin was flushed, the paint on his face smudging as he watched her hesitantly move.

Her slowness irritates him. Like a raging fire, he impatiently pulls at the remnants of her clothes, tossing the crown aside like a worthless trinket.

"Why?" she whimpered, while he looked her over with delight, his gaze lingering on the scar he had given her. "Why me? Why are you doing this, Caesar?"

Caracalla stilled.

His turquoise eyes turned glassy, as if lost in thought.

"Why?" He blinked, his long, girlish lashes casting shadows over his cheeks, making him look almost vulnerable, almost innocent.

"Because I can?" he mused. "Because I want you?"

And with each word, he leaned in. His fingers wrapped around her throat, squeezing slowly, firmly,

He stared at her without malice, and that made it even more terrifying.

"Do you realize how beautiful you are?" he whispered, his breath hot against her earlobe. His grip tightened. "Do you realize how much I want you?"

His fingers pressed harder.

"The moment I saw you, all I could think about was how much I wanted to destroy you."

She gasped for air.

"You make me so angry, little bird," he murmured, his thumb brushing over her pulse, feeling it race beneath his touch. "And I desperately want to snap this fragile little neck."

She started to gasp for air, and only then did he release her, shoving her away with mockery.

"But not now, hmm? Right now, you need to be quiet, stop asking stupid questions, and fulfill your wifely duties, understood?"

She said nothing more, sitting silently, her head bowed.

"Well, no, this won’t do. This is a wedding, not a funeral! Is that how you greet your husband?" She didn’t know what to do and only raised her tear-streaked face to him.

"Turn around. I can’t stand tears."

She obeyed, turning her back to him, and immediately, he pushed her down onto the sheets, forcing her onto her elbows.

"On all fours, little bird, arch your back," he murmured, his soft palm pressing against her lower back, making her take the most humiliating position possible.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then a sharp slap against her backside made her gasp, her face buried in the sheets, quietly silencing herself out of shame. Caracalla, clearly pleased with her reaction, grabbed Cassandra’s wrist, twisting it behind her back, forcing her to arch even more and whimper like a beaten animal.

He takes her without warning, quietly exhaling with satisfaction and gripping her thigh painfully. Cassandra only lets out a stifled gasp, not even trying to pretend she enjoys it. Her body is ready to accept him; she’s wet, she can feel it—the drugs have taken effect—but her mind resists.

"See? Even a pedigreed bitch turns out to be just a bitch in the end," he coos tenderly, releasing her hand, squeezing her thighs even harder, leaving scratches on her soft skin.

From a slow, teasing rhythm and lazy purring, he shifts—harsher now, sharper. Her mind empties of all thoughts, as if it's not her hair being roughly yanked, not her shoulders and neck marred with painful bites, and as if it's not her being brutally raped right at her younger sister's wedding.

"Please, stop!" she whimpers, but he only presses her head into the sheets with his hand, continuing.

She sobs, breaking into a moan, a whimper, and then another shameful moan. Worst of all, the guests behind the door might hear it, but Caracalla deliberately pushes everything to a frenzy, to madness, not for nothing did he say he wanted to destroy her.

"This time, it’ll work," he presses his entire body against her back, squeezing her breast, his nails digging painfully into her pale skin. "Be grateful, Jupiter himself has blessed you with his seed." He makes a few more harsh thrusts, sinking even deeper, then freezes with a moan. His hand curls around her neck, forcing her to turn, and kisses her wetly, messily, breathing heavily.

Her legs tremble; she feels dirty, broken. Cassandra can imagine how she looks from the outside: covered in bites and bruises, with tangled hair and swollen lips. A whore.

"Now, now, no time to sulk!" he acts as if nothing has happened, his gaze still feverish and amused. "Now it’s time for your dear sister’s farewell, isn’t it?"

Cassandra understands that tonight will last forever and merely nods in resignation. She is dead inside.

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

She never thought she would return to the imperial palace. Just as she never thought that, at such a young age, everything she loved would be destroyed. Nor did she think that she would ever find herself in such a position.

Cassandra waited in the tiny room, more fitting for a slave’s quarters than a place for meetings. She gazed melancholically out of the small window, hugging her shoulders.

"So it’s true."

This wasn’t the voice she had expected.

Emperor Geta seemed out of place in the shabby room, too dramatic and pompous in his expensive clothes and jewels.

"I wasn’t expecting you," she replied coldly.

"I know." He looked her over with a sharp gaze, lingering on her stomach. "But you should understand why I’m here."

With a soft clink, he placed a tiny vial on the table in front of her, and in his black eyes, she saw the reflection of death.

"What about your brother?"

"Oh, he’ll be furious, but… you know, he’s quick to forgive," Geta replied in the same melancholic tone, as if they were old friends. She might have been surprised, if not for the circumstances. Now, he had no reason to hate her.

"So, this is the end?" A sudden emptiness filled her. She wasn’t sad for herself or for the unborn child in her womb.

"It’s salvation, isn’t it?" For the first time, he seemed serious, almost like the emperors of old legends. "He won’t let you go. Caracalla loves his pets."

"And you want him to love only you?" she bitterly smirked and took the vial in her hand.

Geta’s eyes narrowed, his calm demeanor evaporating.

"You wanted to die," he said harshly. "I’m giving you the chance. And even if you don’t take it, I’ll slit your throat myself. Choose, Cassandra."

Hearing her name now felt strange. The gods had played a cruel game with her. Maybe after death, she would find peace? She opened the lid.

"You’ll be buried with honor. I’ll make sure of that," he spoke of her death as if it were nothing. And in truth, it wasn’t. The gods had no interest in mortals and their insignificant lives.

"Please, keep my sisters safe," she whispered, tears flowing down her pale cheeks as she took a sip.

"I promise," was all he said before they fell silent, staring out the tiny window.

The poison spread quickly through her body, painless. She was glad it was Geta who had done this, that he had spared her the necessity of facing Caracalla. Her head grew heavy, and she leaned against the wall, closing her eyes.

And, as if mocking her, her mind conjured the image of the second emperor.

A crimson sunset.

Red hair, red robes.

Clear, light blue eyes and that smirk.

"See you soon, little bird."

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Hello, my friends! Well, that’s it, the story has come to an end. I think the final is quite logical, though I can’t help but feel a little sad about it.

But for those who enjoyed my story, I have good news! I’ve been deeply inspired by a new plot featuring our ginger little scoundrel, and I’m already finishing the first chapter of a brand-new tale!

Stay tuned 💋

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