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speaknow-sw · 3 months ago

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•| ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ |•

Content : fluff, kissing, fighting, injuries, blood, deaths, mentions of claustrophobia, vaginal fingering, PiV, nipple play, gladieus.

A/N : This is the longest chapter so far. A special mention for @anakinca who’s really involved with this story 🤗. Pay attention. Enjoy 🫶🏻.

•| ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴠ : ɪᴍᴘʟᴏꜱɪᴏɴ |•

History is a river of blood, flowing relentlessly through the ages. To understand its currents, one must first pay its toll.

THE MOMENT YOUR SERVANT RUSHES INTO THE ROOM, breathless and pale-faced, you already know something is wrong.

“My lady,” she says, voice hushed but urgent. “The Emperor’s men are here.”

A chill runs down your spine. Your hands, steady moments before, feel suddenly cold. You barely have time to compose yourself before the heavy sound of armored boots echo from the entrance hall.

Beside you, Anakin stiffens. The tension in his body is immediate, coiling like a predator sensing a trap. He is still a fugitive—an escaped gladiator whose existence outside the Colosseum is a crime punishable by crucifixion. If the Emperor’s men find him here, there will be no trial, no mercy. Only death.

“Go,” you whisper urgently, turning toward him.

He doesn’t move. His blue eyes, sharp as a wolf’s, stay locked on the entryway as if he can already see the soldiers stepping through the marble halls. His hands twitch at his sides, ready for violence.

“Anakin,” you snap under your breath. “You have to hide.”

His jaw clenches. “Like a cowering child?” His voice is a low snarl, simmering with defiance. “I would sooner die fighting than slink away into the shadows.”

“You will die either way,” you say, stepping closer, lowering your voice to a whisper. “If they see you, you won’t get the chance to fight. They’ll drag you through the streets in chains. They will break you.”

Something flickers in his expression—pride warring with reason. His breath comes heavier, nostrils flaring, but he does not argue.

You nod toward an adjacent chamber, one hidden behind heavy curtains and lined with painted screens. “Stay there. Do not make a sound.”

He hesitates a moment longer, his defiant gaze searching yours as if trying to find another way. But he knows there isn’t one. With a frustrated grunt, he turns and disappears into the chamber just as the sound of approaching voices grows louder.

You take a slow breath, masking every trace of unease, and step forward to meet the Emperor’s envoy.

Cassius Metellus arrives with an air of quiet authority, his toga pristine, his expression unreadable. He is flanked by four armed guards, their golden lorica segmentata glinting in the sunlight pouring through the atrium.

“My lady,” he greets smoothly, inclining his head. But his sharp eyes roam the space, taking in the towering columns, the mosaics underfoot, the arrangement of fruit and wine on the polished table. He is assessing. Calculating.

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Cassius?” You keep your voice light, feigning the poise of a woman who has nothing to fear.

The envoy smiles, but it does not reach his eyes. “I bring a message of goodwill from the Emperor.”

You incline your head, waiting.

He pauses just long enough to let the silence stretch, to watch for any flicker of discomfort. Then, with an air of practiced nonchalance, he continues:

“The Emperor has heard… whispers.” He picks a ripe fig from the silver tray beside him, rolling it between his fingers. “Whispers that you have taken an interest in a certain gladiator.”

Your heartbeat tightens in your throat, but you do not flinch. Instead, you let out a soft laugh, graceful and amused, as if he has just accused you of something utterly absurd.

“A gladiator?” You arch a brow. “Do you think so little of me, Cassius? That I would lower myself to chasing after men of the sand?”

Cassius tilts his head, watching you closely. “You have always been unpredictable, my lady.”

You smile, as though you enjoy the game. “And you have always been paranoid.”

He chuckles, but you can see the doubt lurking behind his eyes. “Rome is built on paranoia. It keeps the powerful alive.”

You step closer, tilting your head in mock curiosity. “And are you here to protect me? Or to warn me?”

Cassius considers this, then takes a bite of the fig. The rich juices stain his fingers. “I am here because the Emperor does not tolerate secrets. And neither does Rome.”

A flicker of unease prickles beneath your skin.

Cassius takes his time wiping his hands on a linen cloth before reaching into the folds of his toga. He pulls out a sealed scroll, pressed with the Emperor’s golden insignia, and holds it out to you.

“The Emperor extends an invitation,” he says. “A grand feast at the imperial palace. You will attend.”

His tone makes it clear—it is not a request.

You take the scroll carefully, feeling the weight of it in your hands. Your mind races. The Emperor knows something. Maybe not everything, but enough to suspect. Enough to watch.

“I am honored,” you say smoothly, slipping the scroll into the folds of your gown.

Cassius smiles, but there is something sharp beneath it. “Good. I would hate to think you were avoiding the Emperor’s good graces.”

With a final nod, he turns on his heel, his guards following close behind as they disappear through the villa’s entrance.

Only when the door closes behind them do you let out a slow, measured breath.

You are not safe. Neither is Anakin.

The door had barely shut behind Cassius before Anakin stepped out of his hiding place, his movements sharp and deliberate. He was furious.

"You lied to them like it was nothing," he said, voice low but edged with something dangerous.

His eyes burned into you, narrowed in accusation, but beneath his anger, there was something else. A sort of disbelief, as if he had just watched you transform into something he did not recognize.

You met his gaze, your expression carefully composed. "This is how Rome works, Anakin. Lies keep people alive."

He scoffed, shaking his head as he turned away. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his breath coming heavier. He was pacing, his body tense with restless energy. A caged lion, too strong for the walls around him, too wild to be trapped.

"And now you’re summoned before the Emperor?" His voice was harsher now, tinged with something dangerously close to fear. "Do you think he doesn’t know? That this is just a simple feast?"

You said nothing. Because, of course, you knew. The Emperor was not a man who sent invitations without reason.

Anakin exhaled sharply through his nose, his frustration only growing. He hated this. Hated the politics, the games, the feeling of power slipping through his fingers. He had spent his life fighting with steel and strength, where everything was simple—kill or be killed. This was different. Here, he could do nothing.

"You should leave Rome," he said suddenly.

You frowned. "What?"

"Leave," he repeated, stepping toward you. "If the Emperor suspects you, he won’t stop until he has what he wants. Run before it’s too late."

You almost laughed at the absurdity of it. "And go where?"

He was silent. He had no answer.

"This is my home," you said. "I don’t run."

He studied you for a long moment, his jaw tight, something unreadable flickering across his face. You could feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating, pressing between you.

But then, he turned away again, shoulders rigid, and said nothing more.

The past week had been a test of patience—for both of you.

Anakin, stubborn as ever, refused to rest properly, refused to talk, refused to do anything but glare at the walls of the small home he now found himself in. And you, just as relentless, refused to leave him alone.

You tried everything. Soft words, quiet companionship, even shared meals, but nothing cracked his defenses. So you resorted to something much more effective: pestering him into submission.

If he went to sharpen his gladius, you sat beside him and talked. If he took his bandages off too soon, you scolded him like a worried wife. If he tried to disappear for hours, you followed him.

It was somewhere between your teasing remarks and your exaggerated sighs that he finally snapped.

"Gods above, do you ever stop talking?"

You grinned at his frustration. "Do you ever start?"

That was when he shoved you—hard enough to send you tumbling into the mud just outside the house, the wet earth splattering across your tunic and arms.

You gasped, sitting up slowly, blinking as the dirt dripped from your hair.

Anakin stood above you, arms crossed, his face locked in a cold mask—except for the telltale twitch at the corner of his lips. He was trying not to laugh.

Your glare could have withered a field of wheat. "You brute!"

The twitch deepened. His shoulders tensed as he fought against the inevitable, but then—

A breath. A snort. A deep, belly-deep chuckle that turned into a full, rich laugh.

It was the first real sound of life you'd heard from him since you'd brought him here. And despite your humiliation, you felt warmth spread through your chest at the sight of him, head tilted back, golden under the sun, laughing like he hadn't in years.

You couldn't even be mad.

The morning air was warm, carrying the scent of wildflowers and fresh earth. You stood beside your horse, running a brush through its sleek coat, murmuring softly as the creature shifted beneath your touch. The quiet was peaceful, almost sacred, a moment of stillness before the day truly began.

And then—

“You ride,” came a voice behind you, rough and abrupt.

You glanced over your shoulder to find Anakin standing there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Obviously,” you replied, returning to your task.

A pause. Then—

“We’re going.”

You blinked. “Going where?”

He snatched the reins from your hand, ignoring your question as he mounted the horse with ease. Then, without looking at you, he extended a hand.

For a moment, you only stared. It wasn’t a request—it was an order, masked in something else. A test, maybe. A challenge.

He was offering something, in his own way.

You took his hand.

The world tilted as he pulled you up in front of him, settling you between his arms. His chest pressed against your back, firm and warm, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of your tunic.

Then, without warning, he smirked and spurred the horse into motion.

Wind tore through your hair as the horse galloped forward, its hooves pounding against the soft earth. The fields blurred around you, a sea of green and gold, wildflowers bending in the wake of your speed. The rush of it filled your veins, your heart hammering against your ribs.

You felt alive.

A breathless laugh escaped you, carried away by the wind. Behind you, Anakin chuckled, the sound low and pleased. His arms tightened slightly, fingers firm around the reins, but his body shifted in a way that told you he was watching you—watching the way your eyes shone, the way your lips curled with exhilaration.

For the first time in what felt like forever, there was no fear. No running, no fighting, no past pressing down on your shoulders. There was only this—freedom, the open sky, the man behind you, and the way your heart soared.

"You like that, little one ?" he murmured, voice thick with amusement.

You couldn’t answer. You were too busy soaking in the moment, too caught up in the rush of it all—the world spinning, his breath against your skin, the sheer joy of being alive for once in your long lifetime.

Eventually, the horse slowed, its gallop easing into a steady trot before coming to a stop near the crest of a hill. You both sat there for a moment, catching your breath, the quiet stretching between you.

Then, slowly, you turned your head to look at him.

He was already looking at you.

Something passed between you, something unspoken but undeniable. You both knew what this was. What it had been building to.

Your fingers found the edge of his tunic, gripping lightly as you leaned in. His breath fanned across your lips, his eyes half-lidded, dark with something dangerous, something wanting.

And then you kissed him.

It was soft at first—hesitant, searching—but the moment he responded, everything shifted. His lips moved against yours, slow and deep, as if savoring the moment. A sigh escaped you, melting into him as his hands settled on your waist, fingers tightening just enough to make you shiver.

When you pulled away, he was smiling. Not his usual smirk, not a grin filled with arrogance or challenge—a real smile. Honest. Unburdened.

You barely had a moment to register it before he suddenly gripped your waist and lifted you off the horse.

Your feet barely touched the ground before he tackled you down, rolling you into the grass with a firm, playful shove.

A surprised yelp left your lips as you hit the earth, the scent of crushed flowers filling your lungs.

And then—he laughed.

A real, full-bodied laugh, rich and warm, spilling from his lips like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

You stared up at him, breathless, heart pounding, feeling something fragile and terrifying take root in your chest.

Your Anakin. Yours.

Everything was fine.

For now.

You’re still catching your breath, cheeks flushed and hair tousled from the tumble into the wildflowers, when Anakin sits back on his heels, something unreadable in his gaze.

He reaches out, plucking a flower from the tangled grass—a cymbal flower, its pale purple petals delicate between his fingers. He twirls it once, then holds it out to you.

You take it, brow arching. “You’re giving me a Ruins of Rome?”

He tilts his head. “A what?”

“That’s what people call them,” you say, rolling the fragile stem between your fingers. “They grow where Rome has crumbled. Among broken stones and lost things.”

Anakin hums, glancing at the wildflowers that sway around you both. “Then it makes sense.”

You look at him, waiting for the smirk, the teasing remark—but he only studies the flower, his expression quiet.

When he speaks again, his voice is low, rougher. “You’ve ruined me, you know.”

Your breath catches slightly, fingers stilling against the petals.

He exhales sharply, like the words are slipping past his defenses before he can stop them. “You break down everything I thought I was. I don’t know if I should hate you for it, or—” He stops himself. Shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

The silence stretches. The wind moves through the grass, rustling through the ruins in the distance.

You swallow, heart hammering. “And this flower?” you ask softly. “You’re giving it to me because…?”

His jaw tenses. He hesitates, then meets your gaze. “Because it reminds me of you.”

Your chest tightens, heat creeping up your neck. He’s watching you too intently now, too openly, like he’s laid himself bare and doesn’t know whether he regrets it yet.

The weight of his words lingers, thick and heavy between you. You don’t know what to say, don’t know what to call this, whatever it is. So instead, you bring the flower to your lips, letting its petals brush against your mouth before tucking it carefully into your hair.

Anakin’s eyes darken slightly at the sight, but he only huffs a breath, shaking his head. He leans back, hands bracing against the earth, and looks up at the sky. “You’re impossible,” he mutters.

You smirk. “And yet, here you are.”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t argue. And for now, that’s enough.

Anakin leans back on his hands, gaze lifting to the sky as if searching for something in the endless stretch of blue. You watch him for a moment, then ask, “Do you love the sky?”

His brow furrows slightly, caught off guard by the question. “What?”

“The sky,” you repeat, tilting your head. “You look at it like it holds something for you. Do you love it?”

Anakin exhales through his nose, glancing at you sideways. “It’s just the sky.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You never let anything go, do you?”

You shrug, plucking at the grass beside you. “Maybe not. So? Do you love it?”

His gaze drifts upward again, something distant in his expression. “I don’t know if ‘love’ is the right word,” he admits. “But I’ve always felt… drawn to it.”

Your fingers still. “Because of your name?”

Anakin turns his head toward you, his expression unreadable. “Skywalker,” you say, testing the name on your tongue. “It sounds like someone who belongs to the sky. Did you ever think that maybe you were meant for it?”

His jaw tenses slightly, eyes narrowing. “I was never meant for anything.”

The bitterness in his tone is unexpected, sharp enough to sting. You press your lips together, watching as he looks away. The moment stretches, the ruins silent around you.

Finally, he exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not my real name,” he mutters.

Your breath catches. “What?”

His fingers tighten against his jaw before he drops his hand, meeting your gaze. “It’s not the name I was born with.”

Your heartbeat quickens. “Then where did it come from?”

Anakin looks back at the sky, his expression unreadable. “Someone gave it to me,” he says finally. “A long time ago. I don’t remember who.”

Something about the way he says it makes you realize he won’t tell you more—not yet. And for some reason, that makes your chest ache.

So you don’t press. You just lean back beside him, staring up at the sky he cannot love.

For a long while, Anakin doesn’t speak. He just watches the sky, something heavy in his gaze. You don’t push. You wait.

Then, finally—softly—he says, “My father was a Roman.”

You blink, turning to look at him. It’s the first time he’s spoken of his family. He doesn’t meet your gaze, eyes still lost in the sky.

“A general,” he continues. “Maximus.” His jaw clenches around the name, as if it tastes like iron. “He married my mother, Shmi. She was Iberian.”

You stay silent, letting him speak at his own pace.

“He left when I was seven,” Anakin says. “For war. Told me I’d see him again when Rome was finished with him.” A bitter smile ghosts over his lips. “He never came back.”

Your stomach tightens.

“My mother and I lived on the family estate. It wasn’t much—just land, crops, a few horses. She worked hard to keep it going.” He exhales through his nose. “Then, when I was nine, the soldiers came.”

His voice hardens, but there’s no anger—just a distant, hollow weight.

“They burned everything,” he says. “Killed the workers, the animals. My mother.”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t know why,” he murmurs. “Maybe they were meant to kill me, too. Maybe they thought I wasn’t worth the effort.” His fingers tighten in the grass. “But they left me there, alone.”

You swallow. The thought of him—small, broken, left behind in the ruins of his home—makes something in your chest tighten painfully.

“I don’t remember how long I stayed there,” Anakin admits. “I must’ve wandered. The next thing I knew, I was in chains, bound for Rome.” His lips curl slightly, self-mocking. “I barely spoke Latin back then. Didn’t understand a damn thing anyone said.”

Your throat feels tight.

“The Colosseum has been my home ever since.” His voice is flat, matter-of-fact. He looks at you then, meeting your gaze for the first time. There’s no sadness in his eyes. No vulnerability. Only the quiet, relentless steel of a man who has survived.

You don’t know what to say. What could you possibly say?

So instead, you reach for his hand, resting your fingers over his knuckles. A silent gesture. A quiet offering.

Anakin looks at your hand, at your touch. He doesn’t move for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he turns his palm upward and curls his fingers around yours.

The thought settles heavily in your mind—was there ever a life where Anakin Skywalker was meant to be happy? Or was he always destined to walk through the world with loss clinging to his heels like a shadow?

In every story, every world, does he always suffer?

Your chest tightens. You don’t think. You just move.

You slip your arms around him, pressing yourself against his warmth. At first, he stiffens—a reflex, the instinct of a man not used to softness, to comfort given without reason. But then, slowly, he exhales, his body loosening just slightly beneath your touch.

You say nothing. You don’t tell him you’re sorry, because you know he doesn’t want pity. You don’t tell him he’s not alone, because you don’t know if that’s even true. You just hold him, hoping he understands.

His breath ghosts against your shoulder. For a moment, just one, he leans into you.

Then, almost reluctantly, he pulls back.

His hands remain on your waist, his gaze searching yours. There’s something unreadable in his expression—something raw, hesitant, like a man standing at the edge of a precipice, unsure if he wants to fall.

“You’re strange,” he murmurs. His voice is quieter than usual, rough at the edges. “You shouldn’t care.”

You meet his eyes and answer honestly. “But I do.”

Something flickers across his face. He doesn’t speak again. He just watches you, like he’s trying to figure out what to do with you, with whatever this is between you.

But then, as if catching himself, he exhales sharply and releases his hold on you, stepping back. “Come on,” he mutters, looking away. “It’s getting late.”

He turns, walking ahead.

But you don’t miss the way his fingers brush absently over his arm—the same place where your touch had lingered just moments before.

The villa felt too quiet that night.

You sat in your chamber, the invitation from the Emperor resting on the table beside you. You had not touched it since Cassius placed it in your hands. It sat there, like a weight, like something inevitable.

Outside, the air was thick with heat, the city beyond your walls still alive with distant voices and the faint sound of a lyre playing somewhere in the night. But within the villa, something was… wrong.

The usual murmur of servants had faded. The distant noises of Rome felt muted. The silence was not peaceful—it was unnatural. Stifling.

Anakin felt it before you did.

He had refused to sleep, his body still thrumming with frustration from your earlier conversation. He sat in the shadows of the courtyard, his fingers running absently over the hilt of a stolen gladius, his mind restless.

Then—he felt it.

A shift in the air.

A scent—iron and sweat.

Steel.

His eyes snapped to the shadows along the rooftop just as the first whisper of movement came.

Instinct took over.

The assassin struck from the darkness, a blade flashing toward his throat.

Anakin moved without thinking, dodging just in time. The dagger sliced the air where his neck had been a heartbeat before. In the same motion, he grabbed the attacker’s wrist, twisting it with brutal force until the bone snapped.

The man let out a strangled cry, but Anakin was already moving. He grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into a marble column. The sickening crack of bone rang through the night.

Then—silence.

For a moment, he thought it was over. But then, out of the darkness, more figures spilled into the courtyard.

From the rooftops, from the open windows.

There were too many.

Anakin’s grip tightened around his sword. His breath came steady, his pulse quickening. He had fought battles before. He had faced death a thousand times.

But something told him this was different.

Because tonight, they weren’t just here for him.

The moment the first body hit the ground, you knew this wasn’t an assassination—it was a capture.

The assassins did not strike to kill. Their movements were precise, coordinated, meant to subdue, not to slaughter. Their weapons glinted in the dim light, curved and barbed, designed to wound just enough to weaken. Some lunged for Anakin, ropes and chains glinting in their hands, while others fanned out to block your exits. They wanted him alive.

For what, you didn’t know.

Anakin fought like a man possessed. But no—this was not the polished brutality of a gladiator, not the honed skill of a soldier drilled in formations and rules. This was something older, something raw and violent, something unshackled from discipline.

He moved before his attackers could react. His body was a blur of motion—ducking, twisting, striking with deadly efficiency. One assassin lunged, a dagger arcing toward his ribs, but Anakin caught his wrist, twisted hard enough to make bone snap, and wrenched the blade from his grip. In the same breath, he turned the stolen weapon against another, driving it up beneath his ribs.

Another came from behind, but Anakin was already moving, shifting his weight to slam his elbow into the attacker’s throat before spinning and disarming a third in a single brutal movement.

It was chaos. And yet, for him, it was natural.

A shadow moved in your periphery.

You barely had time to react before a blade slashed toward you. You twisted, the cold kiss of steel grazing your arm. The assassin snarled, already lunging again, but your hand found the iron poker by the brazier. You swung it with all your strength. The iron connected with a sickening crack, the force of the blow sending the man stumbling back.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Another attacker rushed you, and you turned the poker in your hands, jabbing the burning-hot end forward. It met flesh, and the cultist howled, staggering back, clutching at his seared face.

Across the room, Anakin moved like a storm. His breath came fast and ragged, but he did not slow. He wrenched a blade free from a fallen body, spun, and drove it into another’s throat.

For a moment, silence.

Then—the sound of more footsteps.

From the hallways. The courtyard. The very walls of the villa.

Anakin wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his chest heaving. He turned to you, jaw tight, eyes burning with something violent.

“We’re surrounded,” he growled.

The sight of him should have been terrifying.

Blood painted his skin in dark streaks, some of it his, most of it not. His tunic was torn, exposing the hard lines of his chest and arms, glistening with sweat. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, the rise and fall of his ribs betraying the force of his exertion.

And yet—you could not look away.

There was something devastating about him like this. A creature of war, untamed and unyielding. His golden curls were damp, sticking to his forehead, a stark contrast to the violence surrounding him. His eyes—sharp and searing—flashed beneath the flickering lamplight, full of something both primal and intoxicating.

You swallowed, pulse traitorous.

He turned his head slightly, catching your stare, and something in his expression shifted. His lips curled into something dark, something knowing.

“What?” His voice was rough, breathless, almost mocking.

You should have looked away. You should have focused on the battle, on the men regrouping outside your doors, on the very real danger pressing in from all sides.

Instead, you held his gaze and, with the barest hint of a smirk, said, “Nothing.”

His grin was sharp, breathless, almost feral.

Lies. You both knew it.

Anakin took a step closer, bloodied and breathless, his voice low and edged with something wicked.

“Liar,” he murmured, his lips barely ghosting the space between you. His breath was warm, laced with the copper tang of blood and the heat of battle. “You’re staring at me like you want me to pin you against that wall.”

His fingers brushed your waist—just a fleeting touch, barely there—but it sent a slow, burning ache curling through your stomach.

His smirk deepened as he leaned in, voice a rasp against your ear.

“Careful, little one,” he whispered. “Keep looking at me like that, and I might just give you what you want.”

The stone doorway groaned as you forced it open, revealing a passage shrouded in dust and shadows. Without hesitation, you grabbed Anakin’s wrist and pulled him inside, your breath unsteady as you pushed the heavy door shut behind you. The scent of damp earth and old stone filled your lungs, thick with the weight of centuries.

Anakin turned, his blue eyes flickering in the dim light of the single torch you had managed to grab before descending. “What the hell is this?” he muttered, his voice low, reverberating against the narrow walls. His body was still taut with the remnants of battle, his bloodied hands flexing instinctively, ready for another fight.

“An old escape route,” you murmured, brushing cobwebs from your path. “One I never thought I’d have to use.”

The passage sloped downward, uneven steps slick with moisture, carved long ago by hands now turned to dust. You moved quickly, feeling the walls for support, knowing every turn, every hidden drop. This tunnel had once belonged to priests, smugglers, the forgotten ones of Rome—those who moved in whispers beneath the city's grandeur.

Anakin followed, silent but wary. His presence behind you was palpable, a force of heat and breath and barely contained tension. “You have secret tunnels beneath your villa?” he finally asked, voice laced with disbelief.

You cast a glance over your shoulder, the torchlight catching the sharp angles of his face. “Rome is built on layers, Anakin. The past never truly disappears.”

He huffed a dry laugh, shaking his head. “You’re full of riddles.”

You didn’t answer. Not when you could still hear the faint echoes of movement above—the cultists searching, their boots striking marble floors. If they realized where you had gone, if they found the entrance…

You forced yourself to move faster. The tunnel grew narrower, the air cooler. Your fingers grazed the carved markings on the walls—symbols of gods long forsaken, prayers whispered in the dark. The weight of history pressed against you, heavy, suffocating.

Anakin was quiet behind you, but you could feel his unease. He had fought his way through blood and chaos only minutes ago, and now he was descending into the underbelly of a city he barely understood, following a woman who seemed to know more than she should.

“How far does this go?” he asked, his voice softer now, edged with something unreadable.

You don’t answer because the moment your feet touch the damp stone of the tunnels, you hear it—footsteps, distant but unmistakable. First above, faint and hurried, then below.

The cultists know about the tunnels.

Your pulse spikes. They are already inside.

You barely turn to warn Anakin when his fingers close around your wrist, rough and unyielding. Then he’s pulling you forward, his pace relentless. You don’t protest. There’s no time.

The tunnel is a winding, suffocating labyrinth beneath Rome, carved by hands long dead, its purpose shifting over the centuries—temples turned to catacombs, catacombs turned to escape routes. But now, the narrow stone veins of the city have become a trap.

The air is damp, thick with the scent of wet earth and old prayers. Your sandals slap against the uneven ground, the echo of your steps colliding with the frantic rhythm of the ones chasing you.

Anakin’s grip is iron, his strides long, unyielding. He moves like an animal that has survived too many hunts, his body tense with the knowledge that running is not cowardice—it is survival.

The tunnel forks. You hesitate for a breath too long, but Anakin doesn’t. He yanks you left.

You nearly stumble.

Behind you, the cultists follow. Closer now. Their footsteps are lighter than yours, trained for this kind of pursuit.

The passage ahead tightens, forcing you both to slow. The walls narrow, rough-hewn stone scraping your arms as you push through. The floor tilts downward—slick, uneven. Your torch flickers wildly as you plunge into deeper darkness.

A sudden dead end. No— not an end. A gap. A narrow crevice, just wide enough for a body to squeeze through.

You hear the footsteps gaining.

Anakin doesn’t hesitate. He presses through the crack first, his body twisting against the damp stone. His breath is sharp as he forces himself through, his muscles coiled tight. The moment he vanishes into the darkness beyond, you follow, chest flattening against the rock, ribs compressing as you inch forward.

It’s agony—slow, suffocating. The cold dampness of the stone clings to your skin. Your breath shudders out of you as you push forward, inch by inch.

Then, from behind you—voices. The cultists have reached the gap.

You don’t dare look back. You force yourself through, hands scraping at the slick walls.

Then—Anakin’s hands find your waist, gripping you, pulling you the rest of the way through. You stumble forward into a wider passage, your breathing ragged.

But the cultists are still coming.

You start running again.

The air grows thicker, the stone around you changing. Not carved, not built—something older. The tunnel opens into a cavern, wide and yawning. Pillars rise from the ground like the ribs of a beast long buried.

Then the ground trembles beneath your feet.

You barely have time to understand what’s happening before the sound erupts—rock groaning, splintering, shuddering.

The cultists are forcing their way through the crevice behind you—too many bodies pressing into a space too narrow.

And then—

A crack like thunder.

The ceiling buckles.

A deafening roar as stone crashes down, dust exploding into the air. You throw up an arm, stumbling back as the tunnel behind you collapses, swallowing the passage in a cloud of debris.

The sound fades. Silence.

Then—only your ragged breaths.

You and Anakin are alone.

But you are also trapped.

The dust from the collapse still clings to your throat, thick and dry as you press a hand to your chest, forcing air back into your lungs. The cavern is silent now, the only sound the unsteady rhythm of your breaths and the distant echo of dripping water.

Anakin leans against the rough stone wall, his body rigid with tension. Blood trails from a fresh gash on his arm, carving a dark path down his skin. He exhales sharply, his gaze flicking from you to the sealed-off tunnel, jaw tightening.

“We’re not getting back that way.” His voice is rough, edged with frustration.

You swallow, steadying yourself. “No.” You shift your gaze forward, where the tunnel stretches into deeper darkness. “We go deeper.”

Anakin watches you for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the flickering torchlight. The way his eyes trace your face, the way his fingers curl slightly as if resisting the urge to reach for something—there’s something weighty in his silence.

“You knew about this tunnel,” he finally says, voice low. “What else do you know?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you step forward, pressing into the depths of Rome’s forgotten veins.

—

The air grows colder the deeper you descend, thick with damp stone and the faint scent of something ancient. The tunnels twist and narrow, some passages barely wide enough for you to squeeze through. Anakin stays close, his breath warm at your back as you navigate through the maze.

Water glistens along the uneven walls, remnants of an abandoned aqueduct long forgotten by Rome. The city above is loud, vibrant with life and power, but here… here, the world is still.

Then, at last, you find it. A crack of moonlight, thin and silver, spilling through the slats of a hidden grate. The exit.

But it is high, wedged into the stone ceiling, impossible to reach without aid.

Anakin steps forward without hesitation. “I’ll lift you.”

You glance at him, hesitating. He’s bleeding, exhausted.

“I can climb,” you insist.

He scoffs. “You’ll slow us down.” Then, his hands find your waist, firm and steady. “Up.”

You barely have time to brace yourself before he hoists you upward. His strength is effortless, his grip sure, and you grasp at the stone ledge, pulling yourself up. The rough edges bite into your palms, but you push through, swinging a leg over the narrow opening until you are crouched at the top.

Turning, you reach down. “Give me your hand.”

Anakin jumps, catching the ledge. You grip his forearm, straining to pull him up. His muscles flex beneath your fingers as he pushes himself the rest of the way, landing beside you. For a breath, you are close, his body warm from exertion, his breath fanning against your cheek.

Then, he steps back.

Without a word, you lead him forward, into the night air.

The temple ruins rise before you, skeletal remnants of something long abandoned, swallowed by time and neglect. Ivy climbs the worn pillars, twisting like veins over the broken stone. The night is cool, the air thick with the scent of damp earth.

Anakin leans against one of the columns, his body finally yielding to exhaustion. He doesn’t speak as you kneel beside him, tearing a strip from your tunic to wrap around the gash on his arm.

His skin is warm beneath your fingers, tense at first, then yielding as he exhales slowly. The torchlight casts his face in shadow, sharpening the angles of his jaw, the cut of his mouth.

“Why are you doing this?” His voice is quieter now, rough with something unreadable.

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you press the cloth against his wound with careful hands, securing it. Then, softly, you whisper,

“Because you are not meant to die yet.”

The air between you is heavy, thick with something you can't quite name. Anakin, still leaning against the pillar, watches you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His breath is still ragged, his body bloodied and worn, but in his eyes, there's a fire that won't be quenched by exhaustion. His gaze moves from your face to your lips, lingering, before his voice breaks the silence.

"Why are you doing this, please little one ?" His question is low, barely above a whisper, as if afraid that the answer might be more than he’s prepared to hear.

You press your hand to your chest, catching your breath, still haunted by the escape through the tunnels, the chaos of battle, and the danger that still looms. "Just someone who doesn't want you dead," you say softly, your words a quiet repetition, but the weight behind them pulls at something deep inside him. The tension that builds between you is palpable, the kind that vibrates in the air, thick and intoxicating.

Before you can process the thought fully, he moves. It’s a blur of motion, a quick shift that has him closing the space between you in an instant. His lips crash against yours, hard and demanding, a stark contrast to the softness of his earlier words.

You gasp into the kiss, shocked for a split second, but it doesn’t take long for you to give in, to respond with equal fervor. His hands find their place on your body—one at the small of your back, pulling you closer, while the other weaves into your hair, his fingers gripping you like a lifeline. The heat of his body radiates against you, the scent of him—blood, sweat, and something else, something raw—surrounds you.

His kiss is urgent, desperate, as if he's trying to find something in you, to make sense of everything that has happened. His body presses against yours, hard muscle meeting soft curves, and you feel the intensity of the moment settle between you, igniting a spark that neither of you can deny.

You try to pull back, to breathe, but Anakin’s hold on you tightens, and he deepens the kiss. “Don’t you dare...” He grunts, lowly. His tongue brushes against yours, searching, insistent, as if he wants to consume you. His hands move from your back to your sides, exploring the shape of you as if he's memorizing every inch. There’s no longer any space between you, only the tension, the heat that rises with each passing second.

You feel it, the clash of emotions, the rawness of the moment—fear, desire, something that feels like longing mixed with something far darker. He’s a man who has lived through violence, through hardship, and in this moment, he seeks something different. Something tender, something real.

But even as the kiss deepens, as the world outside fades away, you can’t escape the reality that this can’t last. The danger that follows you both, the web of lies and deceit that binds you, it’s all still there, pressing against your consciousness.

Anakin’s breath catches as your lips meet, a shudder running through his muscular frame. His hand fists in your silken hair, holding you to him as his mouth slants over yours, demanding and hungry. He kisses you like a man starved, like he's trying to devour you whole, to lose himself in your sweetness.

He breaks away, just slightly, his lips brushing yours as he speaks, his voice a low rumble. “Gods, you taste so sweet... like ambrosia. I could feast on you for hours and never be satisfied.”

His other hand slides down to the small of your back, pulling your soft curves flush against his hard, battle-worn body. You can feel every ridge and plane of his muscles, the heat of his skin even through the fabric of his tunic. His heart pounds against your breast, a steady, insistent rhythm that mirrors your own racing pulse.

Anakin’s eyes are dark as he stares down at you, his gaze intense and searching. There's a hunger there, a raw, primal need, but there's something else too - a softness, a tenderness that belies the fierce warrior exterior. It's a look that steals the breath from your lungs and sets your soul aflame.

Anakin breaks the kiss, his breath ragged as his hands move to the clasp of your toga. With deft fingers, he unties the fabric, letting it fall open to reveal the creamy expanse of your breasts. His eyes darken with desire as he takes in the sight of your exposed flesh, a low growl rumbling in his throat.

"Exquisite..." he murmurs, before dipping his head to lavish your breasts with kisses and nips. His lips are soft yet insistent, trailing a path of fire from the swell of your breast to the sensitive peak. He teases you with feather-light kisses, his tongue flicking out to circle your nipple before drawing it into his mouth to suckle greedily.

Anakin's hands map the curves of your breasts, kneading the soft mounds, his calloused fingers leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake. He rolls your nipples between his fingers, pinching and tugging, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core.

"Your skin... it's like the finest silk," Anakin rasps between kisses, his voice rough with want. "I could worship these beauties for hours and never grow tired." He punctuates his words with a sharp nip to your collarbone, soothing the sting with a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses.

"I thought you…worshipped nothing." You gasped breathlessly, wetness pooling between your legs.

Anakin's touch is electrifying, his passion fierce and consuming. He makes you feel cherished, desired, like the most beautiful woman in the world. Under his ardent ministrations, your body comes alive, aching and yearning for more of his touch, his kisses, his everything. The world outside fades away until there is only the two of you, lost in a haze of sensation and desire.

Anakin chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates against your skin. He lifts his head to meet your gaze, his eyes glinting with mischief and lust. "Oh, I don't worship the gods, little one. But I could believe in the temple of the flesh, in the divine pleasure to be found in the union of a man and woman." His voice is a low, intimate murmur, sending shivers down your spine.

To emphasize his point, Anakin traces the curve of your breast with a calloused finger, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. "And right now, I could worship this temple, reverence every inch of your exquisite body until you're trembling and begging for more." His hand cups your breast, squeezing gently, his thumb brushing over your nipple. "I could bring you to the heights of ecstasy, make you scream my name until it's the only word you remember."

“So you worship something, finally…” You gasped, arching your back.

Anakin grins at your breathless teasing, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Aye, I worship the goddess of lust, the muse of carnal desire that lives within you." His voice is a low, seductive purr as he leans in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "And I intend to make offerings to her at the altar of your pleasure, again and again, until the stars fall from the sky and the earth trembles beneath our feet."

His hand slides down your side, over the dip of your waist, the flare of your hip. He grips your thigh, pulling your leg up to wrap around his waist as he presses his body flush against yours. You can feel the hard length of him, hot and insistent, pressing against your core. He rolls his hips, grinding against you, and you can't hold back the moan that escapes your lips.

"Feel that, little one ?" Anakin growls, his breath hot against your neck. "Feel how much I want you, how badly I need to be inside you, to claim you, to make you mine?" His hand slides under your thigh, squeezing the firm muscle as he pulls you harder against him. "The gods may have abandoned me, but my body, my very soul, has never wanted anything more than to worship yours."

Anakin's hands begin to roam your body with purpose, his touch intent on preparing you for what's to come. He starts at your thighs, his calloused fingers kneading the soft flesh, working his way up to your hips. He traces the curve of your waist, the dip of your belly button, before moving to your breasts. He cups them gently, his thumbs circling your nipples, coaxing them to stiff peaks.

Leaning down, he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to your collarbone, your throat, the sensitive skin just below your ear. His tongue traces the delicate curve, his lips brushing your racing pulse. "I want to taste every inch of you," he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough with desire. "I want to map your body with my mouth, to learn your secrets, your hidden pleasures."

One hand slides between your legs, his fingers brushing against your most sensitive spot. He teases you, stroking you through the damp fabric of your undergarments, feeling the heat of you, the evidence of your arousal. "You're so wet already," he whispers, a note of awe in his voice. "So ready for me." He presses harder, rubbing in tight circles, his touch sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your core.

His other hand grips your hip, holding you in place as he grinds against you, letting you feel the hard, thick length of him. "I'm going to fill you up, sweetheart," he promises, his voice a low, seductive growl. "I'm going to stretch you wide and deep, until you're trembling and begging for more." He nips at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. "Are you ready for that, love? Ready for me to claim you, to make you mine?"

Your breath still. "I was always yours, but are you mine Anakin ?" you replied softly, hands in his golden hair.

Anakin stills for a moment, his hand pausing in its sensual exploration of your body. He leans back to look at you, his gaze intense and searching as it meets yours. There's a flicker of something raw and vulnerable in those sky-blue eyes, a hint of the man beneath the warrior exterior.

"Yours," he says softly, his voice rough with emotion. "From the moment I first saw you, there was something about you that called to me, that made me feel...alive. Like a piece of my soul had found its way back home." He reaches up, his calloused thumb brushing your cheekbone, his touch achingly tender.

"I've been a gladiator for so long, a weapon in the hands of others. I forgot what it meant to feel, to want, to need, to be at peace...until you." His hand slides into your hair, cupping the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your silken locks. "You make me feel things I never knew I could feel, things I thought had been burned out of me long ago."

He leans in closer, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with your own. "I am yours, sweetheart. Body, heart, and soul. I am yours to command, yours to cherish, yours to own." His voice is a fervent whisper, a solemn vow. "And I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you, if you'll have me."

"I have you…I have you in every life…" you whispered, trembling. Tears started to pour down your eyes. You had him. You had your first love, your first everything, right here in your arms, after all this time.

Anakin's heart clenches at your trembling words, a surge of love and protectiveness welling up inside him. Seeing the tears glistening in your eyes, he leans in to press a tender kiss to your cheek, his lips brushing away the salty trails. "In this life and the next, and the one after that, I will be yours. I will find you, I will love you, I will protect you." His voice is a solemn vow, a promise sealed with the fire of his devotion.

Anakin's hands grip the fabric of your dress, bunching it up slowly as he revealed more and more of your creamy thighs. His eyes darkened with desire as he pushed the garment higher, exposing your most intimate place. He could see the damp patch on your undergarments, evidence of your arousal, and it made his member throb with anticipation.

Without breaking eye contact, Anakin slowly slid a calloused finger beneath the fabric, brushing against your slick folds. He groaned at the feel of your wetness, your body already so ready for him. "Gods, you're dripping," he growled, his voice rough with lust. "So hot and ready for my touch."

He pushed your undergarments aside and slid a long, thick finger deep inside your tight heat, feeling your walls clench and flutter around the intrusion. "This is where I belong," he murmured, pumping his finger slowly, teasingly. "This is my home, my haven." He added a second finger, stretching you, filling you, as his thumb found your sensitive pearl and rubbed tight circles around it.

Anakin's other hand slid under your bottom, squeezing the firm globe as he pulled you harder against his hand, his fingers plunging deeper, harder, faster. "I'm going to prepare you for my cock," he promised, his voice a low, seductive rumble. "I'm going to make sure this sweet little cunt is ready to take every thick, hard inch of me." He curled his fingers inside you, stroking that special spot that made your toes curl and your body shake. "I'm going to fill you up so deep and good, you'll be feeling me for days."

Anakin's breath catches as he feels your slick heat clenching around his fingers, your body so responsive and eager. He can't wait any longer - he needs to be inside you, to claim you, to make you his in the most primal way possible.

With a low, guttural groan, he withdraws his fingers from your dripping core. Your whimper of protest turns into a gasp as he takes himself in hand, his thick, hard length jutting out proudly from his body. He notches the swollen head at your entrance, teasing you with the promise of what's to come.

"Wrap your legs around me, sweetheart," Anakin commands, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Hold on tight."

As you obey, looping your legs around his waist and locking your ankles at the small of his back, Anakin grips your hips and with one powerful thrust, he sheaths himself inside you. A guttural moan tears from his throat at the exquisite feeling of your tight, wet heat enveloping him like a velvet glove.

He pauses for a moment, allowing you both to adjust to the sudden intrusion, before he starts to move. His hips set a deep, steady rhythm as he begins to make love to you in earnest. Each thrust drives him deeper, stretching you wider, filling you more completely than you ever thought possible.

"Gods, you feel incredible," Anakin rasps, his breath hot against your neck. "So tight, so perfect, like you were made just for me." His hands roam your body as he loves you, cupping and squeezing, worshipping every curve and swell. "I'm going to make you mine, sweetheart. I'm going to ruin you for any other man."

He captures your mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep to dance with yours as he loses himself in the exquisite sensation of your body welcoming him home. Each powerful thrust drives him closer to the edge, but he holds back, determined to bring you with him to the pinnacle of ecstasy.

Anakin gazes down at you, his eyes roaming over your face, taking in every detail. Even in the moonlight, with the dirt and blood from their harrowing escape still clinging to his skin, he is the most beautiful man you have ever seen. The hard planes of his face, the sharp angles of his jaw, the fullness of his sensual lips - every feature is etched with a rugged, masculine beauty that steals your breath.

Your Anakin. Your man. The one you searched for decades. In your arms, safe.

Your eyes rolls behind and when his mouth fiund yours, swallowing your moan, you dislocate. You don’t implode or anything but you decompose. A few pieces at a time. They fly off, into orbit, almost. A galaxy that is falling apart. A sumptuous annihilation, in slow motion. The seams that hold your wounded heart together begun to crack, one by one.

The morning light spills through the cracks in the ruined temple, gilding everything in gold. It stretches over the worn stone, over the tangled limbs and heated skin, over the way your bodies remain entwined even in sleep. For a moment, you could be mistaken for something eternal—sculpted by the hands of the gods themselves, two figures carved from ivory and shadow.

But even statues are meant to crumble.

Anakin stirs first. His breath is deep, slow, as his body wakes to the warmth pressed against him. His arm is slung over your waist, his fingers idly tracing circles against your skin. The memory of the night before lingers in his muscles—a ghost of pleasure, of possession, of something far more dangerous.

Then he sees it.

The gash on your arm. The wound from the fight in the tunnels, reopened in sleep.

And the blood—except it isn’t blood.

It gleams in the light, gold instead of red. Ichor.

The breath leaves his lungs. His entire body stiffens, going rigid against you. He blinks, once, twice, as if trying to convince himself he’s still dreaming. But no. The proof is right before him, seeping from your skin like a secret finally unearthed.

A strange sort of silence settles over him, thick, suffocating. His mind races through memories, through whispered myths and curses long since uttered.

Then, carefully, deliberately, he pulls his arm away from your waist.

The warmth between you vanishes in an instant.

You stir at the absence, a soft murmur leaving your lips before your eyes flutter open. The first thing you see is Anakin, now sitting upright, staring at you with a look you cannot place.

A look of betrayal.

The moment you feel the cold steel of Anakin’s gladius pressing against your throat, your heart lurches in your chest. His entire demeanor shifts, the heat of the night replaced by a cold, calculating anger. His eyes narrow, hard as stone, as they lock onto yours, and you know the warmth of the moment is over.

He pulls the blade away just enough to keep it hovering at your skin, the edge barely grazing your throat. The air between you thickens with tension as he searches your face for something—anything—he can’t seem to find.

"What the hell are you?" His voice is low, seething with an intensity you haven’t heard from him before. His hand grips your arm tighter, his gaze flicking down to the gash there, where the golden ichor is slowly seeping out, a stark contrast to the red you should’ve been bleeding.

You swallow, trying to steady your breath, but you can feel the weight of his gaze on you. “It’s not blood,” you murmur, unable to hide the truth. “I’m not like you.”

He doesn’t respond, but his eyes flash with a deep fury, and you can feel his anger radiating off him like a storm ready to break.

“What the hell are you, really?” He repeats, his voice now colder than before, tainted with the unmistakable sting of betrayal. The blade presses just slightly harder against your skin, and you’re sure it’s not from your words—it's from his own fury.

You stay silent, though it’s hard to breathe with the steel so close, the sharpness of it reminding you how dangerous this moment has become. Anakin's eyes darken as the weight of what’s happening sinks in.

"You're a goddess." His words are flat, disbelieving, like the very concept disgusts him. "You lied to me." He takes a step back, his grip on you loosening, but his gaze is still burning with anger, disbelief, and something colder—betrayal.

"I didn't lie," you say softly, trying to keep your voice steady. "I just didn’t tell you everything. I never meant for you to—"

He cuts you off, his voice rising with a growing rage. "You never meant for me to what? Find out you were some goddamned immortal? You think I wouldn’t figure it out? You think I wouldn’t see it when the blood isn't even blood?" His breath comes out in a sharp exhale, his body tense like a coil about to snap.

You try to step toward him, to bridge the space between you, but he holds up his hand, stopping you. "Don’t touch me," he growls. "You were playing me this whole time. You used me. All this time… and you never thought I deserved the truth?"

The words hit harder than you expected. You take a step back, struggling to meet his gaze. “Anakin, please, just listen—”

“Listen?” he interrupts, the bitterness in his voice almost suffocating. “Do you think I give a damn about what you want me to listen to? I despise gods. I’ve fought for my life, my soul, in a world that was made by them and for them. You think I’ll just accept this? Accept you?”

He’s pacing now, the anger rolling off him in waves. His fingers flex, the gladius now hanging loosely at his side, but the fury hasn’t abated. He looks like he might break something, anything, just to release the rage inside him.

“I was never supposed to be a god,” you finally say, your voice shaking, but your resolve firm. “I never wanted this. This wasn’t a choice.”

He scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't care. All I know is you've been hiding what you really are from me. And I don't know what hurts more—the fact that you're not even human or the fact that I—" He pauses, swallowing hard as though the words are stuck in his throat. “I trusted you. I thought… I thought you were different."

You take a shaky breath, trying to control the heat building in your chest, the surge of frustration at his words. You never wanted him to know this part of you, but you never thought it would destroy everything between you. You can see the anger in his eyes, the walls he’s building now between you both. You don’t know how to tear them down.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I can’t undo what I am. I can’t change what I was made into. I didn’t want you to know because I thought it would make you hate me.”

His eyes narrow, his jaw clenching. He steps closer again, his presence overwhelming. “You thought wrong.”

There’s a tense silence between you as you both struggle with the weight of this truth. The tension in the air is thick, electric, and for a long moment, neither of you moves. You both breathe, trying to process everything that’s just unfolded.

Finally, Anakin speaks again, his voice softer now, though the edge of anger still lingers. “I don’t know who you are anymore. But I know one thing… You’re not the woman I thought you were.”

Your heart drops at his words, the rawness of them sinking into you like a blade. But you can’t lie to him. You can’t pretend that you aren’t something else. Something he will never understand.

“I never wanted to be this,” you whisper, your voice hoarse. “I never wanted you to see me like this. But it’s who I am. It’s who I’ve always been.”

Anakin stares at you for a long moment, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. “You better pray I can learn to live with that.”

Before you can answer, the stillness of the morning is shattered by a voice—deep, commanding, and almost reverent. It echoes off the ancient stone, reverberating through the ruins like a whisper from the past.

"Remus."

The figure steps from the shadows, his form tall and imposing, draped in dark, weathered robes. His eyes are sharp, piercing, and full of something dark—worship, fear, recognition. The Cult of Romulus, you realize, and this man is not just any follower; he is someone high-ranking, someone whose mere presence makes the air feel heavy with anticipation.

The moment the word leaves the cultist’s lips, Anakin’s entire body goes rigid. He freezes, his hand tightening around the gladius. His breathing hitches for a fraction of a second. His eyes widen, pupils dilating, and you can see it—something flickers behind his gaze, something painful and distant. His jaw clenches, and a deep shudder runs through him. The name cuts into him, like a shard of broken glass lodged into his chest.

"Remus," he repeats under his breath, the word tasting foreign and somehow familiar. It's a name that calls to him, but his mind won’t allow him to remember. It’s just out of reach, the memory elusive, slipping through his grasp like sand.

His chest heaves, and his eyes flash with confusion and something darker—fear, perhaps, or anger. He shifts his weight, as if his body is struggling to cope with the weight of the unknown. It’s like a wound, deep inside him, something ancient and painful. But before he can grasp the memory, before he can make sense of it all—

The cultist strikes.

In one fluid motion, the man lunges forward, his dagger gleaming in the moonlight with deadly precision. It moves faster than Anakin can react. The blade buries inside his torso, a hot, searing pain that sends a shock of electricity through his body. He gasps, stumbling back, but the cultist doesn’t stop. The dagger presses harder, aiming for his throat, for the heart—there’s no mercy in the strike, only a desperate need to see him fall.

Anakin’s world spins as the blade finds its mark, a jagged wound opening on his side. The pain is blinding, and his legs give way beneath him. His body crumples to the ground, his vision blurring, the world darkening at the edges. He tries to keep his focus, to stay conscious, but it’s slipping, like a shadow creeping over his mind.

His hand twitches, reaching for the gladius, but it’s too late. His fingers graze the hilt, but his strength fails him. The weapon slips from his grasp, clattering to the stone floor with a dull thud. He feels his heart slow, the blood pooling in his body, warmth draining from his limbs.

Through the haze, he hears the cultist’s mocking voice, but it’s distant now, like an echo from a place far away.

"Rest, Remus. The gods are calling you. It’s time to come home."

A scream. A loud thud.

The world fades into darkness, and the last thing he feels is your soft hands pressing against the wound—before everything goes black.

The past demands its tribute, and the price is always paid in blood. Only those who dare to bleed for it shall rewrite what was once written.

#hayden christensen #anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin x reader #anakin x you #anakin smut #evie writes

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auxiliarydetective · 9 months ago

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And now... the second big event! My drawing program says this took me only 12 hours instead of 17 but that's not counting the whole day I spent researching and the hour-long rambles in the Discord server that got me to place 6 on the leaderboard.

Introducing...

Sanctitas Livia! Former Crown Princess of the Bellona Empire!

If you know me, you know I love Antiquity so much that I go to university for it, so eventually, I had to create an OC that was very Roman. Aurelia was the warmup, but Livia is really the most Roman OC I have ever created. And of course she's also a One Piece OC.

Look at that glorious lorica segmentata! The shin guards, the caligae, the lorica manica, the layers beneath that you can't even see!

Join me below the cut for a journey through the drawing progress and into artistic madness.

Alrighty, here we go.

Time for rambles

But we're doing it a little differently this time. Instead of me just telling you my thoughts, I'll take you on the journey I went on to finish this piece and explain my thoughts along the way.

Day 1 - The Research

I really don't have a lot to say here, I just did a lot of research. One of the sources that helped the most for this was this YouTube video here which explains the lorica segmentata (aka your stereotypical legionary armor) in detail and this one where a historian (I believe) messes with talks to a bunch of re-enactors.

At the end of the day, I ended up with this:

The reference images on the left are ones I googled and sadly didn't keep the sources for. The base is this one by Bases-Xs (that I would later edit and slightly frankendoll) and the images on the right are made with HeroForge and the Tiefling Maker, my most beloved picrew.

You can see that, on the left, I've got references for a centurion helmet - yes, centurions had those kinds of headdresses, the ones you usually see are incorrect - the lorica segmentata, various versions of the lorica manica (aka that arm brace thingy) and the complete legionary fit.

With this as a base to work with, I went to bed. The next day would be my birthday and I had invited a fellow historian and artist over to bounce ideas off of because I was dreading how to make the lorica segmentata, which is very square in shape, work on a female body with curves.

But that was an issue for another day.

Day 2 - Fortuna Minervaque me adiuvent.

That Latin sentence means "May Fortuna and Minerva help me" and it's exactly what this day's motto would turn out to be. My historian friend got sick and couldn't come, so I was left to face the armor issue on my own.

And so it begins.

As you can see, I started the drawing process with my sanity fully intact. I didn't just want wings glued to the head, I wanted feathered ears! Kinda like elf ears, pointing upwards, but like if elf ears if they grew feathers, y'know. Eventually, I figured it out.

So, I had one ear. The second one took some experimenting, but I did it. Then, I needed to capture Livia's essence.

Perfect.

A little snack for dinner later...

That little braid was more complicated to draw than you would think. You see, the feathered ears and braid - and face markings that you'll see later - are very important to Livia's species, an original species that I put into the world of One Piece. They don't have a name yet but I'm having a blast with them. Maybe I'll make a post about them one day.

One little crisis and about an hour later, we had a tunic and our first deviation from historical accuracy.

Well, technically, the first deviation would've been the feathered ears and giving this armor to a woman but... y'know.

The thing about the Roman tunica is that it was very wide, in fact it was almost as wide as it was long. All that excess fabric would pile up under the armor and at the armpits - and I didn't want that for Livia. So I decided to give her more tailored sleeves and to tie the tunica beneath the bust and at the waist instead of at the hip and give it less volume in general to avoid the fabric piling up.

You can also see a sneaky new reference at the bottom right there. It's a screenshot from the first video I linked above and would be vital for helping me figure out the armor issue.

What you can see here is a thick scarf around the neck to avoid the armor plates cutting into your throat as well as some generous padding. Like they say in the video, this padding is more experimental history since none of this sort of padding has been preserved. Logically, since organic materials don't usually last as long as, for example, metal does. But padding would be really practical if you're wearing armor since armor is heavy and you don't really want it cutting into you. Your tunic won't do much to protect you there. Also, it smooths out the curves, which is very practical for this very specific situation we're dealing with there.

However, I was still ecstatic about having to figure out the armor.

See, the lorica segmentata is a genius piece of equipment, but it's really only genius for men since it's optimal for a square body type. I had to figure out a way to make it work for Livia without creating critical weak spots and without inviting people to stab her in the boobs.

Generally, having boobs isn't very optimal for armor. You have to find a way to make the armor fit around them, still leave a bit of breathing room, and for goodness' sake don't make boob plates because those are horrible in case of an impact. You generally want a shape that deflects blows and, additionally, I had to deal with the layering of the lorica segmentata without creating a gap where someone could stab her in the tits.

Eventually, I came up with this:

This design is based off the Corbridge A type lorica segmentata, the same one shown in the video that I got the screenshots from. Generally, this type of armor consists of four parts - the two shoulder parts and the two torso parts. You wouldn't usually be able to take it apart like this since those top two plates here would belong to the shoulder parts and would actually be the ones where you link the shoulders to the torso. You can see the hook and eyes just above the bust.

Once you have your two halves - the shoulder and torso pieced together for both left and right - you'd lace them together and buckle them up at the top - which I also drew in here. As you can see, I stopped the armor above the belly button so that Livia would still be able to bend. The two bottom plates also aren't laced, which is something that I copied directly from the authentic historical armor and I assume is for ease of movement while bending and turning.

And this was where I left it for the day. I was exhausted, I had lost all of my braincells on the way, but damn was I proud.

Day 3 - Perserverance is a virtue, right?

Clearly, the events of the last day were still affecting me since I forgot to have breakfast that morning. So, I "fixed it" with an early lunch and got right back to it.

As you can see, I had lots of fun, or rather my drawing program did. The reason why I kept adding more reference images is because the shoulder pieces are actually a lot more complicated than just "Haha lace iron halfpipes together". I had to really get a feel for how they worked before I could get around to drawing them, and the ever-important video came in clutch.

As you can see, there's hinges on the two inner shoulder pieces. There are also hinges at the back, so the two innermost shoulder pieces are actually three plates each. This is for maximum ease of movement. You'd think that this kind of armor would be restrictive, but you can actually raise your arms pretty high with this. Makes sense since the legionaries still had to throw their pila/javelins and fight. You can also see a weak point of the armor here - look at how open those shoulders are! You're not stabbing into flesh when you stab in there, but it's definitely a weak point because you could easily slide between the plates here.

Next in line was the lorica manica aka the arm brace.

This one wasn't really difficult in construction, it just took a lot of perserverance and energy to draw all those little plates. If you remember, I had two references for the lorica manica, one where the foremost plates were on the bottom and one where they were on top. I decided to go for the latter version because the former is just stupid. Go back to look at that reference and tell me you couldn't jsut easily shove a sword in there! So, lower plates on top to leave no room for the sword to go in-between. Also smaller plates for better bending and coverage, and of course they're laced.

You can hardly see it but there's also lacing at the top. The way I imagine it, though I don't know for sure, is that the arm piece would probably be attached to the leather straps holding the shoulder pieces together. That way it stays in place and won't fall off.

And if you're wondering why she only wears one arm brace - the other arm gets a big-ass shield.

Then I got myself some references for the sandals aka caligae, cooked up some shin guards (which would only be worn by officers), added the belt, and...

Yeah, the lineart was done. Here's the bigger image so you can see the insane state of my references:

At this point, I was tired and everything hurt. So, I decided to call it quits for the day.

I wish I could say that this is day 4 but then this happened:

Yeah, I got back to my tablet, fixed some wonky lines and...

I actually finished it. So yeah. Time for some design details.

I forgot her piercings in the lineart so I added them in

Fancy face markings <3

Whether Roman soldiers' tunics were red is actually something I put a lot of research into. It's a common myth and it has some footing but in the end it's not really likely that they were that uniform. Still, I kept the red because Livia is a (former) crown princess and the crown prince/princess's signature color is red

The armor would historically been made of iron but Livia's would most likely be a special kind of steel. The hinges, decorations on her belt, and shin guards are made of brass.

The laurel wreath is part of Livia's personal emblem as well as her empire's crest.

I kinda love how the circular engraving under the first decorative piece on the middle of the shin guard looks like a bird staring at you. It was an accident but I kept it <3

Very important! Foot wraps under the sandals so you don't get blisters.

So yeah, that's it <3

Stay tuned for a special little treat tomorrow

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One Piece Taglist: @supermarine-silvally

#one piece #one piece oc #oc: sanctitas livia #artsy #fyeahonepieceocs

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