Warnings: 18+ only, MDNI. Seriously.
Blood! (this is about vampires, so), mention of the menarche, consumption of the menarche, sex.
Word Count: 4.0k
A/N: It's finally here. This is just my immediate thoughts that poured out when I first started thinking about this AU. I would always be willing to explore different things, perhaps pre-wife, or even other household members. Mine is sweet, mostly. If you're looking for something more... well, more, check out @prettycalla 's contribution. I promise it's so amazing (better than mine!). I also owed some people a Geta period thing, so I combined the two. I apologize in advance.
Geta looked down at you as you slept. He could hear every heartbeat, each individual ventricle pulsing, valves closing, a wet symphony. Waves breaking. Your steady breathing filled the room. He could smell the jasmine oil you dabbed behind your ears, at your wrists, between your breasts.
He was far too hungry to linger tonight.
“Mmm, come to bed,” you spoke sluggishly, reaching out to tug on his robes.
“Later, mea lux,” he smiled, a deep pit in his stomach. It grew the closer he got, but he shoved it down so he could lean over and nuzzle at your cheek. He could smell the sunlight soaked into your skin. So tempting. “After our meetings.”
After the feed. While the bloodlust raged.
“Please,” you begged, your hand gripping the back of his neck to try to keep him there.
A brief flash of panic. His mouth watered and he swallowed it down.
“I am busy, and you are…” He gently pulled your hand away and lifted his head, his eyes dark. “Distracting.”
Eyes dark, but unmistakably full of love for his new blushing bride.
A tamed shark.
“You will keep your word?” You smiled up at him, tone playful. “I do not care the hour.”
He kept his smile soft, lips shut tight. A nod. As he moved away, he allowed his mouth to open, the sign of his affliction not visible to you.
“I will keep it.”
Geta grimaced, looking down at the woman currently slung across his lap. He could see her impatience, staring up at him out of the corner of her eyes, stretching her scarred neck out.
Inviting his thirst. Yet his stomach soured.
“Brother, are you alright? You’ve hardly touched your meal,” Caracalla giggled, pushing yet another of his concubines from his lap, blood fully covering the lower half of his face, his neck, staining his robes. He feasted like he was starved. “You keep on like this and you will slip up.”
A mocking laugh at Geta’s efforts.
Geta let out a frustrated growl, his anger at his brother’s suggestion pushing his muscles into action. The woman let out a panicked yelp as Geta hauled her up to his mouth, his teeth sinking in unkindly.
As the hot, sweet liquid slid down his throat, he gulped eagerly, forgetting his earlier apprehension. He clung to her, his grip so tight it would leave marks. Even though the concubine occasionally winced, her face soon settled into a soft, blissful expression.
A nice trick. A gentle fever. A distraction from the threat of impending death.
The woman’s hand slid up his thigh, hoping for more from him than his hunger for her blood. A jolt of revulsion twisted his spine and he pushed her down to the marble floor, her neck still weeping.
“E-Emperor?”
“Leave us,” he ordered, waving her away. She left reluctantly.
“You know, maybe you should give some more thought to turning her,” Caracalla suggested, moments before sinking his canines into another waiting neck.
A relieved sigh. A hand gripping his robes.
Geta turned away, Caracalla’s words echoing in his head.
No. Never.
The thought of never hearing your heart race for him again, never being able to leech the warmth from your skin into his?
Unthinkable. Not worth considering.
“Try not to kill anyone tonight, please,” Geta stressed to his voracious twin. “Silence is expensive.”
“I make no promises, brother,” Caracalla grinned, looking every bit a monster as he lapped at a still-bleeding neck. “That dreadful meeting worked up a mighty appetite.”
Geta stood, wiping at his mouth, feeling ill and far from sated. But he would not feed on another. He could handle himself just fine.
Discomfort. Cramping low. A glance down confirmed your fears.
There would be no heir this month.
It was hard not to grieve, even if it never existed. It was your one responsibility now, and you had hit your first stumbling block.
Juno had not given you her favor.
The realization was uncomfortable, but there wasn’t anything to be done. Perhaps your offerings were not enough, too humble to wish for the child of an Emperor to take root.
For a moment you allowed yourself to lay there, knowing that getting up would be an ordeal in and of itself.
Geta could come back at any moment. He would surely want a clean bed to sleep in. It needed to be stripped. You needed to bathe. So you moved into action, despite the late hour.
As you worked, you wondered what Geta would make of this. Would he be upset? You honestly weren’t sure.
During your short time here at Palatine Hill, things were certainly unusual. People warned you that there was illness festering in the palace. That there was something strange going on. Dark rituals, or illicit affairs. The usual fantastical gossip. They told you that your husband-to-be was slowly being driven mad by his brother’s shocking antics.
That at least seemed closer to the truth.
But you didn’t believe any of it until you were forced to marry under the moon, a quiet ceremony with minimal guests. Your new brother had been irritable all evening, Geta having to pause his conversation with you to place a steadying hand on his shoulder. More than once, he himself had disappeared to retrieve Caracalla more wine, instead of asking a servant nearby for a topping off.
And there were these late night meetings every few days, meetings that you were not to attend. Meetings that lasted quite a while. It would be enough to worry any new bride.
Adultery was forbidden, yes, but would that truly stop an Emperor?
No. He’s shown you nothing but love and devotion. Even if he sometimes grows irritable, or will not walk in the sunlight, he has fulfilled all of his husbandly duties, quite well. And on the nights he returns from his meetings, he is insatiable–
No. Focus. Change your clothes. Strip the bed.
All the ruined linen was carried off by a waiting servant just outside the door, replaced with clean, fresh bedding.
Now, to bathe.
As you turned to leave, Geta stepped into the room, his dark eyes big and searching. Nostrils flaring.
“Mea lux, are you alright?” His voice was strained. Muscles tensed in his neck as he took slow steps closer.
“Yes,” you answered, building up your nerve to tell him there would be no heir this month. “Geta, I–”
He interrupted you, eyes raking over you, voice frantic and unsteady. “Do you have a cut? Where is it coming from?”
Your face felt hot as his hands tugged and pulled at your limbs, inspecting your skin. “My love, what?”
He sank to his knees before you, hands bunched up in the fabric of your slip. A moan fell from his lips and he pressed his forehead into your belly, breathing heavily. Your hands attempted to bring his head up, but he fought you. It was like trying to bend a metal bar.
“Geta?”
A low rumble in his throat. Hunger stirring. Salivating.
He did not consider this.
“You bleed.”
Heat traveled up your neck, to your ears, your face. “Yes. I’m sorry, Geta.”
“I do not care about heirs,” he muttered, his face pressing into the fabric of the slip, his inhales deep and languid.
Large hands released the fabric, sliding around to grip the back of your thighs, hauling you in closer, if that was possible.
Your hands found his shoulders and you very nearly fell over. “Geta!”
He hugged your legs, his face dipping lower, and suddenly you were trying to fight him again, your self-consciousness not able to tolerate this.
“Geta, let me go, I am unclean,” you hissed at him.
“I cannot,” he whined.
“What do you mean? Let me go!”
His grip only grew tighter as you squirmed, his face pressing closer. Testing his will.
He promised himself he wouldn’t ever let this get to you. He wouldn’t allow Caracalla’s carelessness to infect you. You were pure, his. He loved you.
And yet here you were, able to give him such a gift.
He needed it.
Each inhale full of iron sent a buzzing through his brain, a wave of pleasure he felt all the way down to his toes. Even when he fed, he never felt like this, so lost to it.
Weak.
“I cannot control this urge, I am sorry, mea lux.” Pain was laced through his voice. “Please, you must go.”
“Geta?” Soft hands pressed at his cheeks, his shoulders.
“Go!” he yelled, pushing you away from him.
Mild fear gripped you, not used to seeing him like this. Something was very wrong. But he was resolute, unable to look you in the eye. You obeyed your husband, taking a few steps back towards the door.
“Wait,” he begged, reaching out for you.
As you neared him, he struggled to breathe, opting to instead open his mouth, the smell overwhelming.
Clarity, then.
His hands shot up defensively. “Do not listen to me. Go, get out of here. I cannot be trusted!”
He could hear vividly how your heart raced, a different rhythm than what he was used to. Too fast. Uneven, as if it were scrambling to escape your chest.
“Geta, are you alright? Do you need–”
“Go!” he roared, getting to his feet.
“I-I will go get Caracalla–”
You were swept up and dropped unceremoniously onto the bed.
“No,” he growled, his eyes black as pitch. “You will not go near him.”
“I won’t,” you placated, hands on his arms.
Guilt coursed through him, even as he enjoyed the erratic racing of your heart. It was a miracle he hadn’t already fed, the aroma enough to seriously strain his convictions.
“I am sorry,” he sighed, his nose pressing against your cheek, moving down, pausing over your pulse, tongue slipping out to lick your skin.
No.
“Geta, are you unwell?”
A pained sound was torn from his throat, but he did not answer. His hands slid down until they reached the edge of the slip. He parted your thighs easily, fingers sliding up, your mumbled warnings not heard by him.
Wet. Warm. Viscous.
He pushed off the mattress and brought his fingers in front of his eyes, his breath leaving him in delight.
A relieved moan poured out of him as he slipped his red fingers between his lips, eyes falling shut.
Heat filled your face at the sight. You had always been told that the Emperors were a bit… unusual. But surely they didn’t mean this.
“Mea lux,” he drawled, bliss easing the stress from his voice. He looked quite satisfied. “This is… divine.”
Licking his lips, his dark eyes fell down to you. As his lips parted, you saw them. Long canines, not unlike a wolf’s, but perhaps more pointed.
Unnatural.
He tongued at one of them and a deep-seated hunger filled his eyes. “I need more, mea lux,” he spoke, lowering himself until his nose pressed against your soft belly again.
The fabric of the thin slip was pulled taut, up off your abdomen. He bit through the linen, the sharp canines making easy work of it. A loud ripping sound filled the room and cool air washed over you, now laid bare for him.
“Geta,” you flushed, nerves worming into your gut. “This is–”
“Please, mea lux, I am still so hungry…” he whined, lips brushing low, his tongue leaving behind a wet line. “You would not deny me this, would you?”
His voice was all sweetness, but edged with mania.
“I have not bathed–”
“Good,” he growled, hands firmly pushing your thighs apart.
He heard the transition, the moment when fear left you and your heartbeat settled into a more familiar rhythm. It made him salivate, his breathing matching yours, his desire growing for more than just your blood.
Your embarrassment only lasted until his tongue met the skin of your inner thigh.
Soft, satisfied sounds rumbled from his throat with each stripe of skin he cleaned. He was immersed in it, each little taste making him stray further and further from himself.
Your hand gripped his shoulder.
Slow. Or you will frighten her, he told himself, his desperation only barely restrained. There was something about you that always made it easier.
The blood alone was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted, but mixed with your own desire for him? Truly a gift from the gods. He would not let a bit of it go to waste.
Dark eyes met yours.
“Do you have any idea how delicious you are?”
“Me?”
He made a sound of assent before pushing his face into your warm, wet center, eyes shut in relief.
Eyes rolled back. Sighs full of relief from both of you.
Geta wondered if this was what his victims felt, what kept them coming back for more. If it was anything close, he could understand. He could live here.
There was no room for cleanliness or concern for anything other than the taste on his tongue. The sounds ripped from his throat were obscene, the sounds he was making, even more so.
Wet smacking, deep grunts, the slick pop of flesh leaving his suction.
His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise.
It didn’t matter. You were seeing the stars. It was almost too much, the way it felt. So wonderful, in fact, that you couldn’t even begin to spare a thought for how loud you were. It was everything you’ve ever needed.
Tremors in your muscles, all down your legs. That was all the warning you were able to give before your body seized, your thighs attempting to clamp shut around his head.
Wave after wave pushing out low moans until they finally stopped.
“Geta.”
You pushed at his shoulder. The sensations were too much to bear.
“A moment longer,” he mumbled, lapping up anything else he could.
When there was nothing left, he resurfaced. It should have been horrifying. Streaks of blood spread over the bottom half of his face. His tongue was already swiping at his bottom lip, collecting what was within reach.
But you weren’t scared of him.
“Are you feeling better?” you asked, watching him closely.
His eyes were still dark, but there was some light returning. He wiped at his cheeks, licking away any remnants from his palm.
“Geta?” You moved over to him.
He caught your wrist as you reached for him, his grip tight. “Not… yet.”
You waited, wrist still in his hand, watching him lick his fingers completely clean, his face almost entirely back to its usual state.
“Geta,” you spoke, your voice merely a whisper. “What happened to you?”
“I am the monster you married.” He looked up at you, eyes shining in the warm firelight.
A monster. Surely not. Yet the proof spoke for itself.
“How did this happen?”
He took in a deep breath, let it out. “I’m not exactly sure. I didn’t see how it started. I just… I went to check on Caracalla, and the next moment I was sitting up from the floor, and he was crying over me, his wrist in my mouth. That was a few months ago.”
“And now you…”
“Feed.”
You felt dizzy.
“At first it was awful. You know what my brother is like. Unrestrained in everything, including this new appetite. I was having to pick up after him, to protect him. I think he understands now, the value in keeping his food source alive. At least, I hope he does.”
“So tonight, your meeting…?”
He nodded, pulling your wrist into his lap. “I don’t take pleasure in it. I want you to know that.”
“Is that why when you return, you are…” Heat filled your cheeks.
His full lips curved into a grin. “Yes.”
Relief. Concerns stuffed down deep melted away. He noticed.
“What is it?” Damp fingertips smoothed circles over your wrist, your pulse.
You drew up your knees, holding them close. “I thought maybe I wasn’t enough, or you were still set in your ways…”
He sighed deeply. “Not a chance, mea lux. Do you know why I still married you, knowing what I have become?”
You met his eyes, intensely curious.
“I am selfish. I thought you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And so graceful. I resolved to make it work. I have made it work, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” you admitted.
“Tonight was… I was reckless.” His other hand smoothed up your arm, to the crook of your elbow and back, slowly exposing himself to more of you, testing his hunger. “I did not take enough. It was stupid of me, I put you in danger.”
“But I am fine.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Are you… you’re still…?”
A nod.
His eyes raked up your arm, to your neck, staring hard at the pulse there. He could feel it beneath his thumb, at your wrist, a millisecond delay. If only your heart didn’t beat so nicely. Hard and strong, not a lullaby, far worse, the opposite. A siren call. Normally tuned out, but now…
“Mea lux, I need more.” His grip on your wrist tightened slightly. “Can I have more?”
You would give him anything he wanted. Yes, even that. Your imagination filled in the gaps. You understood what this was. What would happen.
Why did it excite you?
“Yes.”
He moved over lightning fast, immediately nuzzling at your neck. Only seconds passed between giving him permission and his teeth slowly sinking into your skin.
Like he was trying to be careful.
They were sharp, piercing. Forcing a gasp from your lips.
Your hand pushed at his head until a soft, warm wave washed over you. Your fingers tangled in his hair instead as you let out soft, relaxed breaths.
Dreamlike. The lights all had halos, radiant like stars.
A sound you felt, each of his steady gulps, his grip on you tightening.
And then you felt that warmth spread out, your free hand sliding down his clothed back.
A warning growl.
Heat like the sensation of the sun on his skin filled him as the fresh, rich blood poured down his throat. But yours was sweeter, like what he remembered honey tasting like. Even better than that.
He would take his fill, and absolutely not a drop more, he promised himself.
He couldn’t afford to get carried away, or distracted, even as your hand sought his hip. Even as it pulled him in closer, even as he settled between open thighs.
Open, inviting, warm, soft, plush, velvet–
Your gasp woke him from his trance.
He was already buried deep, so lost in you he didn’t even realize.
He moved to lift his head from your neck but your hand pushed him back down, pressing his lips to the wound as your thighs squeezed at his hips, urging him to continue.
The blood smeared over his lips until he opened his mouth, lapping at the trickle. And then his hips began to move.
The Elysian fields. He could see them. The closest he would ever get to them was right here. He never wanted to leave. But he knew he had to.
One final drag of his tongue and he moved to your lips, pressing his mumbled gratitude against your mouth as his hips continued to move.
He tasted of hot metal but you didn’t care. Never before had you felt this good, this free. You already wanted a next time. And there were others that felt this? That got to experience this?
No. Only you.
He lifted his head. Looking down at you, watching you so relaxed, so blissful, coming apart. He felt such relief.
A squeeze at his hips, your thighs tightening. A whispered “more.”
It was all the urging he needed.
He let his hands move to your hips as he sat up, drawing you in along with each thrust. Your legs were unable to hold on, giving up their grip, your hands covering his, back arching.
Your sounds could probably be heard out in the hall, or down in the gardens, not that anyone would be out at this hour.
It didn’t take much more, especially at that pace, that angle–
A great tide.
It was brutal as it crashed over you, leaving you gasping, trembling, clinging to what you could reach of him. Clenching firmly around him.
And he followed you. Collapsing. Gasping. Pushing in even deeper. Cheek smearing blood as he buried his face in your neck. Not to bite.
More than a minute went by.
He finally pressed a gentle kiss to the marks he’d left behind before sitting up, pulling the tunic up and off, revealing the smear at his collar, the rest of his torso.
“We’ve made a mess,” you commented, your eyes following the trail down from his mouth, his chin, his neck, even a little on his chest.
“We have,” he agreed, eyes fixed to your neck, the stain in the fabric beneath you.
“I need to–”
As you moved to sit up, Geta was there, pushing you back down. “Rest, my love. I’ll take care of it. The rest can wait until tomorrow.”
A nod.
And so he got to work, cleaning up his mess. A moist cloth wiping you clean, strong arms moving you to the other half of the bed. Smoothing your hair out of your face. Then he cleaned himself. Full, sated, he gave no thought to any lingering traces, the washbasin now reddish-pink.
Geta returned to your side, resting a hand on your cheek. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m tired,” you confessed, pressing a hand to his, eyelids already only half-open. The blood loss didn’t help things.
“Sleep, mea lux. I will look after you.” He meant it.
A soft smile. “Thank you, my love.”
It didn’t take long after that for you to slip into a steady slumber.
Geta allowed himself a moment to study you, to admire you, before he was up, walking over to the door.
He shrugged on a robe and held it shut before opening the door, eyes falling to a young servant who immediately turned bright red.
“Please, bring breakfast, fruit, whatever is ready.”
The servant nodded, walking quickly down the long hallway.
Geta slid the door shut quietly, looking to where you slept. You looked so relaxed. You were a vision, the only thing marring it being the wound at your neck.
Guilt crept up on him until he could hardly breathe. The one thing he told himself he’d never do, and he caved as soon as it was offered to him. He should have put up more of a fight. He should have left the room the moment he realized.
But he didn’t. And he had unburdened himself of a big secret. It did feel better not having to hide it from you, but there were other things that now needed discussing.
A gentle knock.
Geta took the tray and shut the door up tight. He set it down on a small table at your bedside and got to work straightening the thick woven tapestries now used to cover the archways that led out onto the terrace. Once he was satisfied that no sun would be breaking through as he slept, he climbed into bed, pulling you in against his chest.
He listened to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat.
gladiator ii x reader | lucius verus aurelius x black! fem! reader
thanks to previous rule, relations between rome and numidia have never been worse. blood spilled, villages pillaged, promises broken. it's not long before the two powers are on the verge of all out war. backed by the senate, newly crowned emperor lucius hopes to repair these severed bonds before it is too late. with the arrival of the newly-crowned queen comes a chance for parlay... though she may not be so easy to convince.
OR
emperor lucius falls in love with the queen of numidia while she is on a diplomatic visit to rome.
cw - 18+, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers, takes place in ancient rome, both you and lucius are in your mid-20s, ancient racial tensions, ancient fancy speak, eventual smut.
a/n - had a gladiator itch i needed to scratch. let me know if y'all want a part two.
Marble drowned in the sound of Rome that morning—the scrape of sandals, the rustle of senatorial togas, the low, fevered whisper of aged, power-hungry men.
The Senate floor lay washed in pale gold, sunlight spilling through the high open windows and glinting off the toils of past conquered peoples, a cruel irony not lost on the assembly, for today the conquered was meant to walk in crowned and unbowed.
"The Barbarian Queen..." they murmured behind perfumed sleeves and ring-laden hands, voices sour with old prejudices.
Of savage myths.
Of embellished falsities.
Of women too dark, too foreign, too un-Roman to even breath the same air as an emperor.
At the far end of the hall, upon an ornate golden throne, Lucius Verus Aurelius sat motionless, the weight of an empire settling on his shoulders like armor he could never remove.
His gaze was distant, thoughtful, shadowed by memories Rome did not know—of Numidian sun on his skin, of kindness given without conquest, of a land that had once sheltered him when Rome had only demanded.
War loomed like a drawn blade between your nations, sharpened by the sins of Geta and Caracalla, and yet Lucius wanted—needed—this parlay to succeed.
The doors to the Senate stood poised to open, the air tightened with expectation, breath held between hostility and hope, the whole of Rome bracing itself to behold a queen it had been taught to hate.
Lucius felt the moment drawing near like the first tremor before an earthquake.
At his right stood Ravi, First Counsel and shadow for the day, his posture relaxed unlike any Senator or servant.
He watched his emperor with a knowing eye, a faint curl of amusement tugging at his mouth as the emperor's fingers tightened against the arm of his throne.
"You wear the look of a man attempting to wrestle his thoughts into submission," Ravi murmured quietly, careful that only Lucius might hear. "If I did not know better..."
Lucius blinked, as though shaken from deep water.
He let out a breath through his nose, weary but not unkind, and tilted his head just slightly, "Do I make it so plain?"
Ravi did not soften the truth.
"Painfully," he said, though his tone was warm. "And you are not a man given to idle worry... Tell me, what weighs upon you, Caesar?"
Lucius's gaze drifted forward again, past the senators and their relentless whispers, past the towering statues of Rome's dead heroes.
"I do not wish to march Rome into another war," he said. "Not against Numidia. Not against a people who gave me shelter when Rome gave me nothing but blood and exile."
His jaw tightened.
"They showed me kindness when they owed me none. I do not fault them for their fury, nor for their thirst for reckoning. Rome earned her hatred."
His eyes flicked, sharp as a drawn blade, toward the Senate benches.
Disdain crossed his features, brief but unmistakeable.
"And yet these men," he continued, "would sooner clutch at old fears than loosen their grip on the future. I have commanded them to abandon their foolish poison, to see other nations not as beasts to be broken but as sovereign peoples deserving of dignity."
His voice hardened.
"Still, they whisper. They sneer. They call savage beneath their breath."
He leaned back, the gold of his laurels cresting in the light.
"The Senate are Rome," Lucius said quietly. "And Rome is its people. If this treaty is forged... how am I to trust they will honor it when fear festers so deeply? If they will not, then war is sure to follow."
Ravi was silent for a moment, absorbing the weight of it.
He studied Lucius not as emperor, but as a friend—as a man with the world seemingly balanced on his neck.
"That burden is yours alone," he said softly. "No other man carries it as you do."
Then his tone steadied, resolute.
"But remember this: to the people of Rome, you are more than flesh. You are a god walking among men, whether you wish it or not. If you wold have them see differently, then let them see you do so first. Lead them—not with decree but with example. Show them the future you demand, and they will follow, even if they do so reluctantly at first."
Ravi inclined his head.
"You are Lucius Verus Aurelius. Son of Maximus. Great son of Marcus. The emperor destined to restore order to Rome. Do not forget who you are, especially now."
Lucius closed his eyes for the briefest moment, letting the words settle. When he opened them again, some of the tension had eased, replaced by a clearer resolve.
He turned to Ravi and allowed himself a small, genuine smile.
"You have my thanks, my friend," he said. "Clarity is a rare gift these days."
Ravi shrugged, modestly.
"If it is any comfort," he added lightly. "I have whispers of my own. They say the Queen of Numidia is... remarkable to behold."
Lucius let out a quiet chuckle, waving him off.
"This is a matter of diplomacy," he assured, though the sound held warmth again. "Nothing more."
Before Ravi could answer, the great bronze horns sounded, their blare rolling through the Senate like thunder across a battlefield.
Conversations died mid-breath.
Every head turned toward the towering doors as they began to open.
Lucius rose.
The motion was deliberate, unhurried, the gold-threaded folds of his toga settling as he came to his full height.
One by one, the Senate followed—some swiftly, some with thinly veiled reluctance—marble benches scraping as duty overcame disdain.
The hall stilled, breath drawn tight, just as the first low beat of tribal drums roared through the chamber.
They were unlike Rome's horns—deeper, older, resonant as a heartbeat beneath the earth itself.
The great bronze doors groaned as they began to part further.
A lone figure entered first: a crier clad in Numidian regalia, his bearing proud, his spine straight as a spear.
His voice carried without strain, rich and unwavering, each word laid upon the Senate floor without fear.
"Behold!" he proclaimed, "(y/n) (m/n) (l/n)—Ruler of Numidia! Mother to its children! Voice of its people! Daughter of Asad! Queen beneath the sun and keeper of her nation's breath!"
The doors opened wider.
Flanked by your guard, you stood framed within the threshold, statuesque and unbowed, as though Rome itself had been made to receive you rather than the reverse.
Lucius felt his breath catch.
Your hair fell in long, dark braids far past your waist, woven with painstaking care into a half-crowned cascade, cowry shells glinting softly as they caught the light.
Your robes were a blaze of deep orange and sacred pattern, draped off the shoulder in a manner both regal and commanding, cinched perfectly at your form before flaring wide, a train whispering over marble behind you like a living thing.
Gold adorned you—not ostentatious, not pleading—chosen with purpose: weighty rings at your ears, a collar at your throat that kissed skin the color of burnished earth.
And your skin—sun-warmed, deep, and radiant—stood in defiance of every slander Rome had ever whispered.
Lucius's heart stuttered, then struck harder, as though struggling against his ribs.
His chest felt tight, breath shallow, the world narrowing to the figure before him.
Ravi noticed at once, lips curving despite himself, a knowing smirk tugging at his composure.
But it was your face that rooted Lucius where he stood.
Graceful lines, sculpted by sun and lineage.
Eyes like molten gold set deep within glinting soil.
No paint, no powders, no false colors laid upon you—only truth.
He had seen women cloak themselves in artifice to curry favor at his feet.
You needed none of it.
Barbarian, they called you.
Lucius had always despised the word. Seeing you, it became an lie.
Yet the spell broke as quickly as it formed, for your expression was cold.
Unforgiving.
Your posture was flawless, your chin lifted with royal certainty as you moved forward, each step measured, unhurried, entirely unafraid.
The whispers surged—louder now, sharper—but you did not so much as flick your gaze toward them.
Your eyes were trained on one man alone.
Caesar.
Lucius cleared his throat quietly, summoning the emperor back into himself.
A faint, involuntary smile curved his mouth as you reached the center of the Senate floor, where the light fell cleanly upon you.
He descended a step, then another, bowing his head in formal respect.
"You Majesty," he began, voice steady. "Queen (y/n), Rome receives you with gratitude. Your presence here—"
"I have no need for false niceties."
Your interruption cut cleanly through him.
Your voice was powerful, sharpened by fury held long and tightly reined.
Your brows drew together as you faced him, unflinching.
"Not while your soldiers stain my borders with the blood of my people. Such words, spoken under these circumstances, are not honor—they are insult."
Lucius's eyes widened, taken aback.
A collective gasp rippled through the Senate.
Outraged murmurs followed swiftly—mind your tongue, know your place, insolent—the words dripping with disbelief that a woman, a foreign queen, would dare to speak so before Caesar himself.
You turned then, slowly, your gaze sweeping over the chamber like a drawn blade.
The senators fell quiet beneath it.
"I stand in a city of schemes and honeyed lies," you said coolly, "surrounded by men who name me savage and barbarian without cause. Tell me... what pretense do I have for politeness?"
Your voice did not waver.
"My people die as we speak," you continued, "cut down by Roman hands, despite the oaths sworn upon this emperor's ascension—that Numidia would be left in peace. If you sat upon a throne built atop the graves of children, senators, what restraint would you show?"
Silence followed—heavy, stunned.
They stared at you, baffled not only by your audacity, but by the precision of your words, your command of their tongue, the unmistakable intelligence behind your wrath.
You turned sharply back to lucius as three scribes hurried forward, papyrus at the ready, your vizier moving to your side with practiced ease.
You leveled him with a look that could strip steel.
"Now, if you are finished with empty pleasantries, Caesar," you said, voice cool as drawn water, "then we may address the matter that brought me here."
The room held its breath.
Lucius, still stunned, met your gaze—and knew, with sudden certainty, that peace would not be won so easily.
.
.
.
Morning crept into Rome reluctantly, pale light seeping through latticed windows as though even the sun hesitated to look upon what the night had wrought.
The negotiations had bled into the small hours, stretching men past reason and patience.
Maps lay strewn like wounded things, corners curled, ink smeared where fingers stuck too hard.
You had stood unyielding at their center, pointing to borders scarred by Roman boots, naming battles and broken accords with a scholar's precision and mother's fury.
Lucius had argued for parlay until his voice grew hoarse, invoking restraint, invoking change—but each appeal met the immovable wall of truth you placed before him.
Marcus.
Commodus.
Geta.
Caracalla.
Each name fell like a stone.
And how could he fault your anger?
Rome's promises had been plentiful; its restraint, fleeting.
The Senate, for all their bluster, had only inflamed the matter further, drowning reason beneath pride and wounded vanity.
At last—when torches burned low and even the most obstinate senators sagged with exhaustion—Lucius had raised a hand and commanded the night to end.
"Enough," he had said, voice edged with iron. "We will not find peace while weariness rules us. We resume at dawn."
You had not hidden your displeasure, but you had relented—for your people, for your guards, for the scribes who could barely keep their eyes open.
Escort had been provided, chambers prepared.
Formalities observed.
Sleep, however, did not come so easily to Rome's empire.
Lucius lay wake long after the palace fell quiet, staring at a ceiling he had suddenly found unfamiliar.
You haunted him—your voice echoing in his thoughts, the fire in your eyes when you spoke of retribution, of blood, of betrayal.
He saw the way you commanded the Senate without even raising your voice, how you refused to yield an inch of yourself to men accustomed to taking everything.
The memory of sunset catching your profile as you argued with him—golden light skidding your cheek as you carved truth from the air—set his pulse racing.
It was intolerable.
And so, with the dawn, he sent for you.
The summons was courteous, measured.
An invitation to break fast together.
You had every intention of refusing it outright, a reply sharp enough to wound parchment—but your vizier, ever pragmatic, counseled restraint.
Let him speak, he had urged. Hear him when the Senate is not watching.
Reluctantly, you agreed.
Fashionably late.
Lucius was halfway through a fig when the doors to the dining hall opened.
He rose at once, nearly choking in his haste, eyes lifting to find you framed by morning light.
Gone were the heavy regalia ad crowned braids of the day before.
You wore your sleep robes—rich fabric draped loose and unencumbered, moving with quiet grace.
Your hair fell free, dark and unbound, spilling down your back to the bend of your knees.
The scent of you reached him before your footsteps did—jasmine and sandalwood, warm and intoxicating, curling low in his belly and tightening his breath.
He swallowed quickly, composing himself.
"Your Majesty," he said, bowing his head with care. "You honor me with your presence."
He did not pull out the chair.
He did not gesture insistently.
He merely waited, hands folded before him, allowing you the choice.
Your gaze remained cool, barely grazing him as you moved to the table.
You sat with regal precision, eyes lowering to the plate before you.
Figs, dates, almonds, fresh bread.
You ate in silence, posture immaculate, only lifting your gaze once—perhaps twice—before returning to your meal.
Lucius watched, fascinated despite himself.
"I trust you found good rest," he ventured gently.
You did not look up, "As well as one might in a Roman bed."
He paused, then smiled faintly, stroking his chin.
"I shall work to improve our hospitality."
Silence again.
At last, he exhaled softly.
"I take it, then, that you do not like me very much."
That earned him your attention.
You cocked a brow, eyes sharp with disbelief, "You take it?"
He nodded, unoffended.
"I desire peace for Rome," he said calmly. "And I cannot secure it without your counsel. Without your help."
You set down your fruit, gaze leveling him fully now
"Cooperation," you replied, coolly, "is not a burden for Numidia alone to bear. Demands must be met. Debts paid. Promises fulfilled. Words alone do not staunch bleeding."
Your lips curved faintly—not in amusement, but in memory—as you scoffed.
"If your precious Senate were less concerned with preserving their own coffers and pride, perhaps something of substance might be achieved."
You rose then, smoothing your robes.
"I thank you, Caesar," you said, tone formal and distant. "But I must return to my chambers and prepare for today's proceedings."
You offered him the barest nod.
"I will see you on the Senate floor."
Then you turned, robes billowing as you strode from the hall without a backward glance.
Lucius sat there, stunned, watching until you vanished from sight.
At length, he turned slowly to a nearby guard, brow lifting in genuine confusion.
"Was it something I said?"
The guard, wisely, said nothing at all.
.
.
.
Three months ground past like millstones.
Each day began the same—predictable as the tolling of the Forum bells.
Lucius summoned you to break your fast, and each morning you answered the call with visible reluctance.
You sat across from him, he asked of your journey, your thoughts, the lands beyond Rome's knowing.
You answered only as much as required, steering every attempt at familiarity back to borders, treaties, troop movements.
He did not press.
He learned quickly that you were not a woman to be cornered.
By midday the Senate convened, and the dance began anew.
You spoke with relentless clarity—encroached valleys, burned caravan, violated accords.
Lucius countered with proposals, concessions, promises of reform.
The Senate groaned, protested, invoked the sancity of tradition as though it were scripture.
Voices rose.
Tempers flared.
Torches were lit as daylight waned, and still the arguments carried on, bleeding into the night until exhaustion dulled even outrage.
By the third day the Senate had tired of you.
By the third month, they loathed you.
Your refusal to bend, your unassailable facts, your sharp intelligence—each chipped away at their patience.
They muttered openly now, no longer bothering to soften their contempt.
Yet for Lucius, the days had taken on a strange, intoxicating rhythm.
Rome came first—always—but when the marble halls emptied and he lay alone beneath the stars beyond his window, it was your voice he heard, your presence that lingered like a phantom warmth.
Your disdain for him had only hardened with time.
His fondness for you had grown beyond reason.
It was your tongue that undid him, keen as a blade, unafraid.
You did not flatter.
You did not plead.
You did not fear.
And gods help him, he admired you for it.
On this day, however, the tension snapped.
Josephus had taken the floor with all the confidence of a man who believed himself assailable.
He spoke of precedent and legacy, of Rome's "rightful" holdings, dismissing your maps with a flick of his hand.
You countered swiftly, indicating precise lines of demarcation, citing skirmishes, broken oaths, recorded losses.
Lucius stood between you in spirit if not in body, palms raised, voice firm.
"Enough. We will proceed in order—"
But Josephus barreled on, gesturing wildly at the maps, "This territory here, long held since the days of Britannia's pacification—!"
You stilled.
"Britannia?" you echoed coolly.
Josephus frowned, stabbing at the parchment again, "Yes, this stretch along the southern—"
A pause.
Then you smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
"Senator," you said, voice ringing clear through the chamber, "Britannia lies beyond the northern seas. That land you so fervently defend belongs to Numidia—and has, for generations. Might I suggest you acquaint yourself with the maps you so eagerly dispute? Or are the markings too difficult for you to read?"
Laughter rippled through the hall—quick, startled, then impossible to restrain.
Even Lucius, gods forgive him, failed to smother a tickled grin that curled onto his lips.
Josephus flushed crimson.
His composure shattered.
"Mind your station!" he barked, spittle flying. "Had you not been born but a few ears earlier, you would have warmed my household floors as a slave—!"
The world stopped.
Your eyes widened, fury blazing.
Your guards surged forward in a heartbeat, spears raised, shouting in Numidian as the Senate erupted into chaos.
Marble echoed with sandals and voices.
You turned sharply, raising your hand, speaking swiftly with your tongue—commanding calm, reminding them that you would not ignite a war over the bitterness of one decrepit man.
But Lucius had already risen.
He roared.
The sound tore through the hall like thunder, silencing every voice at once.
"SILENCE!"
He descended from his seat, fury radiating from him in palpable waves.
"You dare..." he thundered, pointing at Josephus, "to speak to her that way?"
His voice dropped, lethal.
"Hear me well, all of you. This woman stands before you as Queen of Numidia. Not slave! Not barbarian! Not whore! A queen!"
He turned slowly, his gaze sweeping the chamber.
"Any man who dares deny her that title denies me."
Josephus opened his mouth—perhaps to protest, perhaps to plead.
Lucius did not allow it.
"Josephus," he declared, "you are stripped of your rank and senatorial authority, as of this moment. Your lands and honors are forfeit, to be reclaimed by the people."
Gasps echoed.
"And let this be known..." Lucius continued, voice like iron, "that from now on, any who utter the words barbaric or barbarian in my presence shall suffer the same fate. Rome will not be governed by ignorance."
Your breath caught.
You had not expected this.
Not the vehemence
Not the risk he had taken for you.
Lucius did not look at you as he ended the session, his anger too great to be bridled.
"This assembly is dismissed," he snapped, and turned on his heel, storming out of the chamber.
The doors boomed shut behind him.
You stood amid the stunned Senate, heart pounding, the echo of his words ringing louder than any insult you had endured.
And for the first time since setting foot in Rome, you wondered—uneasily, undeniably—whether you had misjudged the emperor who wore its crown.
.
.
.
That night, sleep would not come.
You laid beneath silken covers that had long since gone cold, staring into the dark as the events of the day replayed themselves with cruel insistence.
The emperor's voice—thunderous, unrestrained.
The words he had hurled like spears at your defense.
The fury in his eyes when he referred to you as queen before all of Rome.
It unsettled you more than any insult ever had.
When at last you could bear the stillness no longer, you rose.
You drew on a night robe hastily, the fabric cool against your skin, and moved to the door of your chambers, the latch whispering as it turned.
Outside, ten of your guards stood vigilant, bronze catching the torchlight.
Mago, ever watchful, turned at once.
"My queen," he said, concern etching his scarred features. "Has something troubled you?"
He was a mountain of a man—broad-shouldered, towering, his body a testament to wars survived and victories earned.
Scars mapped his arms and throat, each one a story written in blood.
When you had assumed the crown, he had volunteered without hesitation to lead your guard, swearing himself to both you and Numidia.
"There is no danger," you replied softly. "I only wish to clear my head."
Mago nodded, turning sharply.
"Prepare yourselves," he barked to the others. "The queen moves."
You lifted a hand, "No. That will not be necessary."
He hesitated, "My queen—"
"I will be out but a moment," you insisted. "The palace sleeps."
His jaw tightened, "I would sooner walk into a pit of vipers than leave you unattended in Roman halls."
You rolled you eyes, a faint smile touching your lips, "Then come alone, if it eases you."
Before he could argue further, you were already moving.
Mago muttered a curse under his breath, then snapped orders to the remaining guards to alert the outer watch before falling into step beside you.
The palace at night was a different creature entirely.
Torchlight flickered over marble carved with stories of gods, shadows stretching long across mosaics of triumph and conquest.
Columns soared overhead, cold and immaculate.
You walked in silence, the soft whisper of your steps echoing faintly.
Rome was beautiful, you conceded—but beauty was never without cost.
Over the past year, Mago had become more than your protector. Where others bowed and praised, he stood firm and honest.
You trusted him as you trusted few.
A thought struck you, and a mischievous smile curved your lips.
"You stand at every hearing," you said lightly. "You hear every word spoken. Tell me... what do you think of these negotiations?"
Mago stiffened at once.
"I am but the captain of your guard," he replied carefully. "Such matters are beyond me."
You glanced sideways at him.
"We are alone," you said. "Speak plainly."
He sighed, heavy and resigned.
"Rome has never been known to honor their oaths," he said at last. "Treaty or no, there will always be the shadow of betrayal. It is their way."
He looked at you then, fierce and unwavering.
"But I will fight and die for you, and for Numidia, should it come to that."
You nodded slowly, absorbing his words.
"I have enough scribes and viziers. Men who nod and agree for the sake of favor," you said quietly. "But it is your counsel I prize."
Mago blinked, caught off guard.
A faint warmth crept into his expression, "You honor me, my queen."
Just then, your steps slowed.
Ahead loomed a set of doors unlike the rest—massive, double-footed, their surfaces veined with marble and edged in gold so lavish it bordered on excess.
You tilted your head, curiosity sparking.
"What lies there, I wonder..." you mused, already moving toward them.
"My queen," Mago cautioned, "the hour is late. Tomorrow's hearing will demand your strength."
You waved him off, "What do you think is beyond?"
He scoffed, softly, "I have no notion. Nor do I care to learn."
You smiled.
"I do."
He halted, "You would not—"
"I shall take a look," you said, already reaching for the door. "Remain here. Keep watch."
Before he could mount a proper protest, you slipped inside, the door closing with a decisive thud.
Mago exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face.
"Ancestors guide me," he muttered.
He loved his queen fiercely—but there were moments when he wondered if at times you were too fearless.
You slipped inside—and the whole world changed.
Gone was the marble's cold authority.
Beneath your bare feet lay soft grass, cool and living, springing gently with each step.
Trees rose in graceful clusters, their leaves whispering faintly as though stirred by a wind you could not feel.
Flowers bloomed in riotous abundance—violet, white, deep gold—each carrying its own scent, weaving jasmine, myrtle, and something darker and earthen into the air.
It was not a garden as Rome so often built them, clipped and conquered, but something nearer to a sanctuary, a place coaxed rather than commanded into beauty.
You trekked farther in, awed.
For a moment, the palace ceased to exist.
It felt as though you had stepped into a living forest, plucked whole from the wilds and placed gently beneath a vaulted sky.
Water murmured somewhere nearby, unseen but ever-present, and the torchlight softened here, diffused through leaves and petals into a warm, dappled glow.
Rome, you thought—against your will—how do you keep doing this?
The palace.
This hidden garden.
Their emperor.
The thought struck you unbidden, and heat bloomed beneath your skin.
You stilled, lips pressing together, annoyed with yourself.
Where had that come from?
You had heard the stories, of course.
All the world had.
Lucius Verus—once Hanno.
Hero of the Colosseum, the best gladiator it had seen since Maximus.
Liberator of Rome from the rot of Geta and Caracalla, and the shadow Macrinus would've cast.
But stories were wind.
You had never seen him.
Not until your furth day in that cursed Senate.
And you would be a liar—an outright one—if you claimed he had not stolen the breath from your lungs.
Strong.
Gods, unbearably so.
Thick arms corded with muscle, a chest broad beneath his plate, powerful thighs braces wide as he sat upon Rome's throne as though it had been carved for him alone.
A face both severe and striking—jaw hard with thought, beard roughened just enough to soften its edge.
That smile—rakish, fleeting, dangerous—especially when you were particularly cutting with the senators.
And his eyes... sharp, piercing, unashamed, as though you were something to be reckoned with rather than endured.
His voice followed you still—deep, steady, carrying authority without strain.
At first, you had been too proud to admit what he had stirred in you—the warmth blooming in your gut, the flush you could not fully quell, the brief, treacherous loss of breath.
A queen should known better, you chided yourself.
But you were a woman before you were crowned.
And damn it all, you had tried—truly tried—not to fall beneath his spell.
You stood there, alone in the heart of the garden, when the door suddenly cracked open.
You turned to find Mago had entered, expression shifted—no longer merely vigilant but composed.
"My queen," he said, voice crefully neutral, "forgive the intrusion. The Emperor Lucius Verus requests entrance."
Your brows lifted a fraction before you tempered yourself.
You schooled your features into a calm, regal indifference, though your pulse betrayed you.
"Does he," you replied evenly.
You straightened, shoulders settling, spine tall.
With the poise that had carried you through countless war councils and coronations alike, you inclined your head.
"Send him in."
Mago turned on his heel to carry out the order—but halted at once.
Lucius was already entering.
He passed beneath the arch of the doors with an ease that suggested long familiarity, an amused curve to his mouth as torchlight caught in his hair.
Mago stiffened, displeasure written plainly across his scarred face.
Lucius's gaze flicked to him, then back to you, and he chuckled softly as he continued farther into the garden.
"You have lived in my home for three months," he said lightly, "and already you see fit to bar me from my garden."
You rolled your eyes with a weary sigh, glancing past him.
"Thank you, Mago. That will be all," you said gently. "You may leave us."
Mago hesitated, "My queen—"
"Will be well in your absence," you assured him, warmth touching your smile. "Truly."
He studied you for a long moment, then cast one final, wary look at Lucius before inclining his head and stepping back.
The doors closed behind him with a muted thud.
Lucius watched this exchange with interest, brow lifting faintly.
When he turned back to you, the hint of a smile lingered, "I take it your captain does not like me very much."
You shrugged, "The same can be said for his queen."
His lips quirked, "And yet it is that very queen who has wandered into my garden without permission."
You scoffed, softly, "Would you like me to leave, then?"
He shook his head at once, "No."
As he drew nearer, your attention betrayed you.
He wore no armor now, no imperial regalia—only a simple tunic, unadorned, the sort a farmer might don at day's end.
Yet there was nothing humble in the strength it revealed: arms thick with muscle, hands clasped behind his back, thighs powerful and steady as he moved.
You checked yourself sharply, refusing to let your thoughts stray.
"This garden is not mine," he said. "It was my mother's."
That stopped you.
"Lucilla?" you asked.
He nodded, gaze drifting around as he lowered himself to the grass.
You found yourself joining him without conscious thought, settling beside him at the torchlight played over his features.
"She would come here to think... before I was sent away," he continued quietly. "I assume you came for the same reason."
Heat crept into your cheeks, eyes widening.
He caught it at once and laughed softly.
"You do not have to worry," he said. "This is a place for restless minds."
You recovered, lifting a brow, "You speak as if we are alike."
"In more ways than you might wish," he replied. "You are smart—smarter than most. And stronger, too."
He glanced at you then, something unguarded passing through his eyes.
For a breath, he wished to lift a hand, to trace the line of your cheek—but he did not.
"Your are... remarkable," he said instead, quieter now.
He cleared his throat and smiled faintly.
"Though, my mother did not have as sharp a bite as you... she was strong in her own way."
A faint laugh escaped before you could stop it.
The sound seemed to strike him full in the chest.
His eyes brightened, something almost boyish flickering there.
"I have heard tales of her grace," you admitted. "She sounds like a proud woman."
"She was," he agreed. "Though not nearly as prideful as you."
Your brows knit at once, "I am not prideful."
He laughed outright, rich and warm, clearly delighted by your indignation.
Your sprang to your feet.
"I knew it!" you declared. "I knew this sweetness was too good to be true!"
"So you think I am sweet?" he teased, rising with you.
"I think you are arrogant!" you scoffed stuttering slightly. "And that this charade was a complete mistake!"
You turned sharply to leave—
And his hand closed around yours.
"Wait," he said, rising swiftly. "Forgive me. I did not mean to offend you."
You scoffed, tugging once, "Spare me. I should have remembered I was talking to a Roman."
"That is not how I want you to see me."
You stilled.
When you looked at him, his haze was no longer playful.
It was soft—almost imploring.
"This is the first time I have seen you smile," he said quietly. "And by the gods, it was... beautiful."
You stared, stunned, then scoffed again, attempting to pull free.
"Do not insult me with hollow flattery. If you think these words will soften me—"
His grip tightened, firm but gentle, "I mean them."
Your breath caught.
"Not very subtle," you said faintly.
He chuckled, "I am not a subtle man."
Lucius took your other hand then, holding both with earnest care.
"If we want our people to know peace, then you must be able to bear my presence. To bear Rome."
You gave a humorless laugh, "You ask too much."
"Then bear me first," he said quickly. "Come with me tomorrow. Walk the city. See it as it is—not as the Senate."
You hesitated, wary.
He asked again, quieter this time.
And then—softly, almost under his breath—he added, "For me."
That was what undid you.
You turned away, jaw tight.
"Very well..." you said at last. "One day."
His smile was immediate and victorious.
He lifted your knuckles to his lips and pressed a kiss there, "Thank you, your Majesty."
You snatched your hand back as though it burned.
"Do not!" you flushed—though the fire in your eyes betrayed something else entirely.
Summary: The odd Empress, raised among snakes and gifted with a nose for poison.
The corridors of the palace always seemed too warm, the air thick with oil lamps and the smell of roasted meats drifting in from the kitchens.
You walked at Caracalla’s side, your hand brushing the sleeve of his toga. His soldiers kept their distance, their eyes followed you with the same unease as the rest of the court.
“You are sniffing again,” Caracalla muttered, lips twisting into a smirk. “Every corridor, every dish, every goblet. My Empress with the nose of a hound.”
“It is better to sniff than to choke on poison.”
He laughed loudly, his voice carrying down the hall.
“One day, you will accuse the air itself of being laced with venom.” He leaned closer so that only you could hear. “And yet… You are always right.”
He teased, but you could tell he believed you.
He might call you strange, odd, a witch, but he had learned to trust your gift after the first chalice you had pushed away from him, the one that left a slave writhing on the floor moments later.
Since then, Caracalla had watched you closely, both amused and unnerved by the way you would pause before drinking, lifting the rim of your cup to your nose like a sommelier of death.
That night, the banquet glittered with music and laughter, courtiers filling the marble hall.
Platters of meat and fruit arrived in procession, borne by servants whose hands shook as they set them down before the Emperor and his wife.
Caracalla lounged on his couch, sharp-eyed, hyper as always, his fingers toying with the dagger at his side.
You, by contrast, sat upright, every sense alert. The moment the dishes were laid down, something pricked your nose, a sour, acrid undertone under the honeyed glaze of roasted lamb.
Your breath caught. You leaned forward, sniffing again, ignoring the murmur of the guests.
Caracalla saw you stiffen and grinned.
“There she is, my bloodhound bride,” he said loudly, his tone mocking, though his eyes sharpened. “What is it now? The wine? The bread? Or perhaps the very air, poisoned against us?”
The laughter that followed from the guests was brittle, nervous.
They were used to his cruelty, but their gazes slid uneasily to you.
“Do not touch your plate,” you said firmly, your hand clamping down on his wrist before he could lift his knife.
The room froze. Even Caracalla stilled, his head cocked like a predator scenting prey.
“Why?”
“Because it is poisoned.”
The silence that followed was so heavy it seemed to choke the torches. The courtiers exchanged glances, whispers starting up like rustling leaves.
Caracalla’s lip curled. “Prove it.”
You rose to your feet, skirts sweeping across the marble.
The chef who had prepared the meal stood among the servants, his face changed to the colour of ash. You took the plate from the table and shoved it at him.
“Eat it.”
The man stammered, eyes wild. “Majesty, please-”
“Eat,” you repeated, your voice low and merciless.
Caracalla leaned back, watching with amusement.
His soldiers did not move. The chef trembled, then obeyed.
He chewed, swallowed, and within moments, his body convulsed. He started to shake, blood bursting from his nose, then from his eyes and mouth.
He collapsed with a scream, thrashing until his body stilled, his blood staining the polished floor.
A chorus of gasps and cries filled the hall.
Yet Caracalla only laughed, a harsh, delighted sound that silenced the chamber.
“My Empress,” he said, rising from his couch. His boots splashed through the spreading pool of blood as he approached you. “Strange little witch. You just saved my life again.”
He stopped inches from you, close enough that you could smell the iron tang of blood and the faint scorch of his skin when his temper rose. He cupped your cheek with one hand, thumb smearing a fleck of crimson that had spattered your face. “You frighten them,” he murmured, voice low, meant only for you. “But you do not frighten me. You keep me alive.”
“And you, make me love you, against all sense.”
His eyes softened, just for a moment, though his grip on your face was fierce. Then, in front of the court, he kissed you, hard and determined. The guests turned their eyes away, horrified, but none dared speak.
That night, in the privacy of your chambers, he held you as though you were the only soul he trusted.
“They whisper about you,” he said against your hair. “They say you are unnatural, that you are cursed. I say you are mine.” His voice grew darker, more possessive. “Let them fear you. Let them fear us both. You are my shield and my venom, and I would burn the world before I let them take you from me.”
You lifted your head, meeting his gaze. “And I would drink poison itself if it meant keeping you safe.”
His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you into another kiss, slow this time, lingering.
For once, the Emperor’s restlessness eased. For once, his violence found a place to rest.
The court feared you, whispered about you, but that night, Caracalla did not care.
His odd Empress had saved him once again, and with every taste of your strange, dangerous devotion, his love only deepened.
~Masterlist~
ˇAO3ˇ
Wattpad
/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/
summary: you're the one thing he can't have, but he'll do anything to get you anyway, fem!reader x emperor geta
notes: for (this) request, thank you so much for sending that in again, love you for that! this definitely will not be history or character accurate, but I know most of you are just here for the vibes so here's this for you <3 if anyone wants more of him, you're more than welcome to send something in, make sure to take a look at my holiday event too!
part two is finally here! yippee!
Geta had everything he could ever want- food, clothing, women. Many women. All the divine things of the world were his, and it pleased him to know as such. All of Rome was at his beck and call.
Now, despite his interest in expanding empires to new locations, he'd never found himself interested in the contents of these areas. It seemed illogical, when he had everything he wanted and much, much more already.
As the power of Rome grew, however, the time came for a delegation to be put into place. It would be built in order to generate alliances among other strong empires, much like their own. It wasn't something of much interest of Geta- he'd have to give them an audience at some point, he'd imagined, but any might greater than his own was simply unimaginable in his mind.
It wasn't surprising for the people of your empire to know you'd be headed off along with the rest of the delegation sent to Rome. They knew your adventurous nature, and with your three older brothers limiting your chance of leading one day, there was no true reason for you not to be sent off, if not just for the year you'd be gone. Your father, as emperor, was weary, of course.
"Venturing into harsher lands might calm your restless nature, which is something that must happen as you become an important figure to your people, dear. Besides, you'll be protected under the royal court of Rome in any regard, to be sure."
The trip had been troublesome, despite the amenities offered for a trip of so many noble people. It was truly its length that made it quite so unbearable, being over a week of slow travelling. Upon entering into your destination, however, your opinions on the matter immediately had been washed away by incoming fascination. Your empire had been fantastic in its own ways, of course, but this went beyond every notion of an idea you'd had for it. The streets were filled with excitement, and the people of the streets were beyond respectful, bowing their heads as you passed them.
Your fascination only grew as you came closer to the center of the land. There were buildings, each taller than the last and adorned with the most extraordinary pieces of decoration. Large, open areas housed groups of patricians, you were sure, wearing extravagant clothing that draped over their bodies perfectly. Their jewelry was even more extravagant, to be sure, shiny accessories adorning every finger and neck.
It's not that you weren't used to such lavishness, but your people had been less... open about it, in many regards. It was unlikely to find open rooms with expensive items on display as they had here. It's no matter, though. You'd fit in, to be sure. Your empire had sent you in their finest garments, matching these people's clothing perfectly fine.
The audience with this neighboring empire had been something of great discussion among the court of Rome. With the newest news coming in of the emperor's daughter visiting, the excitement only grew. There were stories, of course, of her people favoring her, for her beauty and kindness was a blessing for them. It intrigued Geta, in some regards. He'd expected old men and boring meetings discussing topics that he was not the least bit interested in. But a woman? He was indefinitely more interested in that.
Him and his brother were leaning lazily against their large thrones, women and men strew across them, vying for their attention. As your party entered, they both stayed in their position, watching disinterestedly, nodding as the people continued to enter.
It was customary that you entered last, in all your glory. You entered gracefully, all heads turned towards you, all in awe of your divine nature. Geta wasn't any exception as he immediately sat up straighter, trying to get a better look at you. As you stopped in front of them, dipping your head in respect, he continued to lean closer, eyes wide as they went over your features carefully.
"Thank you for your gracious invitation, emperors."
As your eyes rose to greet the twins, they immediately met Geta's. His own pair were watching your every movement, a interested glint in them unlike ever you'd ever seen in the eyes of a man. It caught you, making you freeze under his gaze. He slowly pushed off whoever had been on him, getting up as he slowly made his way towards you.
"The pleasure is all our own. I hope you know we've been anxiously awaiting you, my lady."
His eyebrows rose, anticipating your reaction. When you simply smiled, bowing your head once again in recognition before being carted away by your supervisors, he was beyond surprised. Any normal woman would've been flattered and flushing at his words, but you'd walked away with that calming nature still radiating.
His brother wasn't paying much attention, but that wasn't too much of surprise as Geta turned towards him, watching Caracalla place some grapes in his mouth as he looked off to the side. He turned back to your retreating form once more, shouting at you in order to get your attention.
"I hope you enjoy your stay, my lady. I'll be sure to call on you later."
You simply smiled once again, letting out a small laugh. "I'd appreciate that, Emperor. Thank you." You along with the rest of your party exited after a moment, exhausted after your long trip and in need of rest.
After you were long gone, likely softly sleeping in one of their more extravagant guest rooms, as Geta had imagined, he was approached by one of his many advisors, named Claudius. Claudius was one of the more brave council members, who would speak out against the emperors for the benefit of Rome. It was a surprise that his head hadn't been chopped off yet.
"I only want the best for your empire, Your Grace, and with such I must make it known that interacting with the daughter of such a powerful ruler has its risks. If word got out to the Emperor that you were treating her as you would with a common woman, it surely would bring their strong empire's wrath down unto our sacred land."
"You must have no faith in the glory of Rome, Claudius. Any attack on their part would be stopped immediately, you should know this."
"Since we've last spoken their forces have doubled in size, Your Grace. Do what you will, but we need to make sure this alliance goes as it's supposed to."
He was effectively being told 'no,' and he did not enjoy it at all. Everything in his life had been handed to him on a silver platter, so it went against his nature to not take what he wanted- in this case, that being you. His hands were clenched as he walked through the hallways, headed to his sleeping chambers.
You'd been headed back from your light sleep, hoping to find some sort of entertainment when a body had rammed at you at full speed, knocking you to the ground. There was the emperor, looking angrily at the figure underneath him. This angry look slowly faded as he realized it was you, turning into a devilish smile as he slowly pulled himself up, his hands resting on either side of your head.
"It's a pleasure to see you again, my lady. How have you found your stay so far?" He was vibrating with a sort of enticing energy, almost as though he was purring. It was rather strange, but you couldn't bring yourself to move, frozen once again in his gaze.
"Oh- well, this place is magnificent, Your Grace. It's truly wonderful to be here."
"Mm.. well I'm very glad you decided to come, you've made all this alliance work much more... interesting." He finally pulled himself off you, keeping his eyes glued to yours as he reached for your hand to pull you up with him in a sudden movement. "And you must call me Geta, princess." His hand held onto yours, subtly moving a thumb across its surface.
"Of course Y- Geta. And you shall call me by mine, yes?" Your calm nature had been broken, just as he'd hoped it would. His smile only grew at your flustered state.
"If that's what you'd like I'll faithfully oblige, though I do think Princess suits you much better. I'd do anything you asked of me, though, darling." With that he brought your hand to his face, keeping eye contact as he left a kiss on its back side.
To Hell with Rome. He got what he wanted, and he wanted you.
woah ok so I think this is the most I've every written, hopefully it was still a bit interesting for you guys! thank you so much for reading, and let me know if you want more stuff from him or anyone else in Gladiator (the obsession is crazy right noww) (also, wicked themed title to feed into another obsession don’t mind me)
if you guys want any more of this one, please let me know, I can even create a tag list if that interests anyone <3
summary ; you find once he's captured. you attempt to strip away the gladiator mystique and find out who he really is.
genre ; kinda angsty-ish buuuut cayoot ending
notes; shocker! i watched gladiator II and it was complete eye candy soooo i finally got the paul mescal hype ><
wc ; .7k words! sorry so short :,(
"aren't you a sight for sore eyes," you purred at the unknown man
he blankly looked at you, feigning a look exhaustion you mistake for annoyance
you pout at his expression, slumping on the stone next to his sweaty and bruised body
it had to be around 35° celsius in rome; the hot sweltering sun beating down on the dehydrated gladiators that had them dropping like flies left and right
many of the roman "call girls" would linger around these parts, you being one of them
"tell me gladiator," you began
"what did they take from you?" you gently asked, while poking at his chestplate
he didn't reply, just stared blankly at your figure, before adverting his gloomy gaze
he thought you seemed gentle and sweet, nothing like someone would call a common "whore"
obviously the life you're living was chosen for you, he wondered who made that decision
you laughed at his lack of response
"ah, so you're the stoic type? we've had many of those," you reminisce
"they come and go so quickly," you breathe out, "a real shame."
"i've become well versed in losing the things i love. i'm sure someone like you has as well." he surmised quietly
you whipped your head to look at him clearly
he face was completely wiped of emotion, oh he's serious
you dawn a wry smile, "i have."
he leans in further into the conversation, almost like his desire is to actively listening to you
you notice this and pull back a little
"you're a busy man," you nervously noted, "shouldn't you be training?"
he looks around for a minute, seeing everyone else occupied on some other mundane exercise
"i think i can push my training by a couple minutes," he suggested, wearing a cheeky grin before giggling with you
oh gods above please never let this moment end
you talk for what felt like forever, come to find out it had only been mere minutes
"there's something about him," you tell one of the girls in the brothel
"yeah, like what? his phallus?" she jeers playfully
you stay silent and just shake your head gently while helping her
there was a part of you that had yearned for a connection,but instead you're here, helping naive girl fix their makeup for men who do not deserve them
you stand up suddenly, confusion written on all their faces
"i'll be out until dawn," you say sharply
they all look at you with an unspoken agreement lingering in the air
you take a hooded cape and be on your way, you have to see your gladiator
in the dead of the night, you had arrived to the prison chambers that held the fighters
it was dirty and filled with little creatures, rusted blood on the metal, only illuminated by some rickety lanterns, you could hear the almost silent cry of some of the men, wishing they could return to their homes,
you were hastily let in, a loud BANG! heard before the gates shut completely
his stature completely melts when he sees your eyes, he knows it's you underneath the covering
you take a seat right next to him on his uncomfortable mattress, and you look at him deeply while he takes off your cloth hood
"i want to know you.."
"lucius," he whispers, his eyes moving all over your face to analyze every littlest feature
you hold his face in your hands and swipe your thumb over his cheeks "i desire to know you lucius."
"it feels like we've known each other a lifetime," he completely melts into you hands, placing his over yours
gently kissing your knuckles, he looks to you for comfort in an empire that wants to see you both dead
your eyes well with tears at the love you feel, its gentle and sweet, no malice or underlying lust
it's overwhelming and all you can do is stare at his while he admires you, treating you with such kindness that you think it's turning you nauseous
he confided in you, about his father, his life in numidia, and his desires in life
his eyes lit up thinking about what his future life could've been if it weren't for the literal chains that restricted him
your silence spoke volumes as you ran your hands through his rugged hair, nodding your head at every little thing he had to say
for the first time since being in rome, he's felt solace. only with you
i had the idea yesterday (this post) where emperor geta marries the daughter of a foreign advisor (reader), not because of love but because you're a solid ally and political genius. you hate him BAD and he hates you right back, but it's a foolproof plan, no better way to have an advisor who will always listen to you and think in your best interests if you tie them to you, geta’s fate is tied to yours now, you harm him, and he catches? you die. you harm him and he falls? You fall too. you just don’t account on falling in love.
excerpt;
up close, the emperor’s brown eyes stand out starkly against his pale skin. up close his hair is less red, less wild. that’s for his brother, who is somewhere else, lost in his indulgences, blue eyes with something mad inside them.
you don’t fall to his feet, perhaps he is used to women falling at his feet. but not you, you have too much pride to fall at his feet. rome has killed your uncles, your brothers, has taken your kingdom. your kingdom, the beautiful capital city now lies still, absorbed in the borders of rome. perhaps you thank your gods that they spared the violence. that your king conceded, that no more bloodshed had to happen.
a dress, the material loose and cool against the oppressive roman heat. and yet it suffocates you, covers you like a heavy blanket, you hate it, hate that this is what you have been reduced to.
the emperor’s private chamber is regal, majestic golden columns that stretch to a ceiling you don’t care to admire. the floor of a smooth, grey marble, red veins looping through the shapes in the rock. your bare feet against the floor, warming it with every step.
“emperor geta.” you say, coolly, arms crossed over your chest as if to not have them lash out at him. your tongue was your weapon, your words the tools that jabbed at the egos of senators and advisors alike. you once thought you were too good for them, now you realise they were simply waiting for you to fall into a deeper hole, enough to bury yourself in. “to what do I owe this pleasure?”
pleasure. you almost laugh at the word. there is nothing pleasing about this man, not from his deceptively kind eyes, or from the smirk that hangs on his face.
“you speak as if you’ve won something.”
that smug expression is still on his face, mouth turned up in a corner. what does he not have to be smug about, he is the emperor of rome. an empire that expands with each battle fought, with each kingdom intimidated.
“and yet I do not remember offering you anything of importance.”
you don’t like the way he looks at you. his eyes drag over your face, even hidden behind the lace veil you have on. his kohl lined ones meet yours languidly, before trailing down your body.
a thud in your heart. you have too, lined your eyes with kohl. rosewater in your hair, the colour of the roses giving the rouge on your cheeks. your mother had told you to wear this – these. to catch the eye of an emperor, perhaps for a favour, perhaps for a bribe. he is your emperor now too, a kingdom exchanged for safety.
he sits in front of you, draped in purples and whites, and your hands itch to rip the cloth into shreds.
imperial power is dizzying.
“i speak as i always have.” a pause, you are angry. how dare he summon you into his private chambers like a common whore, and how dare he comment on how you speak? “if you do not care for it, i suggest you can pretend to be deaf.”
he laughs at that, a giggle. drunk on power and yet no true power in his hands at all. you can see through him, the facade that he has open. he is beautiful and he is broken, and the power will leak out of the cracks soon.
“careful emperor.” you frown, hands dropping to your side, “if anyone overhears you laughing like that, they may think you enjoy my company.”
he ends his laugh with a sigh, and looks at you directly in your eyes. through the patterns of the veil, through the soul. to you. “oh my dear, what if I do?”
Marcus Acacius x Reader, General's Property - pt 2
˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆ general's property
slave!reader x general acacius
──★ ˙warnings ̟ !! 18+, no smut. master/slave dynamic, age gap, if any of these warnings trigger you do not interact.
──★ ˙a/n: bunny here again, anyway i felt awful just leaving slave reader hanging with no marcus to love her back so have a happier update in their lives. trying to go for a very "she loves him and he loves her back but it is quite frankly doomed." part one is here, warnings in the post.
︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶
he summons you in his study, late one afternoon. in the sunlight he looks beautiful, like a statue that has come to life. he has just come out of the baths, oiled and fragrant, like the jasmine that blooms in the courtyard.
you smell of burnt bread and flour dusts your cheek as you are rushed from the kitchens, the summon coming to you from another slave. your heart lurches, caught in your throat. you did not dare assume, did not dare to believe that he had called you by name.
for if you believed it, then your heart would race like one in love. and your heart was traitorous, because it loved him, man and body and soul. and he would never see you as anything but a house slave, vermin.
he looks calm in his study, battle plans on his desk. he had come back from a campaign a week ago, three months of longing, worries about his health. you were worried for his safety, scared for his death. memories of better days haunt you, the memory of your mother brushing your hair, telling you the worry that sits in your throat would consume you one day.
and yet you worry for him, and he does not care for you.
wine, he has asked for wine. and so you have a pitcher and a cup on your tray from the kitchens. it smells sour like wine and it smells sweet like honey and it smells like the wealth you cannot taste or drink. a knock on his door with one hand, whilst you balance the weight of the rest on your plate.
it’s timid, two raps against the wood and the door is opened.
“what is it?” his voice is disaffected, sharp.
“your wine, general acacius.” you bow your head down, stepping into the room, not daring to look up through your lashes.
“i see.” a pause, “bring it here.”
he motions for you to come closer with his big hand, with two thick fingers that make your heart race.
you set the goblet down on the table, and gently pour in the wine. purple and smooth, perfection. he sniffs it, and takes a sip. he doesn’t look at you, never looks at you. you are his property, you are his and this is why he does not have to look at you.
you are one of several, it does not matter who serves him as long he is served. and it does not matter if he sees you or not, for you have seen him, well and uninjured.
“is it you amica?” he calls out, as you silently begin your retreat back to the door, perhaps you would linger near the window, watching him work. maybe you would run back to the kitchens, and keep the memory of him working on his desk.
“y-yes dominus.” you reply back, wishing, praying that he means you. you would pray to your gods and the gods of rome if he means you, lay an offering of what small things you could find.
“ah.” he gives a faint smile, not enough to be kind, but enough to soften you up. almost like a lamb to slaughter, it feels. dare he do this with all of slaves he own? “i had hoped it was you.”
he beckons you closer again, and you stand in beside him, and he beckons you closer once more.
“dominus?” you frown, and he gestures to his lap.
you sit on it without another thought, and his thighs are firm and thick and he carries your weight like you weigh nothing.
“mel meum.” he says, softly, running a hand through your hair, his chin on your head as he continues to read. honey, he has called you honey. honey honey. he has called you his honey. honey like the one that sweetens the wine.
your hair is long, and his hands loosen it out of the braid, all too soft for the dominus who lives by his sword. he twirls it around his finger and you sit, you like watching his work, because of him. but you also like it because you like seeing the battle plans.perhaps not as good as him in literacy, you can read and write well enough.
you can feel puffs of his breath against the back of your neck, the rise and fall of his chest behind your own beating heart. a softness in this position that you did not think he was capable of.
“dominus…?” you ask, after a few minutes of the two of you reading the plans on the western front.
“i am sorry amica.” he straightens, and reaches for something in the drawers, mahogany and intricately carved, “i had summoned you here for a reason”
a box, and he opens it in front of you to reveal a thin chain of gold, with a pendant on it. blue.
“it is like the sky you stare at so often.” he looks at you with his eyes, soft, “i had found this gem on the banks of the river of the nation we were to conquer, and i thought it reminded me of you.”
he fastens it, with large hands that struggle with the tiny clasp.
the chain is tight around your neck, but the metal is shiny and you think it is true gold. you have never touched such wealth, and now you have it wrapped around your neck, like a snake.
you then the small pendant around, inlaid in a drop of gold itself. and behind it has his insignia, the same that is burnt into the skin of your arms, the same skin he rubs gently.
“so that it is known that you are mine, amica.” he kisses the inside of your shoulder, and you shudder at the warmth of his lips. softer than the night he had come home from the front, his lips all chapped with sun.
“dominus, it is obvious i am yours.” your eyes flick to arm, the burn barely visible from this angle, “i have been branded yours.”
he licks his lips, “rome is colder in these months, when you go out, i want you to wear something thicker, sleeves longer.”
“slaves do not wear such-“ you start, but he cuts you off with a squeeze to your arm.
“slaves do not speak back.” he snaps back, and then sighs, “but you must, amica.”
a pause, there is only your breathing between you.
“i do not want you ill these winter months.” he says, carefully, swallowing, you can feel his addams apple bob against your head, cocooned in him. “this necklace is proof that you are mine.”
mine, a word that she mixes. mine as in his or mine as in his slave. both are the same, both are equal, you are his slave. and yet the necklace feels cool on your skin, and you like the way his hand stays in your hip as he continues to read, spending a little longer on each map when he sees you reading too. perhaps he does this to all his slaves, the hope that he sees you in you grows a little larger
