content warnings: graphic smut, caught in the act, strong language, age gap
word count: 6,000+
summary: You and Draco have been dating for two years. The first year was great, but then things began to decline. He had longer hours at work, less time for you, barely looked your way anymore. Your final straw was him standing you up on your second anniversary, and you turn to his father for comfort.
~
You had been sitting at the restaurant alone for two hours when you finally gave up hope - he wasn't coming.
Flagging down the waiter, you asked for the bill, unshed tears burning behind your eyes. This is the last time he humiliates me like this, You vowed silently, paying for the bottle and a half of wine you'd managed to finish while waiting. You scribbled your signature on the receipt, tipping the waiter handsomely, then grabbed your purse and coat, quickly exiting the restaurant.
The cool night air raised goosebumps on your skin as you stepped into an alley and apparated, landing in front of Malfoy Manor. You stormed up the steps, closing the large front door harder than necessary behind you, letting your back come to rest against the cool wood for a moment. A single tear fell, which you furiously scrubbed from your cheek. No! You told yourself. I'll not cry over him - not again.
You removed your heels, holding them in your hand as you stepped quietly through the house, making your way to the room you'd shared with Draco for the past year. The two of you had been together since your last year at Hogwarts, and today was supposed to be your two year anniversary. You had the entire night planned, fine dining and fun, but it was all ruined now. You knew he'd been busy at work lately, but he hadn't even bothered to call.
Fury was too tame a word to describe the level of anger and humiliation you felt. As you walked through the kitchen, you set your bag and shoes down on the island and poured a glass of water for yourself. You caught your reflection in the smooth chrome of the basin - you'd gotten your hair done, your nails done, you'd gotten waxed, bought a new dress, new shoes, had your makeup professionally done - all for nothing.
With an incensed cry, you threw the glass into the sink, where it shattered and sprayed water all over you. A shard rebounded off of the metal, slicing your hand, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. Instead you sunk to the floor, back against the cupboards, hugging your knees to your chest, and cried. Sobs heaved from your chest, a mix of heartbreak, anger, and embarrassment, and you knew this was it - your final straw.
You'd forgiven Draco for many shortcomings, but this one took the cake. Never had he mortified you so thoroughly - of course the Malfoys were a well-known family, and you had been roped into the craziness of their publicity from the moment you'd started dating Draco. The Daily Prophet had done a piece on your first anniversary, which Draco had gone all-out for, so when your second anniversary began to approach everyone wondered if it would be as grand as the first.
No doubt Rita Skeeter would write some melodramatic piece about the poor girl who got stood up on her anniversary now, and no doubt everyone would read it. You'd be a laughingstock to all those who didn't pity you.
The sounds of your sobs seemed to echo throughout the vast silence of the open kitchen, your tears falling in fat droplets down your cheeks and dripping onto the dark green fabric of your dress, now sopping wet from the water that had splashed on you. The expensive silk clung to your legs uncomfortably, the cold chill of the marbled tile seeping through the fabric, your forehead pressed to your knees like they could hide your shame.
Then, you heard the soft, deliberate click of expensive shoes stepping across the floor. You didn't look up - there was only one other person who lived here aside from you and Draco:
Lucius.
Your throat tightened painfully, another burning wave of mortification washing over you, and your sobs grew heavier. You had endured two ignominious hours of waiting at that damned restaurant, endured the pitying stares of other patrons and the wind-carried whispers from mouths hidden behind menus, endured the creeping certainty that Draco wasn't coming as you had glass after glass of wine. You had endured until you broke, and now here you were - drunk, disheveled, and bleeding on the kitchen floor like some tragic parody of yourself.
Lucius witnessing you like this was just the cherry on top of the shit sundae that this night had become.
The footsteps drew nearer, then stopped, and you heard him gasp sharply. You didn't look at him, didn't lift your head, just curled up more tightly, like you could vanish entirely if you just made yourself small enough. You couldn't bear to see the look on his face as his eyes swept the scene - the shards of shattered crystal in the sink, the water sprayed all over the marble countertops, the bright red droplets of blood against the smooth chrome of the basin, and you, on the floor.
You heard the swish of his robes, felt the warmth of his body as he crouched down beside you, flinched as his hand gingerly took yours, turning your palm upwards. You kept your face buried behind your knees, but you could feel the delicate swipe of a handkerchief wiping away the blood that slicked your skin.
"Great Salazar, woman," He muttered, his voice tight with alarm as you felt the tip of his wand gently touch your palm. "Episkey."
You hissed softly at the searing sting of your wound pulling itself closed, but within seconds the pain had dulled, then faded to nothing. Though your sobs had dwindled to sniffles and hiccups, you still didn't lift your head; you didn't want to see the pity - or worse, contempt - that you were certain you'd find if you met his eyes.
But his voice broke through the silence at last. Low, smooth, gentler than you'd expected. "Y/N," He began, still holding your hand, his thumb brushing slow, comforting circles on your skin.
"You don't have to say it," You cut him off, voice muffled and raw. "I already know what a spectacle I've made of myself, something I'm sure the whole of Britain will know by morning."
He squeezed your hand gently. "That isn't my concern right now, you are. What happened?"
You shook your head, biting back a sob. "It doesn't matter."
His other hand closed over yours, sandwiching it gently. "It matters to me." His tone sharpened slightly, though not in anger - in supplication. You felt him lean in closer, his voice dropping to that persuasive, silken timbre you'd always found impossible to ignore. "I see your pain, whether you name it or not. Better to let it out than quietly bleed into yourself."
Your chest tightened. "I... I waited for him, Lucius. For two hours, I waited. But he.. he never came." Your voice cracked, another tear trailing down your cheek. "He didn't call, didn't text, nothing. But I still waited, and I kept hoping - oh Salazar help me, I kept hoping he'd come sweeping in with some ridiculous excuse, that he'd kiss me and we'd enjoy supper and everything would be fine. I sat there, like a fool, while others whispered behind their menus and looked at me with pity."
Your shoulders began to shake, quiet, broken cries falling from your lips. "Have you any idea how witless I must have seemed? Rita Skeeter must be frothing at the mouth, I've no doubt she's come up with some melodramatic piece about poor, jilted Y/N, abandoned by the Malfoy heir on thier anniversary, that'll be plastered all over the front page of the Daily Prophet come morning."
A long, shuddering breath left your body. "I- I'm so sorry, Lucius, I.. I've stained your family's name."
For a moment there was only silence, and you feared the worst - he was going to throw you out, publicly cut ties with you, disassociate his family from you. But then he spoke, his voice sharp as a razor's edge.
"My son is the fool," He seethed. "You've made no spectacle of yourself. Draco has - this is his failing, his shame, not yours."
You finally dared to lift your head, and Lucius was close enough that you could count the long, blonde lashes framing his steely eyes. You were sure you looked a fright - damp hair clinging to your cheeks, makeup running down your face, eyes red and glassy - but if Lucius thought so, his expression didn't show it. His expression was soft, sorrowful, a current of anger towards his son simmering under the surface.
"You don't understand," You whimpered brokenly. "I'm going to be a laughingstock to anyone who doesn't pity me. They'll see me as weak, pathetic even-"
He cut you off, his tone fierce. "There will be hell to pay for anyone who dares try to laugh at you, Y/N. Of that, you can be certain." Then he softened, his hand rising from yours to brush the tears from your cheeks with the pad of his thumb. "You deserved better than waiting, better than being ignored and humiliated. Better than him."
Your chest tightened again, aching with how badly you wished you could believe him. "He scarcely even looks at me anymore, Lucius," You said, your voice a broken whisper. "I tried, I kept trying, I- I did everything tonight to try to make it special, to make him see me again." You sniffled, more tears slipping from your eyes. "And he didn't even bother to show up."
"If my woman had sat at that table," He said slowly, his eyes searching yours as if trying to make sure you heard every word, "Dressed as you are, looking even half as radiant as you, I would have crossed oceans to meet her." His large hand rested on your cheek, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Only an impudent fool would have done otherwise."
His words hit you like a physical blow, and your breath caught in your throat. "Lucius.." You whimpered, his comfort cooling some of the heat of your embarrassment.
He stood, offering his hands to you. "Up. You needn't stay crumpled on the floor, it's no place for a lady."
Your hands slipped into his and he pulled you to your feet, the room swaying slightly as you stood. He took a moment to steady you before snapping his fingers loudly, and a House Elf appeared, eyes lowered. "Y/N needs fresh clothing. Dry, soft, nothing cumbersome."
The Elf disappeared for a moment, returning a moment later with neatly folded pajamas, holding them up in offering. Lucius took them, guiding you to the washroom adjoining his study, ushering you inside. "Go, compose yourself. I'll wait in my study."
You stepped into the washroom, nodding graciously as he closed the door behind you, but one look in the gilded vanity mirror cracked your composure all over again. Your cheeks were stained with mascara, your delicate pin-up hairdo now frizzed and damp, the front of your dress darker where the fabric had gotten wet, your lipstick smeared and faded from chewing on your lips. Fresh tears burned your eyes, and you forced yourself to look away as you peeled yourself out of the ruined dress, stripping off your bra and slipping into the soft cotton pajama set - a cropped, dove grey t shirt, with matching shorts.
Grabbing a cloth, you turned on the water and washed the remnants of makeup from your face, then carefully unpinned your hair, combing through it with your fingers. Once you felt less like a drowned swamp creature, you emerged from the washroom, stepping into the study.
Lucius stood when you entered, walking over to meet you and led you to the plush sofa near the fireplace, guiding you to the seat with a kind of courtly patience. "Drink?" He asked, and you nodded. With a flick of his wand, two crystal glasses appeared and filled with amber liquid, and he passed one to you as he sat next to you, leaving several inches of space between you.
The burn of the liquor grounded you, the taste - spicy and expensive - lingering on your tongue. You exhaled shakily, your eyes fixed on the fire, but Lucius's gaze never left you.
"My son's failure," He said, breaking the silence, "Is not your own. You must understand that, Y/N. He has proven himself to be unworthy of you - your loyalty, your beauty, your devotion."
"My beauty?" You scoffed lightly. "What beauty? My face is a mess, my hair is ruined, I-"
"And yet, you are still radiant," He cut you off, gently but with conviction. You turned your head toward him, watching as his eyes flicked over you with something akin to reverence. "Even undone, with tears streaking your cheeks. Draco's neglect reflects only upon him, not upon you. You are not diminished by his failures; if anything, you shine all the more brightly against his shadow."
"Not diminished?" You asked, somewhat bitterly. "I sat there like a lovestruck fool waiting for a prince, only to be left alone. Everyone saw it, they'll be talking about it for weeks."
His eyes met yours. "Let them talk, words from the envious have never tarnished what is truly beautiful."
Your hand gripped your glass tighter as you shook your head. "I'm not beautiful, I look like something discarded."
"You look exquisite," He said smoothly.
"Even with ruined hair and mascara running down my face?"
"Yes. Rare beauty such as yours is not painted on, it shines through - you could be undone, disheveled, and still light up any room you walk into."
You swallowed, your throat tight. "If that were true, he would have come," You replied sadly.
Something dangerous flickered across Lucius's features before he smoothed it away. "Were he not such a fool, and had an ounce of good sense, he would have. His failure does not erase your worth, Y/N. It only reveals his blindness."
You looked away, back at the fire, to escape the weight of his gaze. "You regard me as if I'm some sort of goddess."
"And why shouldn't you be regarded as one?" He asked, and your eyes flew back to his.
"A goddess wouldn't get stood up at a restaurant."
"A goddess," Lucius countered, his voice silken, "Is radiant regardless of who does or does not appear. And any man worth the air he consumes would never dare neglect her." He paused, his eyes holding yours for a long moment, suggesting a deeper meaning to his words. "You deserve a man who will not only see you, but cherish you - a man who will protect and adore you. I've long wondered if my son was capable of such a thing." His voice dropped lower, hushed, like he was confessing a secret. "I know I am."
You went quiet for a moment, looking at the glass of amber whisky in your hand and taking a long, slow sip. Then your eyes met his again, the firelight warming his handsome patrician features in shades of gold. You shifted to face him, settling in a few inches closer, close enough that your knee brushed his. "Your words... well, they hardly sound like something you'd say only to ease a woman's wounded pride." Your tone was soft, cautious, but threaded with something sharper underneath.
Lucius inclined his head slightly. "They are truths," He replied, low and deliberate. "That my son has been too oblivious and impertinent to see."
Perhaps it was the alcohol, but you suddenly felt quite brazen. Your voice was soft, tentative, but carried a challenge. "And... what do you see, Lucius?"
He regarded you in silence for a moment, his expression unreadable save for the faintest tug of a smirk playing on his lips. Then he leaned closer, his voice pitched low enough that it felt like it belonged to you alone. "I see a woman whose elegance demands attention, whose presence alone could silence a room. I see beauty," He paused, his gaze sweeping over your face, lingering on your lips before meeting yours once more, "That tempts a man in ways he could scarcely admit aloud."
His breaths were slow, deliberate, and you felt as if the fire itself could not compete with the heat that threading in the space between the two of you at that moment.
"Tempts a man how?" You breathed, your pulse quickening.
He inhaled slowly, as if steadying himself. "You tempt him," He murmured, voice threaded with heat, "To imagine the feel of your skin beneath his hands... the taste of your mouth when he finally dares to claim it." He finished his drink, setting the crystal glass down on the coffee table before leaning a fraction of an inch closer, close enough that you could feel his breath caress your cheek. "You tempt him to picture you close - so close, he can breathe nothing but you - and still be left starving for more. You tempt him," He leaned his lips close to your ear, "To forget reason... to cast aside restraint and risk everything, for even the smallest taste of what it would be to have you."
You felt a shiver run down your spine as he leaned back slightly, breath catching and heart hammering so loudly you were certain he could hear it. The fire crackling was the only sound as you shifted closer, brushing your leg against his, a sudden recklessness stirring in your chest.
You finished your own drink, setting the glass beside his before raising your hand, fingers ghosting along the lapels of his robes, toying idly as though you needed something to occupy your trembling hands. You didn't quite meet his gaze, instead watching the way your fingers brushed the dark fabric, the weight of your pulse quickening in your throat. "And what," You said softly, almost absently, "Do you think I would feel like?"
A small, coy smile tugged at your lips as you finally lifted your eyes back to his, looking at him through your lashes. "What do you think I would taste like, Lucius?"
He stared at you for a moment as though you had struck the very breath from his chest, his eyes flicking to your lips, his hand reaching up and gently brushing your cheek. "What I would give to know..." He murmured, his eyes meeting yours once more, dark and stormy.
You leaned closer still, your lips inches from his. "Why don't you find out?"
His inhale was sharp, and his jaw clenched as if he were physically restraining himself. "You tread dangerous waters, little witch," He muttered, a warning laced with something darker, enticing.
A smile blossomed across your lips, daring and bold, and you tilted your face up toward his. "I've always found danger to be quite... thrilling."
The ghost of a moan slipped from his lips, hovering a breath apart from yours. "And what of Draco?"
Your eyes went molten. "What of him?" You breathed sharply in retort. Your fingers clenched his lapels, emboldened by his nearness. "You told me that I deserved better, deserved to be cherished... Why don't you show me what that feels like?"
"And if he returns home and... happens upon us?"
"Then let it be a lesson to him, to show him how to properly care for a woman."
With a low, gutteral sound that was equal parts growl and groan Lucius closed the distance, his mouth claiming your with a ferocity that betrayed just how long he'd held himself back. His lips were demanding and hungry, stealing the breath from your lungs as his hands, too, abandoned their restraint, one resting at the nape of your neck as his other arm snaked around your waist. With no hesitation, he tugged you onto his lap, your legs resting on either side of his hips, the prominent bulge in the front of his trousers pressing squarely into your heat.
You gasped into the kiss, a soft whimper at the sudden friction against your most sensitive area, and he greedily swallowed the sound. For the first time in what felt like forever you didn't feel alone or abandoned, you felt wanted - every brush of his lips, every desperate tilt of his mouth, was declaration of it.
Your fingers fisted the expensive fabric of his robes, holding tightly as though afraid he might pull away as he shifted beneath you, his tongue sweeping your mouth like it was always his to claim, deepening the kiss until it was no longer just a meeting of lips but a consuming hunger. Another broken sound slipped from your throat - half whimper, half moan - which only spurred him on, his grip tightening on your hips like he might never let you go.
When at last he pulled back, it wasn't to retreat - his lips trailed along your jaw, down the column of your throat, where your pulse fluttered wildly beneath the delicate skin. "Salazar help me, Y/N," He muttered, his voice low and rough against your skin. "If you only knew the restraint it's taken not to do this sooner..."
"I wish you had," You groaned, your head falling back as his lips devoured your skin.
Whatever thin thread of composure he had clung to snapped with a feral, low sound that vibrated against your throat. His hands, no longer gentle, claimed you with a certainty that left no doubt about his intent - one hand pressed you against him more firmly, forcing you to feel the evidence of his desire straining against the fine cut fabric of his trousers, while the other traced from your jaw to your torso, his long, elegant fingers splaying posessively over your chest as though he was marking what was his.
"You have no idea," He murmured darkly against your skin, "How many times I watched my son squander your devotion..." His hand trailed under your shirt, gripping your breast as his teeth grazed your collar. "Knowing, that I could make you feel more, better, than he ever could."
You moaned as his fingers toyed with your nip, his words dark as sin and hot as fire as he continued. "How many nights I had imagined this... You, pliant in my arms... your taste on my tongue... the sweet sound of you-" He punctuated his words with a nip at your throat, earning a whine from you. "-breaking, for me."
Almost without meaning to you felt your hips rock against him, desperate for friction, touching your forehead to his as your fingers tangled in his white-blonde hair. "Lucius..."
The sound of his name falling from your lips, half plea, half provocation, nearly unravelled him. He seized your mouth again, rougher this time, deeper, urging you closer, harder, his tongue sweeping in to taste you as his hand left your chest to grab the back of your thigh, rocking you against him. The friction left you crying out into his mouth, sounds he drank down like wine, his grip tightening as he ground you against him harder.
Breaking the kiss again, he trailed his lips to your ear, his voice husky. "Tell me to stop, and I will... But if you don't, right now, I won't be able to stop myself from what I'm about to do to you."
He pulled back, and you looked at him with dark eyes. "Good," You whispered. "Don't."
That was the final blow. He captured your lips again, kissing you like he intended to devour every last breath from your lungs. His fingers lifted the hem of your shirt, and you lifted your arms, allowing him to pull it over your head, tossing it aside as he hungrily took in the sight of your bare chest.
"Exquisite," He murmured, lowering his mouth to your sensitive nip, tongue circling, teeth grazing, lips worshipping until you were arching into him, a helpless sound escaping your throat as you rocked against him. His free hand slipped lower, lower, slowly tracing along your inner thigh, deliberately torturing you, until his fingers finally pressed against your heat. The thin fabric of your panties and pajama shorts did little to conceal how ready for him you were, in fact you'd long since soaked through both.
He slipped his hand into your shorts, pushing aside the fabric of your panties, his fingers slipping between the raw folds of your slick heat. Your head fell back, a loud cry ripping from your lips as his his fingers stroked, teased, dragged you closer to the edge with every careful, deft movement.
Your fingers fisted in his silken hair, tugging him closer as you moved your hips desperately against his hand. "Lucius, please..."
The sound of his name on your lips in that tone - the plea, the abandon, the desperation - snapped what little restraint he had left. His arm hooked around you, lifting you effortlessly, flipping you into your back as he held himself above you. His eyes locked on yours as he pulled away your soaked shorts and panties, his voice hoarse with desire. "I will show you," He promised, "How to be adored properly. How to be ruined and treasured, at the same time."
His lips found your thigh, your leg hooked over his shoulder as his mouth travelled up, higher, stopping just shy of your throbbing core. He looked at you devilishly, pausing, and you looked at him, confused. "Lucius, wha-"
His mouth locked on to you mid-sentence and a strangled cry forced its way from your lungs as your head fell back against the cushions, your back arching as his tongue swirled circles around your clit. One of his hands grabbed your wrists, pinning your hands to your stomach as he devoured you, the other slipping two fingers inside of you, beckoning slowly at first, then faster, until you were delirious with pleasure.
You could feel your climax rapidly approaching, the knot in your stomach beginning to build as Lucius consumed you. Every stroke of his tongue and fingers was pulling you apart, piece by piece; your thighs trembled against his shoulders, your voice breaking on his name as you arched into his mouth.
"That's it, little witch," He murmured against you, lips wet with your essence, voice decadent and rough, his fingers curling faster. "Give in for me, sweet girl. Show me how badly you've needed this."
Your back bowed so violently you felt it crack as the dam broke, a wail spilling from your throat as stars clouded your vision, shattering, trembling, as Lucius coaxed you through it, drinking down every last shudder. You collapsed back onto the cushions, flushed and gasping, as he rose above you. He pulled his fingers out of you, cleaning your climax off of them with his mouth before kissing you again, letting you taste yourself on his lips.
"Lucius," You whimpered into the kiss, your hands pulling at his robes with desperate need. "Please, I- I need..."
He silenced you with another searing kiss, and with a wave of his wand, his clothes were on the floor. His arm slid beneath you, lifting you effortlessly back onto his lap, straddling him once more, this time nothing between you. His length, hot and hard, pressed against your entrance, and the low groan that escaped him was feral.
"I should resist you," He gasped, dragging the thick head of his member through your slick folds, tormenting you both with the tease. "But Salazar help me, I cannot."
Your nails dug into his shoulders, your voice needy and desperate. "Then don't," You breathed. "Don't resist me."
That was all it took. With a gutteral sound, Lucius pulled you down onto him, thrusting himself into you in one deep, claiming stroke. Your scream filled the room as your walls stretched around his impressive size, his grip bruising on your hips as he buried himself to the hilt.
"Perfect," He growled against your throat, sinking his teeth into your skin. "You feel perfect."
He gave you no time to adjust before setting a relentless rhythm, driving into you with each thrust, every stroke a blend of ravenous hunger and worship. His lips dragged over your skin, biting, marking, kissing, as if to brand you as his. You clung to him, nails raking down his arms, his name falling from your lips in shattered gasps like a prayer.
"Is this what you wanted, sweet girl?" He groaned between gritted teeth, his voice wrecked with desire. "To be cherished like this? Claimed like this?"
"Yes, Lucius- oh, Salazar, yes!" You cried, meeting his thrusts with equal desperation.
And then-
The door burst open.
"Father, have you seen-"
Draco froze in the threshold, his voice catching, his face draining of colour as his wide eyes took in the sight before him - his father, buried deep inside his woman, your body writhing in ecstasy, crying out his father's name.
Lucius didn't stop, didn't even slow, just continued with his relentless pace as Draco stood there, his face a taut mask of fury, jaw tight, fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Father! Y/N!" His voice came out a strangled cry. "What in Salazar's name-"
"You've squandered her devotion for months, Draco," Lucius snapped, cutting him off, slowing his pace a bit as he eyed his son with contempt. He pulled your body against his, as if shielding it from the boy, something no longer his to see. "You had every opportunity to cherish her, adore her, to see to it that she was never left wanting. You failed."
Draco's fists trembled at his sides, rage radiating from him, but he was powerless to intervene. Lucius trailed his fingers up your back, a gentle reminder you'd not be neglected again.
"Father, this- this is unacceptable!" He seethed. "You can't do this, Y/N-"
"I'll do as I please," Lucius interrupted, his voice icy. "As will she."
He began to thrust harder, faster, the sound of your cries and his hips slapping into yours filling the space. His voice, low and smooth, vibrated against your ear.
"Do you feel that, sweet girl?" He murmured. "Every cry, every shiver... this is what you were meant to receive. To be worshipped, cherished, never ignored."
You gasped, tilting your head back as you arched into him, clinging to his shoulders. "Lucius... please," You whimpered, feeling a knot forming, low in your stomach.
He growled, teeth grazing the sensitive pulse at your neck, lips tracing along your jaw, every kiss and nip deliberate, demanding. Your body trembled under him, shuddering with every perfect, punishing thrust, and your cries only seemed to drive him faster. He watched the way your body pressed into his, your hands clutching at him, lips parting in ragged gasps as you rode him.
He let his eyes meet Draco's, pale and stunned at the threshold. "Take note, Draco," He said, voice low and dangerous, "This is what it looks like to truly cherish a woman. Every touch, every movement... this is how she deserves to be treated."
You cried out his name again, fingers threading through his silver hair as he lifted you slightly, grinding into you, claiming you fully, and he pressed a rough, searing kiss to your lips that stole your breath. You arched, shuddering, helpless in his lap, and he whispered against your mouth. "Do you feel how much you're wanted? How much you're needed?"
Draco's jaw tightened, his fists clenched, but he remained frozen, unable to leave or avert his eyes. And Lucius, still in complete control, continued to drive into you, each stroke a blend of worship and hunger, proving in every deliberate movement exactly what it meant to treasure a woman.
"Father, this... this is-" Draco stammered, but Lucius cut him off, voice low, dangerous.
"I suggest you leave," He said smoothly. "Your presence is not welcome here."
With a final glare, Draco stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The echo of his anger faded, leaving the room warm and charged, the only sound your shaky breaths as Lucius thrust into you slowly. He growled, teeth grazing the sensitive pulse at your neck, lips tracing along your jaw, every kiss and nip deliberate, demanding.
Then he began to quicken again, his hands gripping your hips, fingers digging in as he thrust into you with a controlled, punishing rhythm that made you cry out, arching hard against him. Your body trembled, every nerve alight with the combination of pleasure and the electric shame of Draco having seen you riding his father.
"Look at you, sweet girl..." He murmured against your lips, teeth grazing your jaw. "So perfect, so yielding... do you feel how badly you've been wanted?"
"Yes... oh, Lucius..." Your voice broke with each gasp, each cry punctuated by the heat that pooled in your belly. You pressed closer, grinding down against him in time with his relentless thrusts, hands tangling in his silvery hair, clutching at him as if you could anchor yourself to him and never let go.
His hand trailed down your thigh, sliding over the soft skin, teasing you until you shivered violently, ready to tip over the edge. His fingers pressed to your heat, feeling himself sliding in and out of you as he expertly circled your clit. "Do you feel it?" He whispered, voice rough and low, brushing his mouth along yours. "The fullness of what you deserve... of what you've been denied?"
"Yes... yes, Lucius, please..." Your words were ragged, breathless, a mix of pleading and demand, and he responded in kind, driving into you with deliberate precision, hands claiming, lips worshipping, body and soul fully devoted to the pleasure he was giving - and taking.
Your back arched, nails raking his shoulders as your body tensed, trembling, and he could feel you nearing the edge, every heartbeat, every gasp a drumbeat to his own rising need.
"I've waited far too long for this," He murmured against your throat, voice hoarse, husky. "To show you what it means to be truly cherished." His fingers moved faster, your breath catching as your eyes squeezed shut. "That's it, sweet girl... Let go."
Your cry ripped through the air as you tipped over, shuddering violently, the pleasure coursing through your body leaving you helplessly clinging to him as you gasped his name brokenly against the crook of his neck. Lucius groaned low in his throat, pressing you down into his lap, taking you fully as you rode the wave, his hands firm and unrelenting on your hips, his mouth meeting yours to claim every sound you made.
And when he finally reached his own edge, he hissed your name, gripping you completely, thrusting into you with one final, consuming claim that left you both gasping and trembling. You leaned into him, still trembling, body sticky and flushed, hair falling into wild tendrils around your face.
"Lucius..." You whispered, voice ragged, and he shushed you with a soft kiss at your temple.
"Let me take care of you," He murmured, sliding his hands to stroke your back, smooth and deliberate, tracing the curves of your body with reverent gentleness. "Let me make sure you come down from this properly."
He guided you to rest your head against his chest, long fingers brushing the hair from your damp forehead, tracing the line of your jaw. Every touch was slow, deliberate, possessive, but soft, almost worshipful.
"You’re exquisite,” He murmured, voice low and husky. “Even now, you are still absolutely radiant. Any man would be lucky just to breathe the same air as you." He let the words hang, then added with a softer intimacy, "Myself very much included."
You shivered again, curling into him, lips parting in a soft sigh. Lucius continued, his hands stroking your arms, shoulders, back, lingering over every place his hands could reach without pressure, just warmth and reverence.
"You deserve this," He murmured, kissing the crown of your head. "To feel safe, desired, cherished... never humiliated or abandoned again."
You let out a shaky sigh, nuzzling against his chest, breathing in the faint scent of him - rich, smoky, unmistakably him - and for the first time in months, you felt safe, entirely seen.
"Lucius…" You whispered, barely audible.
"Shh," He murmured. "No one else matters. Not now, not ever while you’re here with me."
Your fingers drifted to his chest, to the fine fabric of his robes, hesitating before tentatively tracing the line of his collarbone. "You... you make it sound like I’m something to treasure," You murmured, voice thick and vulnerable. "After everything... I feel like I should still be ashamed."
His hand rose to cup your jaw, tilting your face up so you met his gaze. His pale eyes held yours with an intensity that was both gentle and unrelentingly magnetic. "The shame isn’t yours, sweet girl,” He said softly, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “It’s his. Draco’s failure, not yours. You’ve done nothing wrong, except perhaps to be far too patient.”
A faint, breathless laugh escaped your lips. "Patience," You echoed, voice still trembling. "I thought it was love. But I was waiting for nothing. And now..." You paused, hiding your face against his chest again. "Now I feel ridiculous."
"You are far from ridiculous," He said, lowering his mouth to press a soft kiss to the top of your head. "Any man would be foolish not to worship you."
You lifted your head slightly, eyes meeting his, heart hammering at the implication. "You really mean that?" You whispered.
He smiled, a slow, knowing curl of his lips, and brushed his nose against yours. "I do. Every word. And I intend to show you, in every way I can, just how true it is."
Your hands drifted up to his chest again, and he leaned back slightly, allowing you to curl against him, to rest your head against his shoulder while his fingers threaded into your hair, brushing and stroking with languid care. He kissed your temple, your jaw, the side of your face, and every soft touch was a deliberate contrast to the intensity you had just shared - an unspoken promise that he would always handle you with this combination of hunger and tenderness.
"You’ve been betrayed before," He murmured, his breath warm against your hair. "Ignored, humiliated... but I will make sure you never feel that way again. Never."
Your lips parted in a soft sigh, leaning into him, and he whispered lowly, teasing just enough to make your pulse quicken without breaking the calm of the moment. "Do you feel it yet, sweet girl? How much you are wanted, how completely cherished you are? Because I want you to feel it not just once, but always.”
You tilted your head up to look at him, eyes bright and vulnerable, voice barely a whisper. "And if I forget?"
He smiled, brushing a finger along your lips. "Then I’ll remind you, every single day. With every glance, every touch, every moment you spend with me, you will never forget again."
Warnings/tags: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT MINORS DNI - Age gap, Lucius is in his early 40’s while reader is 18-19, cheating, daddy kink, rough sex, kinda DD/LG coded
A/N: I actually fell asleep while editing this otherwise it would’ve been uploaded yesterday. Anyway, this one is nothing but pure filth compared to the others, regardless, I hope you enjoy!
Masterlist
The dim corridors of the Malfoy Manor echoed with the soft pitter-patter of rain against the leaded windows. A storm raged outside that mirrored the one in your heart. You were supposed to be here for Draco, he was your best friend, after all. You were the one he would confide in about his family’s burdens, about his uncertain future, and not to mention that there was often a hint of something more between the two of you. Stolen glances in the Slytherin common room, times where his hand brushed against yours whenever you’d study together, a hand on the small of your back as you both walked through the halls of Hogwarts. But Draco, even with his sharp wit and silver tongue, paled in comparison to the man who commanded the manor like a dark king—his father, Lucius Malfoy.
Lucius was everything you’ve ever wanted. He was tall and imposing, with hair like platinum thread and eyes that could both freeze or burn, depending on his mood. His cane always tapped rhythmically as he moved, a symbol of power that never failed to make your legs feel like spaghetti. Sometimes, you’d catch him watching you during dinners, his gaze lingering on your form for a fraction too long. To most, it seemed as if he was silently judging you, as if he was trying to calculate if you were good enough for his son. But you knew better. There was hunger there, buried beneath all those icy layers of his pride. And tonight, while Narcissa was away and Draco retired early, you had your chance to prove it.
You’d dressed for it, too, in a simple black dress that hugged your curves. Innocent enough to pass as evening wear, but short enough to tease. Slipping into the library where Lucius often was, you found him by the fire, a glass of finely aged wine in his hand along with a book. He didn’t look up at first, but you knew he was aware of your presence.
“Good evening,” he drawled, his voice like velvet over steel as he finally addressed you. “Shouldn’t you be attending to my son? Or has he bored you already?”
You stepped closer, your heart feeling as though it would pound straight out of your chest. You feigned a childish pout that you’d practiced in the mirror nights beforehand. You wanted to see him break, to make this untouchable man surrender to the taboo thrill of having someone young like you. “Draco’s asleep, Mr. Malfoy. And I… Well, I couldn’t sleep. The storm scares me,” you replied, your voice lifted higher, seemingly innocent, with your hands twisting in the hem of your dress like a nervous schoolgirl.
He finally looked up, arching a perfect brow. “Scared? At your age? How quaint,” he remarked, as if he were uninterested. But you noticed the flicker in his eyes that told you otherwise. Amusement? Intrigue? It didn’t matter, it was enough for you to press forward. You closed the distance, practically scampering over until you were beside his armchair, perching yourself on the armrest like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Daddy— I mean, Mr. Malfoy,” you corrected with a giggle, letting the slip hang in the air. You noticed how his grip tightened on the book he was holding, the pages bowing under his force. “You’ve always been so strong,” you continued, batting your eyelashes as you leaned in, your breath ghosting the shell of his ear. “Protect me from the storm, won’t you?”
Lucius set his glass down with a deliberate clink. While his expression remained indifferent, you noticed the way his throat worked as he swallowed. “What game are you playing, girl? You’re a companion of my son. This is hardly appropriate behavior.”
You slid into his lap then, shameless and brash, with your legs still dangling over the side of the armchair. You felt him stiffen against you, but made no effort into pushing you away. “But Daddy,” you whined, tracing a finger down his chest, over the fine silk of his shirt. “Draco doesn’t make me feel safe like you do. He’s just a boy, I need a real man to take care of me.” Your hips shifted subtly, grinding against him. A smirk graced your features when you got your desired effect, feeling the evidence of his interest stirring beneath you.
His hand shot out, taking a hold of your wrist, his grip firm. “Enough. You have no idea what you’re toying with,” he commanded, voice low and dangerous. His eyes, however, were filled with desire, betraying the very words that fell from his mouth.
You pouted again, wriggling closer. “Please Daddy? I’ve been such a good girl, but sometimes… I get these naughty thoughts. About you.” You leaned in, pressing a faint kiss to his jaw, then another lower on his neck. “I dream about you punishing me when I’m bad… or rewarding me when I’m good.” Your free hand slid lower, slipping between your bodies to massage him through his trousers. Finally, you felt him fully harden under your touch.
Lucius hissed, his control over the situation fraying. “You insolent little—” But his words were cut off when you ground against him harder, your dress riding up to expose a matching pair of lace panties. You had known Lucius since your third year at Hogwarts after you become friends with his son, however, you were no longer a child anymore. Making him realize that was the key to unlocking his restraint.
“Tell me to stop, Daddy,” you whispered, nipping at his ear. “Or… show me what happens to naughty girls who tease their elders.”
That did it. With a growl, Lucius skillfully pinned you down onto the plush rug before the fire, his book long forgotten as it stuck the floor with a loud thump. His form loomed over your own, the fire casting your shadows across the library's floor. “You want to play this game?” He snarled, his hands shoving your dress up past your waist. “Then you’ll play by my rules, little one,’ he stated, his fingers hooking into your panties, yanking them down with a rip of the fabric. You gasped, the cool air immediately hitting your exposed core, but he gave you no time to adjust.
He knelt between your legs, his sharp features twisted in a mix of lust and loathing. “Daddy’s going to teach you a lesson.” His mouth descended, tongue flitting out to taste you, precise and demanding. You arched into him, crying out softly at the contact, forcing him to press a hand over your mouth. “Quiet, pet. We wouldn’t want Draco to hear how his best friend begs for his father’s cock.”
The words alone sent a rush of excitement through your veins. He lapped at your folds with precision, as if he’d done this a thousand times before. Without warning, he pressed two fingers into you, curling them against your gummy walls until he found the spot that made you squeal. You whimpered like a scolded child as he sucked hard at your clit, pleading against the hand over your mouth as your own reached down to tangle into that perfect hair of his.
Lucius groaned against you, the vibration going straight to the heat in your core. “Such a tight little thing. All for me,” he praised, though his tone was sharp and demeaning. He added a third finger, the stretch a delicious burn that pulled you closer towards your climax. “Come for Daddy, and maybe I’ll give you what you really want,” he taunted, abusing your small cunt with his long fingers.
The command tipped you over. Ecstasy ran through you, your walls clenching around his fingers as your cries were muffled against his palm. He didn’t relent, working you through it until you were trembling and oversensitive, like it was all second nature for him.
His lips glistened with your arousal as he pulled back, a feral look in his cold grey eyes. He swiftly unfastened his trousers, pulling them down and freeing his impressive length. You couldn’t help but admire him, mouth practically drooling as you took in the sight of his cock. Long, veined, and already leaking from the tip. “On your knees,” he commanded, the hand that once covered your mouth now gripped your jaw. “Show Daddy how sorry you are for your teasing.”
You obeyed eagerly, tongue darting out to wrap around his throbbing length before taking him into your mouth. You swirled your tongue around the head, tasting the saltiness that beaded up for you. It wasn’t long before Lucius was threading his fingers in your hair, forcing you down onto his length until you took him whole. “That’s it, good girl,” he commended, guiding your rhythm as you struggled to take all of him down your throat. The praise made you hum appreciatively, vibrating around him and drawing a rare moan from his lips.
He used your mouth until tears dripped down your face, your nails digging into his thighs to ground you. He pulled you off of him then, pulling you up and maneuvering you until you were bent over the armchair. In one swift thrust, he entered you, your wet heat swallowing him whole. The sudden fullness was overwhelming, and he gave you no time to adjust as his hips snapped into your own at a rapid pace. “You wanted this, didn’t you?” he asked, but it wasn’t a question. “Seducing me under my own roof.” Each word was punctuated with a deliberate thrust, his hands roughly gripping your ass, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he spread you apart for him.
“Yes Daddy!” you moaned in response, pushing back against him to meet his thrusts. The once quiet library was now filled with the sounds of skin against skin, the squelching of your juices, and the sounds of your wanton moans mingling with his grunts. It echoed through the isles of books, and drowned out the crackling of the fireplace. You were surprised that Draco hadn’t awoken, hadn’t discovered you in the library getting pounded by his fathers cock. A part of you almost wished that he would, your imagination could only do so much to determine his reaction.
A sharp thrust broke you out of your daydream before Lucius’s pace faulted, he was close and it showed. He reached under you, lithe fingers snaking down to rub your clit. “Come with me, pet,” he panted out, pressing you closer to him. You couldn’t help but to obey, your body convulsing around him, milking him dry as he spilled into you with a guttural curse. You felt him throb inside you, his own body shuddering as he wrapped his arms around you. “This changes nothing,” he murmured, but the arms around your waist told you otherwise. You made him give in, and the game was far from over.
Summary: At a forbidden masquerade in Malfoy Manor, you’re hunted, stripped, and used by masked members of the Knights of Walpurgis. Unknowingly fulfilling a prophecy, you’re taken in every way—your body a vessel, a ritual.
Warnings: Noncon/dubcon themes, multiple partners, every hole filled, degradation, multiple orgasms, masked/anonymous sex, ritualistic undertones, no safewords, gangbang,
Words: 2.1k
⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆
The invitation arrived on black parchment, sealed in silver wax bearing no crest—only a symbol: a twisted serpent curled around a rose, its thorns glistening like teeth.
You weren’t sure who sent it. No name, only the place.
There’d been whispers, of course. Of elite gatherings behind ancient doors. Purebloods hiding in shadows, men of power clinging to the ashes of a war they refused to accept as lost. Still, curiosity was a vice. And you’d always had a taste for danger.
The moment you step past the wrought iron gates, something shifts. The air is thick with enchantment, an old, pulsing magic, heavy as blood in your mouth. The gravel crunches beneath your heels as you approach the towering manor, cloaked in black ivy and moonlight.
You wear a deep red gown, satin clinging to every curve, your face hidden behind a delicate lace mask. Your fingers tremble only slightly as you raise a hand to knock.
But the doors open before you touch them.
No butler. No greeting.
Only darkness and the scent of smoke, wine, and something feral.
You step inside.
The doors slam behind you.
Music drips from the walls—low, slow, haunting strings. Candles hover mid-air in twisted candelabras, their flames silver instead of gold. The ballroom stretches impossibly wide, the chandeliers hung with crystal charms that glitter like stardust.
And they’re already watching you.
Men in masks.
Dozens of them.
Each face obscured by finely crafted masks. Obsidian and onyx, silver and serpentine green, shaped like wolves, dragons, wraiths, and things with no name. None of them speak. But you can feel them, eyes behind metal and velvet. Searing through your gown. Your skin.
A chill races down your spine.
You’re not supposed to be here.
A step backward. And then…
“Don’t.”
A voice. Deep, regal, amused.
You turn, but the mask staring back at you is faceless, blank silver, smooth as a mirror. Tall. Cold. A presence carved from authority.
He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t need to.
“Do you know where you are, little one?”
Your mouth opens. You’re not sure what you planned to say.
“Yes,” you lie.
He hums. A slow, dangerous sound.
“She thinks she’s clever,” says another voice, off to your left. Velvet-soft and lined with cruelty.
Another man steps into view, his mask a snarling hound, silver teeth bared. He tilts his head, studying you like prey.
“No mark. No sponsor. She’s unclaimed.”
“She’s the one,” a fourth voice murmurs. This one deeper, quieter. Almost reverent.
“She’s real.”
The silver mask stiffens.
“She came on her own.”
“As foretold.”
As prophesied.
The room goes still.
You feel it like a curse: their attention, sharpening. Masked heads turning. Magic shifting.
One by one, they begin to circle.
“She doesn’t know,” someone whispers.
“She should,” says another. “Let’s show her what it means to belong to the Dark.”
Your heart slams in your chest.
You turn to run.
They let you.
You sprint through a corridor of endless mirrors, the red of your dress a streak of defiance. Your heels echo against marble. Laughter trails behind you—low, amused, dark.
They are not chasing you.
They are herding you.
Every corridor twists deeper. Every door opens to more silence, more masks waiting in the dark. You pass through a velvet-curtained hall where the air tastes of wine and sweat. Someone steps from the shadows and brushes your waist, not holding, just grazing. The touch burns.
You whirl. No one there.
Just a mirror.
Just your reflection.
But your mask… is gone.
Your breath catches.
You hadn’t taken it off. No one touched it. No hands, no spell you noticed. And yet, there you are, reflected with your face bare, vulnerable, exposed under the dim silver glow.
You blink…
And now your reflection is smiling.
You’re not.
A shiver crawls down your spine.
A door creaks behind you.
You run again.
The manor transforms as you move. Corridors stretch, then narrow, doors vanish behind you. Magic is alive here. Feral, intelligent. And the Knights are moving with it.
The first one appears before you like smoke, stepping through a doorway you could have sworn was a wall. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black with a long cloak that sweeps the floor. His mask is carved like a snarling beast, horned and ancient.
He says nothing.
Just watches.
Then he lifts his hand, two fingers, beckoning.
You freeze.
His magic rolls toward you like heat.
You shake your head and stumble backward, breath ragged.
A laugh follows.
Low, deep, cruel.
From behind.
You turn, too slow.
A gloved hand catches your throat, slams you back against the wall. Not hard, not yet, but firm enough to make your thighs clench.
This mask is sleeker. Silver edged with black. His voice is velvet-lined command:
“Are you frightened, little prophecy?”
You swallow.
“No.”
Another lie.
He leans closer. “You will be.”
Your dress is the first thing to go.
Not torn—removed.
Each Knight that steps from the shadows touches only part of you. Fingers on your shoulder. A slow drag of a glove down your spine. A firm grip on your waist as you stumble through an archway.
They peel you like fruit, reverent and ruthless all at once.
By the time you reach the grand library, you’re in nothing but heels and a shred of dignity. Skin glowing in candlelight. Breathless. Disoriented.
A circle of them awaits.
Seven masks.
Each one more terrifying than the last.
You recognize the silver serpent—that must be Lucius.
The horned one again, Lestrange, maybe. And there, in the back, standing utterly still: a mask smooth and featureless, like a god that doesn’t need expression to inspire fear.
Tom.
You know it’s him.
Every part of you knows.
“You ran well,” the hound-masked one murmurs. Avery, perhaps, circling you like a wolf. “But you’re cornered now, little witch.”
“She’s trembling,” Nott hums, stepping behind you. His gloves are gone, his hands are cold, sliding along your hips. “Do you feel that? She wants this.”
You gasp as his fingers part your thighs. Not inside. Just there. Just… waiting.
“She doesn’t even deny it.”
They close in.
You can’t count how many hands. Can’t tell who’s who anymore.
Someone grabs your chin, forcing you to look up.
“Eyes open,” the voice commands—Tom’s, you know it. “You’ll watch what you become.”
They didn’t strip you bare just to tease. They make a spectacle of it.
You’re lifted, placed on a long chaise like an offering. Legs spread, hands bound in soft black silk above your head. Your breath comes in sharp, shallow pulls as a masked man steps forward.
The dragon mask.
Rosier.
He kneels between your thighs without a word.
His fingers dig into your hips as his mouth claims you—no warning, no mercy. Heat, wetness, obscene noise—he devours you like he’s starving, tongue dragging over your clit in firm, calculated strokes. He moans into you, and the sound vibrates straight through your core.
You cry out.
The others chuckle.
“She’s loud already.”
“Ripe for us.”
The shame only makes it worse. Makes it better.
Your back arches as Rosier sucks hard, fingers spreading you wider. You can feel their eyes. Feel the weight of it.
Judging.
Owning.
Loving your ruin.
You cum too fast—your body buckling, walls clenching. You sob through it, but they don’t stop.
Hands keep you down.
Mouth still on you.
Another orgasm rips through you. And another.
“Look at her fall apart,” someone murmurs.
When Rosier pulls back, his lips are slick, mask still perfectly in place.
You’re lifted up momentarily so someone can slide underneath you.
Your chest to chest, face buried into his neck.
Then someone’s cock, thick, hot and demanding rubs along your entrance.
“Let’s show her what it means,” the voice rasps. Lucius, you think. “To belong to the Dark.”
The tip of his cock presses against your dripping entrance. He doesn’t thrust.
He slides in.
Slowly.
Too slowly. Too deep.
You choke on a cry, your hips jerking. He doesn’t allow it. One hand tightens around your waist, the other presses down between your shoulder blades, forcing your body against him more.
“Stay still,” he murmurs, voice like ice over fire. “Let them watch you take me.”
You’re so full.
He doesn’t stop until he bottoms out.
You whimper, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Not from pain, not quite but from the sheer force of being filled. Of knowing this is only the beginning.
Another masked figure steps into view.
Avery.
You recognize the mask, sharp angles, cruel mouth, obsidian black.
His cock is already out.
Already hard.
He grips your jaw, forcing your head up.
“No hiding now, little witch.”
He doesn’t wait.
He slides into your mouth with one slow, taunting push, inch after inch, until your lips are stretched around him, your throat tight and burning.
You gag, but he just groans.
“Fuck. She shudders when she chokes. She likes it.”
Lucius starts moving underneath you—deep, brutal thrusts that make your whole body rock. Every time his hips slap against your ass, Avery fucks forward into your mouth, syncing their rhythm.
You are caught.
Used.
Filled.
One of the Knights reaches beneath you, spreading your thighs further. Fingers slide between your folds, circling your clit, pinching cruelly until your muffled cries vibrate around Avery’s cock.
“You’re dripping,” Nott says behind his mask, amused. “So greedy.”
He slaps your clit.
You jolt, nearly choking again.
Cheers rise from the others.
“She’s crying.”
“She’s close.”
Another masked man stands behind you, Lestrange, perhaps. You can feel him watching, feel his fingers spreading your ass. Something slick coats you, oil, magic, you’re not sure.
And then another cock nudges at your untouched entrance.
No.
You tense.
They don’t stop.
They never stop.
Lestrange breaches you with agonizing care, easing inside inch by inch as Lucius still fucks your pussy and Avery owns your throat. You are stretched beyond reason—full in every hole. Your body trembles violently, tears dripping from your chin onto Avery’s thighs.
And yet—you’re wetter than ever.
You’re burning for it.
They know.
Tom steps forward. You know it’s him by the weight of his magic. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. Just watches.
“She was born for this,” he murmurs, voice like prophecy. “The body made to bind us.”
Lucius growls, thrusting harder.
Lestrange holds your hips tight, pounding into your ass now, deep and brutal.
Avery groans as you gag around him, tears soaking your cheeks.
You are nothing but sensation.
Nothing but theirs.
Your orgasm hits like thunder—violent, devastating, so deep it rips a scream from your throat, even around Avery’s cock. Your whole body shudders, clenches. It doesn’t stop.
They don’t let it.
Every thrust pushes you further.
Every hole is filled.
You are used like a vessel, a ritual, as one by one, they take their pleasure.
Avery cums first, groaning as he spills down your throat. You gag, swallow instinctively, tears streaking your face.
Lucius is next, hips jerking as he fills your pussy, thick warmth spilling deep inside.
Lestrange finishes with a grunt, his grip bruising as he slams into your ass one last time, groaning as he empties himself into you.
You collapse when but they don’t let you rest.
You are lifted, body limp, legs shaking.
They pass you between them like a sacred offering.
Nott takes you on your back, watching your face twist with overstimulation. Mulciber fucks your throat next, rougher than Avery. Rosier returns to your cunt, fingers pulling it open, watching the way Lucius’ cum leaks out.
“Messy little prophecy,” he sneers.
You can’t speak.
Can barely think.
And still—still—you want.
You burn.
You beg.
Finally, Tom steps forward.
The room falls silent.
The others step back, reverent.
His mask is pure white. Smooth. Featureless.
He lifts you onto an altar-like table, arms trembling as he runs gloved fingers down your ruined body.
“You’ve taken them all,” he murmurs. “Filled by every Knight. Marked. Claimed.”
You nod weakly.
He lowers himself between your thighs. He doesn’t rush. His mouth worships, tongue slow, deliberate, tongue circling your clit until you’re thrashing.
When he finally enters you, it’s like your body breaks apart.
You scream.
You sob.
You shatter.
He fucks you through every aftershock, murmuring ancient words you can’t understand, something old, something binding.
And when he comes inside you, it’s not just pleasure.
Summary: You went by many different names: "Rome's Delight", "The Woman with the Golden Mouth", "Geta's Favorite Whore", and "Julia". None of these were your true name; all used just to dehumanize you as nothing more than a slave. When the General Acacius returns from conquering Numidia, and you meet one of the slaves that was brought from the bloodshed, you hope to reclaim not just your freedom...but power along with it.
Part 1 of 2 (Masterlist)
Warning(s): Depictions of rape and SA [not shown], slavery, cannon typical violence, minor Stockholm Syndrome, major character deaths, historical inacuracy [but I tried my best to make it somewhat accurate] and Spoilers for Gladiator II
I saw this movie once, watched Game of Thrones at the same time, and cranked out a story where you, the reader, know how to play "The Game" (but also not because let's keep it kinda realistic) I'm gonna be honest, this might be a hot mess, and I used a script I found online (but Idk how accurate it is). Also, this first part is just mainly story based with the events of the film the SECOND part will focus on reader and Lucius' relationship (including smut, you sluts {I am also slut, don't worry}.
I do want to say though that the depictions of SA are in no attempt to romanticize them. I also decided not to write out the specific scenes because I myself am a survivor, and wanted to focus more on the protagonist's growth. The trauma still affects her story, but I do not want to write rape scenes merely for shock purposes.
Also, if you name is actually "Julia"...no it's not :)
Word Count: 16.1k
It was your own fault, that was what they tried to make you believe.
How dare you not wish to participate in the public baths, how dare you desire to bathe in the place you felt most safe.
Foolish, foolish girl. You were not even safe on your own porch in the house you grew up in.
Your father hadn’t been the wealthiest of merchants, but before he passed into the Elysian Fields after his death that year, he had made a fortune; so much as to buy a bathtub for your house.
If anything, you had bathed at night when you believed no one could see you not for your own modesty, but to prevent anyone from stealing it.
Yet, one particular night, a man had spotted you.
The Emperor Geta of Rome had watched your naked form glisten in the moonlight as you washed the most intimate areas of your body; sighing at the feeling of being clean after the day, only for your soul to feel tainted once morning broken.
Guards had nearly broken the hinges off the front door to your house, and dragged you to the palace. You had lived in that house for your entire life, the same neighbors beside you, yet as you kicked and screamed…none helped.
You had grown tired once in the palace, and the eldest of the twin emperors stood before you. He cupped your chin.
“What is your name, girl?”
You answered him, attempting to speak with venom, but the quaking of your voice betrayed anxiety.
He hummed, repeating your name. “Why are you all alone?”
You huffed. “My mother died in the battle that is childbirth, and my father was lost to an ailment in his loins.”
“You have no brothers?” Geta questioned, his eyes running down your form. “No husband?”
“They called my father strange for leaving me his possessions.”
“He mustn’t have passed on so long ago.”
“Why does the death of my father concern you if you only seek my body?” You questioned.
A smile twisted upon his lips. “Perhaps I like to know my fruit before I devour it.”
And he kissed you.
You had been kissed before, but this was the first time you hadn’t wanted to be. You hadn't expected him to be serious about devouring you. His teeth sank into your chin, then your cheeks, until they were finally upon your lips.
It was the first time, in all your life, you felt your body grow cold and freeze despite his hands wandering over you, pulling at the thin fabric of clothing that covered you.
You fell to the floor, clinging to it desperately as he tried to lead you to his chambers. You had expected him to order one of his men to kill you, or have them carry you…
Instead, he took you right there. He simply lifted his own robes then yours and stole what wasn’t his to take.
All you remembered of that was counting how many pillars were in the room.
You were one of his several concubines. Yet, despite being the newest, you were his favorite.
“Julia,” he whispered to you in the night a month after he had made you his. A month after he had decided to call you by his mother’s name instead of your own. “are you awake?”
You mewled, sitting up. “I am now, my love. What is it?”
Geta smiled, holding out a stack of parchment. “Look at what some of the men found in Carthago.”
You rubbed your eyes as the lamps in his room brightened before looking down at the crudely written words. Geta looked at you in earnest.
“Can you read them?”
A few days prior at him and his brother Caracalla’s birthday festivities, it was revealed that you spoke five languages: Latin, Phoenician, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Greek. Your father had taught you every single one of them to fend for yourself amongst all kind of people.
Now, it was nothing more than a shameless trick Geta used to his amusement.
“Rome’s Cleopatra,” he deemed you in front of the crowd. “the Woman with a Golden Mouth”.
Everyone in that room and all of Rome knew that your ability to speak so many dialects was not the only reason he gave you that title.
Still, as you lay in his bed with crumbling parchment in hands, you forced a tender smile. “Yes, I know what it says. Would you like to know?”
He laid his head in your lap without another word.
Months passed, and he had grown kinder…only when it was night, and even so, that was only when the moon was full.
There wasn’t a day where your body hadn’t ached from the turmoil he put you through. It was hard to discern when he would want you to be small and subservient to him, or confident and commanding in matters of the bed.
The handmaids that were blessed to not be in bed with him would bathe and coddle you as best as they could, for even through your suffering, you tried your best to treat them with kindness.
You didn’t even know who you were after the fourth month of being Geta’s slave.
Gone was the girl who had a peaceful life; there was now the Emperor’s Pet.
General Marcus Acacius returned to Rome after overtaking the kingdom Numidia in the emperors’ names, and it was the first time you were in his presence. It was certainly a surprise that Geta would string you alongside him on personal matters that had nothing to do with sex.
The general would glance at you every so often, and his look of pity felt more violating that any of the times Geta, or his brother, or anyone else in all of Rome had looked at you.
Upon the general’s return, a series of games at the Colosseum were to be hosted, among parties that would last for the remaining week.
The first was at Senator Thraex's home.
“My little Julia,” Geta caressed your cheek as you sat upon his lap in the makeshift throne. “might you fetch me another cup of wine?”
You nodded, taking his cup and kissing his hair. “I shall, my love.”
He ran his fingers down your neck as you got off of him and made your way to the barrels. Yet, as you passed an open door, something caught your eye. Peeking around the somewhat crack in the door, you saw a few men sat in the room, chains around their ankles and their wrists.
One of them, more muscular than the others with brown curls, held his head low. His skin wasn’t as dark as other men from Africa Propria, but not as pale as the Germanic lands.
When his eyes met yours, you saw a pale blueness only seen in the sky on a summer’s day.
Gasping, you hid behind the door for only a moment before looking again. His gaze was still on you. Deciding to end the strangeness of the situation, you spoke.
“I’m sorry.” You apologized.
He said nothing; you tried again.
“I’m sorry.” You said in Greek.
The look in his eyes changed to confusion, but he said nothing.
“Hebrew?” You questioned. “Aramaic? Phoenician?”
“You speak Phoenician?” He asked as if he hadn’t heard it in forever.
You nodded. “I speak five languages.”
“Ah,” he answered in your native tongue to your surprise. “Rome’s Cleopatra.”
Your nose scrunched as if you smelt something rotten. “You understood me the first time?”
“I did.”
“So why not say anything?”
“What am I to say to your pity?”
You hummed. “I do not pity you, I was showing respect.”
He scoffed. “Respect? Am I a man that looks as if I deserve respect?”
“I believe every man deserves respect so as long he is kind.” You glared at him.
The man shook his head, sighing. “You are a foolish child if you believe that men can be kind.”
“I haven’t for quite a while.” you stated. “I pray that it is the hope that kills me.”
He questioned. “And not one of the emperors?”
“What is your name, slave?” You crossed your arms.
He huffed, drawing his eyes away from you and clenching his fists before relaxing them. “Hanno.”
You nodded. “They call me ‘Julia’.”
“But that is not your name.”
It was blistering hot that particular day, but you felt your body run cold; the same cold you felt when Geta…when he first…
“Who says it is not my name?” You challenged.
“You are merely a concubine,” he said. “you are not a part of his lineage, and therefore, your name is not ‘Julia’.”
You do not know why you seethed with so much rage from his words. You did not even spit on him; you merely stomped away from that door, filled up the emperor’s cup, and went back to Geta.
“It took you nearly a millennium to come back, my sweet.” He scoffed yet kissed your bare shoulder. “I was beginning to worry.”
You shook your head, leaning against him as you sat on the arm of the throne. “You mustn’t over me, my love.”
“You seem distressed.” Caracalla teased beside you. “This is a festivity; you should be merry!”
All you did was smile and nod. It was a pleasant change from the parties you were forced to attend in the past; you weren’t the center of attention, and this was the first time Geta dressed you in the bright colors everyone else wore instead of white.
You could pretend you were royalty for a day.
Not so long after you came back, both Thraex and Macrinus, a stable master who traveled far and wide for new gladiators, approached with their own champions to fight.
You were not even at the Colosseum, and yet, violence still had to be played for everyone’s amusement.
Hanno entered from the door you had previously been at, and another man entered from the opposite side of the room. Both were given swords.
“Brother,” Hanno began. “let us not kill each other for their amusement-.”
The other man struck him without hesitation. You had seen fights before, but none like this. It was ruthless, quick yet drawn out. Hanno lost his sword in the middle of it all, leading to him smashing a flowerpot over his opponent’s head.
The fight was still not done, he rose up on his feet and took his sword from the ground, raising it high above him. Hanno, against all odds, knocked him back onto the ground and took the sword just as they both sood, stabbing his opponent in the chest.
A chorus of cheers and groans echoed in the room. Geta arose from his seat, laughing and applauding as you sat there, eyes as wide as they could be at the bloodied sight before you.
“Remarkable! Gladiator, which part of the Empire do you hail from?” He questioned Hanno. Hanno stood stoically, glaring at the emperors before him. Geta tutted, turning to you. “Julia, open your golden mouth and-.”
“-The gates of hell are open night and day.” Hanno interrupted in the common language. “Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, in this the task and mighty labor lies.”
Geta smiled. “Ah…a poet!”
The rest of the world fell away as you could not tear your gaze away from the man laying on the floor. If he hadn’t died from his wounds, he would’ve from choking on his own blood.
“-You understand, don’t you?” Geta asked.
You sat in your own personal chambers that night for the first time in a while. You were never overjoyed to be in his bed, but being sent to your own perplexed you.
Then, he simply told you that you were to be General Acacius’ for the night.
“He’s sacrificed so much, my little Julia.” Geta combed his fingers through your hair to soothe you. “I refused him once already; I cannot do so again. Do you understand?”
The emperor had never shared you with anyone. He wasn’t delicate with you, but at least you knew what to expect.
He clenched your jaw. “I do not care to ask you a third time, girl.”
“Yes,” you squeaked. “I understand, Geta.”
Nodding, he softened his hold, leaning his head against yours. “You are still mine alone; I promise, it will only be us after tonight.”
You swallowed thickly. “Okay.”
“There she is.” He kissed your lips before pulling away and standing. “He will be in right away. Do not fret, I told him to be gentle with you.”
Geta left through your chamber doors without another word. There you were, sitting on your bed, draped in silks you should have known were given to you out of lust and not out of kindness. Your eyes trailed to the empty vase on a table beside your bed.
You didn’t know what possessed you that night, but you yanked it off the table, and smashed it on your bed. The handle of the door began to rattle. Quickly pushing the shattered pieces under your bed, you hid a shard behind your back and sat at the head of the bed.
In came General Marcus Acacius, wearing only a thin overshirt that went down to his knees. You’d done this game of seduction many times with Geta, how different could it be for him? Grabbing the bottom of your night dress, you raised it until it bunched up your thighs, revealing your bare center to him.
He took a hitched breath. “My lady-.”
“-What troubles you, general?” You asked then smiled with gritted teeth. You felt your hand begin to ache as you squeezed the vase shard.
Marcus furrowed his brow, and as if he already knew, he said. “Cover yourself and show me what is behind your back.”
Your eyes dropped along with your heart. Still, as his face turned into a scowl, you cooperated. Handing him the shard and quickly pulling your dress back down, you spoke with intensity.
“If you will not stab me before you rape my corpse, then I shall throw myself from the nearest window and allow the people of Rome to defile me. I will not lie on my back and take it anymore.”
He took a deep breath, holding the sorry excuse for a weapon in his hand. “It is unwise to tell the enemy your plans.”
…What?
“It would serve you greatly to control the faces you make before harming a man as well. Yet, above all,” He held the shard out to you. “your enemy is not afraid to kill you; you should feel the same.”
“Why do you tell me this?” You asked, still not believing it.
Marcus sat up. “I believe we can help each other, my little dove.”
“How?”
He lowered his voice. “You have heard of the gladiator Maximus, his dream of a free Rome, yes?”
“Yes.”
“A dream that cannot be obtained from the rule of two emperors.” He lamented. “My wife and I, along with several others, plan…to fulfill our shared dream.”
They were going to overthrow Geta and Caracalla.
“What gives you reason to believe I won’t say a word of this to them?” You asked.
He smiled for the first time since you’d seen him. “That freedom belongs to you.”
“I…I’m still lost. How will I be of any use?”
“Emperor Geta favors you considerably. He is a man, and not a cunning one at that. There are ways to wear foolish men down.”
You nodded, beginning to understand. “There’s always a woman.”
“There’s always a woman.” He solidified. “Gain the trust of the public; make them love you, and they will not see the emperor’s whore but a woman of the people.”
“And how will that dethrone them?
He smiled. “My wife and I will meet with the counsel tomorrow night. I will send for you.”
You scoffed. “Geta said that after tonight I am just his alone.”
“Then I’ll refuse to give him Persia and India.”
“He’ll have your head.” You berated. “Besides, I don’t think he’d believe my cunt would be worth two countries.”
Marcus shrugged. “Considering he only wants you to himself, I have no doubt that it is worth that much. But I am unable to confirm it.”
You sighed. “Even if he’ll allow it, he’ll send a guard with me.”
“I am not one to invite a third into the bedroom.”
“Then where shall-?”
“-Little dove,” he interrupted. “the city was not built in a day, therefore it cannot be emancipated in one.”
Gods help and forgive you for being impatient on wanting to be free. Still, you composed yourself. “Alright.”
He nodded, standing up. “I will be seeing you on the morrow, one way or another.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“For what, child?”
You swallowed thickly, avoiding his gaze. “Not forcing yourself upon me.”
Marcus’ face softened, and he lowered himself to your height as you sat on the bed. He took your face into his hands, and you immediately tensed when his face drew closer to yours.
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “it’s not that kind of a kiss.”
With a tenderness that reminded you of your father, he placed his lips on your forehead and pulled away. Giving you one last knowing nod, he promptly left your chambers.
You wanted to do nothing more than shed tears of happiness, yet for no reason at all, you could not cry.
Your father had only taken you to the Colosseum to watch mock animal hunting. Even when your friends invited you to watch gladiator fights or other public executions, he had found ways of making you stay far away from them.
There was a strange humor in sitting in the best chair for your very first gladiator duel. That being in the front as Emperor Geta ran his hand up and down your back.
In utter honestly, you tried to stray your attention away from the fights, speaking more with Caracalla of all people. He was more erratic than Geta by far, and it was more difficult to tell when he would be kind one moment, then out for blood the next.
Yet at least he was open about being cruel, unlike his brother.
When you would watch the fights…a familiar face seemed to catch both you and the general’s wife’s, Lucilla, eye.
The man with light skin yet hailed from Numidia…Hanno.
You hadn’t recognized him at first, for it wasn’t his mere presence that drew you to finally look at the event before you. No, it was the way he fought.
Most men previously had attacked with brute force; just stabbing the beast and hoping it would die. Hanno fought with wit. Simply using the sand beneath his feet as an advantage, blinding and tricking the rhinoceros to run directly into the wall.
He was cunning…he commanded the men beside him as if it weren’t the first time he’d done so in his life.
Then, when it came to deciding his fate when all seemed lost…Geta turned to you.
“My love,” he played with a strand of your hair. “shall I show the poet mercy, or bloodshed for your entertainment?”
Even if it weren’t Hanno, your answer would have been the same. “Mercy.”
As a hush fell over the crow, Geta rose his thumb up, sparing him. As cheers erupted, Hanno shook his head.
“No, no mercy.”
Geta furrowed his brow. “Gladiator, we have spared your life. No one refuses-.”
“-I would sooner face your blade than accept Roman mercy!”
Thus, the fight continued. An act of defiance…Peculiar…Quite peculiar.
Both you and Marcus were correct about the night; Geta did indeed allow you to go to the general’s house, but only if you were escorted by a trusted guard. When you arrived, Marcus immediately draped you in a cloak, practically covering your face and had excused as not wanting the staff to tell his wife of who he was bringing into their house.
Marcus led you into his chambers, and there you saw two people. Apparently, they weren’t even apart of the counsel; simply paid to pretend to be both you and the general as the guard would listen outside, assume it was the two of you fucking.
He had certainly thought through every little detail.
Marcus pushed on a stone in his chambers, revealing a hidden door. You had only heard of these within stories, and as he led you down the darkened passage with only a torch in one hand, and the other holding yours, you had never felt more alive since your past life had been stolen.
You were welcomed to a room filled with dozens of the senate you had passed by in the palace. How strange it was to see them all huddled into a dimly lit room, plotting the demise of the men they initially swore to serve.
An arm looped through yours, and it was Lucilla. She whispered into your ear.
“Whatever you have to say, speak it to me, and I shall speak to them.”
You turned. “Why must I not speak for myself?”
“I only allowed you to be here if Marcus agreed to not let your voice be heard.”
“What?”
“I will explain more to you soon after, I vow it.”
Thus the meeting began. In all truthfulness, you were only able to understand the bare minimum: In a few days’ time, Marcus would lead five-thousand men into Rome to overtake the thrones of the empire, and thus destroy them, restoring the Roman Republic.
When the conversation turned to you, you were merely referred to as an informant who had the closest relationship to the emperor.
It still perplexed you as to why you needed to remain anonymous; there was an excellent chance they would know you as ‘Geta’s Favorite Whore’.
Yet, you did your best to inform the counsel of a plan you had simply created on the spot (they did not need to know the latter part of it).
You would gain more favor from the public, while at the same time, putting Geta’s worries to rest about any uprising or dislike from the majority of the empire.
How you would do that…it was fortunate that they didn’t ask you to give specifics.
Once the meeting ended, you were taken back up from the secret passage, yet instead of going back to the chambers, you felt Lucilla take your hand and lead you down another path.
You couldn’t even get a sound out before she said. “It is alright; he knows I want to speak with you in private. We will not take long.”
She led you up into the bath area of the house. It was quite beautiful; the tub wasn’t made of porphyry, but that did not make it any less exquisite. There was something about it being lesser of the baths you’ve had in the palace. It wasn’t entirely reminiscent of the one you had at home…
But you felt safer.
Lucilla had been gentle in pulling off your robes, and never once did it feel wrong. You were a woman and so was she. She never pulled or scratched your skin, and you knew that she only felt sorrow when she gazed upon the bruises and wounds you had received from Geta.
“How long have you been at the palace?” She questioned as she carded herbs through your hair.
You glanced at her, sighing. “I’ve stopped counting…months, I know.”
“Were you forced to leave any family? Brothers, sisters, children?”
“No. My mother died birthing me, and my father was taken half a year ago to an ailment emperor Caracalla also suffers from.”
She hummed. “Have you ever been in love?”
You laughed the most genuine laugh ever since you became a slave. “Why on earth would you ask that?!”
“I am merely curious!” She teased. “You are truly beautiful, and there is no doubt that men would throw themselves off cliffs for you; but it matters most of who you would choose.”
Her question scraped your mind. There had been times you were fond of, even lusted over, men both your age and older…but love? The only one you experienced would be storge; perhaps philia…but eros? Agape?
“I don’t think I have been.” You answered. “Have you?”
She nodded, a forlorn look in her eyes, but smile upon her mouth. “Twice.”
“Twice?” You couldn’t help the nervous giggle that left your throat. “It can happen twice?”
“It’s possible, yes.”
“And who have you willingly fell captive to?”
“Marcus is the most recent, though there are days I do not understand what he sees in me. Then…the father of my child.”
Lucilla poured water upon your head to wash out the soap in your hair, and a silence fell over both of you. One that was broken when you spoke a name.
“Lucius…”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“He-he had gone missing all those years ago, hadn’t he?”
“He had.” She ran the bar of soap over the top half of your body. “I believe he must’ve been around your age when he ran away.”
“And there hasn’t been any sign of him since?”
“No.” She answered right away.
You curled into yourself. “I apologize if I upset you my lady-.”
“-No. I…I love talking about him.”
You managed a gentle smile to soothe her. “What was he like?”
“Headstrong.” She chuckled. “Wanted to become a gladiator more than anything in the world. Yet, he was gentle, and kind as well. He…I believe he would’ve adored you.”
You shook your head. “Maybe when we were children, but I don’t think so now.”
“It’s hard to judge.”
Whilst the air between you turned into more intimate topics, the question that had weighed on your mind was brought to light. “Why did you not allow me to speak or show my face tonight?”
Lucilla stopped her ministrations. You looked up at her, and the look she wore bore an exhaustion that you had felt recently.
“I know too well the cruelties of men.” She began softly. “My brother had done everything to keep me from ever resisting him…he had done everything. I had only wished for someone to be there with me at every moment when I faced his abuse.”
Words; simple words that meant everything to you was what made you weep.
There was no warning at all. Once she was finished, tears sprang to your eyes, and you felt your sinus clog up. Even as you tried to tear yourself away from her comfort, she merely wrapped her arms around you in an embrace from a mother you had never felt.
“I don’t want to go back.” You begged. “Please don’t let me.”
She kissed your hair. “I’m so sorry.”
“No!” You sobbed. “I-I don’t want to! Please, please, you can’t make me. I-I-I-!”
Lucilla shushed you, rocking you back and forth. “Do not weep. You will be free beside all of Rome, and the past months of your life will be nothing more than a distant, horrible dream.”
You pulled away just enough to look at her. “You-you must promise me something.”
“My child-.”
“-Promise me and I shall help you overthrow them until my last dying breath!”
She stared for a moment before nodding. “Yes. What is it?”
Your lip quivered. “When I die, you must bind my legs with chains or ropes when you bury me. I have,” you whimpered. “I have been told of men who dig up the bodies of girls and…”
Lucilla kissed your forehead before holding you once more. “I vow I will honor your wishes.”
All you could do was believe her.
There were more times than not the Emperor Geta would talk about filling you with his seed as he bedded you. You never were able to discern if he was serious about wanting to give you a child (they would be his, not yours).
It all became too real when you didn’t bleed that month.
Yet, you also did not feel sick in the morning, and your breasts hadn’t swelled. You still had urinated on wheat seeds for several weeks, but they had not sprouted.
You weren’t with child…yet there was nothing stopping you from convincing Rome you were. It would certainly be a risk; for there was no telling how Geta would react. But that was a risk you were willing to take.
Once a week, you were allowed to go outside the palace during the day, and you had chosen then to venture out into the numerous markets. It was nice to speak with the merchants you knew from your childhood. Some were elders who would watch over you when your father was busy, others were friends who had grown up with you.
“Now what would a little empress want with commoner’s food?” A man’s low timbre voice asked behind you.
Turning your head, you saw Macrinus standing before you with a curious grin. You mirrored it. “That’s not an appropriate title for me.”
“Ah, you are correct.” He nodded. “My apologies, ‘Lady with The Golden Mouth’. Or do you prefer ‘Rome’s Delight?’.”
“You may call me whatever you wish if you’d like.” You forced a laugh and turned back to the merchant you had known since you were a babe. “I’ll take a sack of wheat and small bag of garlic, Gaius.”
“Of course, lady Julia.”
Not even a childhood friend could say your real name. A tight smile formed upon your lips when he turned to sack the wheat before you. Macrinus spoke again.
“You still didn’t answer me about why you’re exactly here.”
“I am not an empress.” You turned to him. “I am not a queen from another realm, I am not even a lady. I am a lowly whore that was fortunate enough to be chosen by the emperor. I like to keep my own schedule from before, so I am aloud to bake my own bread.”
He hummed. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
Gaius handed you the sack of wheat and garlic, and you held out three silver coins. He shook his head. “No, just a copper-.”
“-Please.” Was all you said.
He hesitated, then took them from you, smiling. “May Fortuna rain a thousand blessings upon your head.”
“And unto you as well.” You curtsied and turned on your heel to leave.
Macrinus walked beside you. “How generous you are.”
“I try to be.” You decided to change the topic. “You are in charge of Hanno, are you not?”
“I certainly am, why do you ask?”
“Just out of interest.” You shrugged. “There is talk of him being similar to the one Maximus from years ago. Many admire him already and it has only been a day.”
Macrinus laughed. “It is my duty to entertain the people. I noticed though that you are more prudish of the games.”
“I must admit, I am not used to the violence.”
“A sheltered girl?”
“Ashamedly so.”
“There is no shame at all. So, it is the Numidian that has captured your affection?” He teased. “How scandalous for the young empress to fall for a slave.”
You chuckled. “Nothing of the sort, I just find him amusing.”
“Oh, I am more than happy to let you see him alone if you ever so desire. You don’t need to wander upon him at another party.”
Your carefree air fell once he asked that. “I don’t know what you-.”
“-It’s alright.” He interrupted. “There’s nothing wrong with being curious, I am only concerned for your own safety.”
You stood taller, a shy smile upon your lips. “I am capable of taking care of myself, sir.”
“Of course my lady, why else would you be out here in the streets of commoners without a chaperone?”
Purposefully, you turned onto one of the crowded piazzas where the music and laughter was the loudest. You grinned from ear to ear.
“Oh please, don’t tell me you volunteered yourself to keep me safe.”
He laughed. “No, just wanted to say hello.”
You didn’t have time to respond, as one of the performers had recognized you. Ah, a girl that lived in the house across from yours when you were children! You still remembered her name, and after you passed your belongings to Macrinus, she pulled you into the circle of performers, dancing with you.
You laughed the most you had that year; in fact, you swore your bruised your ribs just from the sheer joy you felt. You don’t know how long you danced and sang with those who were your neighbors and friends, but just as you felt your feet begin to give out, Macrinus put his hand on your shoulder.
“I believe you should go back to the palace and rest.”
Nodding, you said farewell to your companions and took the bag of wheat and garlic back from him. “You are right, thank you so much.”
He grinned. “Let me escort you back.”
“No,” you walked ahead of him. “I wish not to bother you anymore. Good day, Macrinus!”
You lost yourself in the crowd, purposefully making it harder for him to follow. Once you were in the palace, you rushed into the kitchen, holding the sack of wheat behind your back, you greeted the cooks and snuck into the small pantry. You set the sack down on a shelf and pocketed two single reeds, along with an onion.
That night, Geta had called you into his chambers. Before going, you had cut the onion and brought it to hover around your eyes. You were crying by the time you were at his door. Immediately, he took notice of your reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks.
“What is it, what’s wrong?”
You shook your head, only crying more. It was less because of the onion now, and just everything coming down crashing onto your shoulders once more. Geta pulled you into his chambers by your shoulders, sitting you on the bed.
“Tell me now what is bothering you.” He commanded.
You shook your head. “I-I can’t-.”
“-Now, Julia!”
Taking a deep breath, you reached into the pocket of your breast, taking out the two reeds and setting it in his hand. He furrowed his brows.
“I do not understand.”
You took a deep breath. “The handmaids have given me wheat and barley seeds ever since I have arrived. If they grow, then that means…that means I am with child.”
The look on his face spoke it all. You were certain you were dead.
“I-I didn’t know how you would feel, and-and so I-.”
He crushed you in an embrace, attaching his lips to your jaw. “Jupiter has blessed me.”
It was the first time you felt happiness in his presence. Of course, not because of him, but still joy. You returned his embrace, sighing in relief. “You are happy?”
“Happy?” He pulled away, holding your face in his hands. “There is nothing in this world that could sadden me right now. I will have an heir.”
As long as it was a boy (if it were real at all).
You feigned your smile and leaned into his touch. “I am fortunate to give you one.”
“And I am most fortunate to have you.” He laid down and brought you with him.
Perhaps, in another life, he was kind to you and didn’t only value you until you gave him a child. Perhaps you would be in love with him, and he would make you empress
But you weren’t fortunate to be born into that fantasy.
You wished nothing more than to sit with Marcus and Lucilla as you made your way into the emperor’s booth of the Colosseum. The three of you had managed to speak to one another, but only about meaningless things. Still, you just enjoyed their company.
It would be more exciting that day. A naval battle, the Naumachia. The arena was filled with water and sea creatures you could never even possibly imagine. It was a wonder in and of itself how all the ships managed to fit themselves in the arena.
“Caracalla,” you said to the brother beside you as you were about to take your seat. He looked up upon hearing his name. You handed him the bag filled with garlic. “I finally found some for you.”
He grinned from ear to ear. “And you say that if I mix this with myrrh, I shall be cured?”
“It should treat the lesions on your skin.” You corrected. “This is what I did for my father.”
He died of the same ailment, but Caracalla didn’t ask; simply smiled. “Thank you, dear sister.”
You nodded, sitting down on the arm of Geta’s throne that would have put you in the middle of him and his brother. He wrapped his arm around you.
“You’ve been far kinder these days.” Geta pointed out.
“Perhaps that means I’ll be the most agreeable mother.” You jested, kissing his cheek.
He smirked, and as the man on the far end of the Colosseum began to announce the games, Geta stood up and rose his grail.
“I would like to propose a toast!” He yelled. The crowd fell silent, and you felt your skin crawl away from you. Geta continued. “To the health of wives and to mothers. Especially to my lover, Julia, who carries my son the moment as we speak!"
An eruption of applause and cheers filled the stadium. You blushed upon the praise, and genuinely wanted to hide yourself from the gaze of everyone; especially the ones closest to you. You could feel both Marcus and Lucilla’s eyes on you, attempting to hide their shock and perhaps horror. The worst was that of Macrinus.
He knew. Just from the look of him (or perhaps it was your own paranoia), but he had to have known from the moment you bought the wheat.
Still, they all applauded, and ones the excitement of your supposed pregnancy died down, the enthusiasm for the battle was born.
It was perhaps the one event you could stomach. While you could still clearly see men dying, it wasn’t as horribly bloody as the prior. Were you becoming numb to the cruelty of these games because you were pretending…or were you letting the game invade your head?
As several ships collided within the growing chaos, men would either die from their fellow man or would simply fall into the water and be devoured by beasts you had never seen until then. Your eyes had been following Hanno the whole time, whether purposefully or not.
Words could not describe the terror that had been brought upon you as you saw him aim his crossbow at the booth you sat in.
You did not think the arrow would pierce you, but it did. It longed into your right shoulder, and a cry you had no idea you were capable of making tore through your throat.
Tears blinded your vision, but the screams from the whole arena deafened your ears you could not even hear what Geta was saying to you.
You could barely make out Marcus’ in front of you as he snapped the body of the arrow and then hoisted you into his arms. You’d never been carried like this as a woman; only as a child by your father.
The heat of Rome felt hotter that day as the pain in your shoulder only grew tighter and tighter as if your skin was going to stretch away from you. The next thing you knew, you were laid upon a cold, solid surface, and sound returned to your ears.
“It’s alright, you’re alright.” Geta shushed, brushing your hair. “You’ll be okay.”
Someone stuck their fingers into your wounded shoulder, and you could only scream. A tender hand laid itself on your cheek, and just from touch alone, you knew it was Lucilla.
“Do not touch her!” Geta hissed, swatting her away.
“No, no!” You whined, reaching out and holding onto her.
Lucilla dropped to her knees, kissing every part of skin that was available, mumbling. “I know, I know. This too shall pass, you are stronger than you believe, my dear.”
Then, just like that, you felt the arrowhead leave your body. The pain was still excruciating beyond belief, but all that was left was for your arm to be wrapped in cloth, and to rest.
One of the guards in charge of the gladiators approached you when you were finally able to sit up.
“My lady,” he began. “did you happen to get a look at the man who shot you?”
“She’s only starting to recover!” Geta snapped. “How dare you. She carries my child, and-!”
“-It’s alright, Geta.” You soothed.
You could’ve done it. Told him with full confidence that it was Hanno. There would have been your chance of power; to kill the man who had nearly killed you.
Yet…you were vindictive and wanted to do it yourself.
“I have no memory.” You told him. “It happened so fast.”
How horrible it is that Geta would stop forcing you to pleasure him only when you were supposedly with his child and injured. You assumed that if you were suffering from only one of those ailments, than he still would’ve held you down and used you.
You thought nothing else would happen that night. You would simply speak to one another, pretending to be completely enamored by his existence, and then lie down to sleep.
Of course, that would be too peaceful.
You were awoken gently, to your surprise, by Geta shaking you. Humming, you rubbed your eyes. “What is it?”
“The general and his whore wife.” He gritted his teeth. “They planned to kill us.”
You shot right up, forgetting about your injured shoulder, and let out a cry. Geta helped you stand, and that was when you saw Caracalla standing before you, his monkey companion Dundus perching upon his shoulder.
“How-how do we know?” You stammered, not having to feign your terror.
Neither of them answered, and the three of you were led out into the throne room. There before you in their night clothes just as you were, Lucilla and Marcus.
Geta approached them first, seething. “The honor, the dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you. All this you have forfeited by your treachery. Thanks to the civic virtue of men like Macrinus and Thraex your insurrection has been revealed-.”
“-Torture me if you want,” Marcus shook his head. “but please, don’t lecture me.”
Geta’s face turned almost as red as his hair. “Your name and deeds will be forgotten, lost to history! You are damned to oblivion!”
“You damn me?” He laughed. “I don’t care. Everything is forgotten in time. Empires fall… and so do Emperors.”
Caracalla rose from his seat, reaching for his brother’s sword. “Why wait? I'll gut him right now!”
Geta grabbed onto him. “Brother! Brother! His death must be public.”
“Public, yes. Hang his entrails from the city gates!” He pointed at Lucilla. “Crucify her!”
“No!”
All eyes fell on you after your outburst. Even you froze in place, feeling bile begin to rise up within you. Geta let go of Caracalla. “‘No?’ You say? What would you have me do then?”
Swallowing thickly, it was hard to speak as tears began to fall. You held your stomach. “Crucifixion is…it’s…”
His face dropped into a scowl. “You aren’t saying I should let them live, are you?”
“No-!”
“-Then which is it?!”
Your voice fell silent as your chest constricted, and you could barely breathe. Your mouth would move, but nothing came out; not even strangled noises of desperation.
“If I may, your grace,” Macrinus stepped forward. “I believe she means to bring equal punishments to the crimes committed.”
Geta furrowed his brow. “I do not know what you speak of.”
“Please, let the rest of them out of the room so I might explain more clearly.’
He considered his words, then turned to his guards. “The criminals to the dungeons, my brother to his chambers, and my love-.”
“-I wish to be alone tonight.” You stated.
The emperor scoffed. “What?”
“The babe.” You began. “I-I have helped many women deliver their children, and what has always caused an early birth is stress. I-I cannot take any-anymore of it, or I fear…”
Finally, he took in the sight of your fearful face. Sighing heavily, he said. “Put my lady in her chambers for tonight.”
“Thank you.” You kissed his hand.
You were led into your own chambers, and once the door was shut, you threw yourself onto your bed and wept. You wept until you were wailing into the night, you wept until your eyes were as red as the sun in the morning, you wept until it hurt to continue to do so…
It was unknown how long you had cried, but the opening of your bedroom door is what alarmed you. Snapping your head over in the direction, you were shocked to see Macrinus.
“The general and his wife’s fate has been decided.” He stated.
You held a pillow to your chest, rubbing your reddened nose. “And what is it?”
“The emperor has chosen to let the gods decide, and Acacius will fight against Hanno tomorrow in the arena.”
“You mean you convinced him to.” You glared.
Macrinus approached you. “May I try some of the bread you have baked, my lady?”
You held no confusion when he asked you that. Surprise, yes; but you knew what he asked. You took a deep breath. “I believe I don’t understand.”
“The wheat you bought only days ago.” He reminded. “You said you would bake your own bread. Surely, you didn’t use it as false proof of you carrying the emperor’s heir?”
You didn’t dare look at him. Even when he laid his hand on our back, rubbing circles over your nightdress. “I wish to help you, my child. You must be willing to help me first.”
That was why he also didn’t alert Geta of your betrayal…unless, he had no idea of your alliance with Marcus and Lucilla.
“What is it that you want?” You asked.
“All in time.” He soothed. “I wish to give you the privilege to speak to someone.”
You finally looked at him, your eyes wide. “General Acacius?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I am unable to escort you to the dungeons below the palace. Yet, I can take you to the pit of gladiators.”
“It is easier for you to take me out of the palace than below it?”
“Take you to the man who nearly overthrew the emperors?” He chuckled bitterly. “Not possible. I cannot grant you the gift to say goodbye, but I can allow you to bargain for his life.”
You blinked. “Hanno?”
“Correct.”
“How can I leave the palace at this hour, after what has just happened?”
“You underestimate the silence men will take when it is weighed in gold.” He tutted. “I can only give you ten minutes with him. Will you go or not?”
You were forced to decide quickly…This could be your chance. He had nearly took your life the other day, and the pain in your shoulder was just a growing reminder of that. If he were dead…there was no way you could overtake him.
Yet, you learned that, in a world of men, you didn’t have to be stronger than them: Only smarter, and faster.
“I will go.”
You had hidden a kitchen knife under your bed the moment you had your own chambers. Geta had gifted you several colorful ribbons he loved to see you wear in your hair. He perhaps did not expect you to tie one around your waist under your gown, securing the knife.
Macrinus led you swiftly from the palace to the gladiator pit, which was thankfully not a long walk. You ignored the stares and intrigued calls from the other men as you treaded the halls. You were stopped by a door. Macrinus didn’t even warn Hanno who stood shirtless in his cell, only opened the door and let you enter.
“I’ll rattle the door when it’s time.” That was all he said and left.
Hanno didn’t even seem alarmed. “And what is Rome’s Delight doing here?”
Your blood boiled upon seeing him, yet you remained calm. “I have come to make a bargain; a plea.”
That was when the puzzlement appeared on his face. “And what is that?”
“The man you will fight tomorrow, you must spare him.”
“Why should I?”
Your grief and despair had made itself known to everyone around you for the past few days; yet, in that cell, only with Hanno as your witness, did he see your rage.
“He is the one who saved my life when you meant to steal it!”
The only change you saw in him was his jaw clenching. Other than that, nothing. “The general?”
You only nodded.
He sighed, brushing past you and shaking the door. “Macrinus!”
“What are you doing?” You hissed.
“I will not have you waste your breath on that man.”
“I will give you anything you desire.”
Hanno faced you. “Then you can deliver his head on a platter for me.”
You gawked as he walked away. “What have I ever done to you?”
“What?”
“Do you truly hate me that much?!” You turned back to him, getting closer. “Kill the man that is the reason I am still here?”
The last thing you thought you would hear left his lips: A laugh. No, not a genuine one. One that you yourself have released on multiple occasions when you have been in disbelief.
“You truly believe everything that happens is because of you?” He taunted. “Has the emperor been filling your mind with so many delusions of grandeur, you can no longer conceive a world where you are not the center of it?”
“Is it so difficult for you to answer my question because you are a fool, or because you wish to not admit it?” You hardened your tone.
“What is your question, my empress?”
“Why did you shoot me?!”
“The arrow was not meant for you!”
You felt your shoulders drop upon the confession. Your aggression ceased only because of your bewilderment.
“Then who?” You asked.
He backed away. “The general you so wish to defend.”
“Whatever it is that he has done, it can be solved with-.”
“-He murdered my wife.”
Hanno said it so easily. No pain, no rage, nothing. It was a fact, and that was what he wanted you to know.
And how stupid you had been. No one in all of Rome was pure of heart; including Marcus. He was a war general; how could you think he wouldn’t have committed sins against the innocent?
“Why so silent, my lady?” He asked. “Are you in disbelief that he has enemies?”
“I didn’t know that.” You admitted.
“That the general is too a monster, or that he killed the only thing in my life worth living for?”
“And that is your desire?” You prodded. “Take his life so that he may die knowing his wife will be ravaged by wolves?”
When he charged at you, you barely had enough time to reach in your dress and unsheathe your knife. Hanno stopped himself just in time for the tip to kiss his chest. Nothing to cause any more harm than a scratch.
Even though you were not the one hurt, you breathed as if you were. He stared down at you as you shrunk under his gaze, and the two of you remained frozen. That is, until he grabbed both your wrists, and rose them above your head.
“I am only merciful because the general still breathes.” He spoke so only you could hear. “If your bastard of a lover had put him to the sword this night you chose to visit me, you would be dead before you could scream.”
Your nose was an inch from his, that was how close he stood to you. His breath caressed your skin, and you turned away in disgust. He let go of your empty wrist, yet still held the one with the dagger.
“Did you believe you could kill me tonight?” He asked, yet you said nothing. Hanno then brought the dagger to his breastbone, angling it upward. “Do not stab head on; stab up.”
Silence and an iron gaze was your reply.
He then hovered it to the pulse point of his neck. “If you want a quick death, right here; with a thinner blade, preferably.”
Then, he placed the tip just above his brow. “If you need information out of a rat, and you have the stomach to do so, drag it across. It will make the mightiest of men cry like a child in the night.”
“You are clever and a skilled warrior,” you finally said. “what is it you want me to tell you?”
“That you will leave it up to the gods and to me if your general lives or not.”
“But I cannot.” You dared to dig the blade just a little into his skin, and his breath hitched. “My desire for him to live is stronger than for you to die.”
Hanno finally let go of your wrist, and you immediately retracted the knife from his brow. “So do you wish to try again to kill me?”
“I wish for you to show mercy.”
“Mercy?” He questioned. “Mercy upon the man who pillaged my home and killed my wife? Mercy for the one who has made me a slave?”
“I too am a slave and-.”
“-And?!” He cried. “And there is nothing! You are draped in silks whilst I in chains and are bathed in clear waters while I in blood, yet you say we are the same?!”
You swallowed your anger, knowing it would bring you nowhere. “You entertain the horrid creatures of Rome; I am forced to pleasure the emperor. We perform differently, but we are still slaves.”
“You are with child.” He stated. “Will that child also be a slave though the emperor is quick to claim it is his heir?”
The crackling of the torches in the room only added to the fire th in your soul. If not contained correctly, you would surely burn and take him with you.
“A child…yes.” You relaxed, folding your hands. “A child that I could command to be Geta’s. Perhaps, if I wanted to have the brothers slaughter one another, I could say it belongs to Caracalla. Or, if I despised you anymore than I do at this moment…I could say that it is yours.”
Hanno’s eyes dropped in recognition, saying softly. “You carry an empty womb.”
You nodded. “It is the same as your honor.”
Moments later, the door behind you rattled, and Macrinus spoke even when you didn’t. “The time is up, my little empress.”
You bowed your head to Hanno, curtsying. “Sleep well.”
He said nothing in reply, and you turned on our heel, leaving the cell. You pulled your hood back over your head as Macrinus led you through the darkened streets of the city.
“Did you get what you came for?” He asked.
“No.” Was your immediate reply. “And I do not know truly what I wanted.”
The day was as blistering hot as the others, yet the stare Lucilla gave you as she was being led into the emperor’s viewing box made your blood turn to ice. There was not a hint of wrath upon her face; there was nothing at all.
She already looked as if her soul had been stolen.
“How does your shoulder fair, dear sister?” Caracalla brushed his fingers over your arm.
A watery smile was upon your lips like second nature. “It still aches, but it heals, thank the gods. And your overall health?”
He sighed. “I do not know how much longer I have upon this earth.”
“Do not say such things.” You squeeze his hands. “If the gods will it, you shall live for another hundred years.”
He kissed your hands that held his. “I hope so, my love.”
Your grin fell upon the title, and Geta immediately sat you down on the chair behind him that was beside Lucilla’s. He gave an apologetic look.
“He only grows more confused by the day.” He caressed your cheek. “You are well?”
You were far from it, but you could not say that. “Your son feels better now.”
Geta smiled, lowering his head down to kiss your womb. “He will need all his strength.”
The announcer on the other side of the arena yelled to gain everyone’s attention. “From the vanquished city of Numidia, the victor of three contests in the Colosseum, the barbarian Hanno!”
You watched as he ran up from the pit, sword in hand. On the other side, you watched at they brought in Marcus. You could barely look at his already beaten figure. The announcer continued. “Will challenge General Marcus Acacius for his treason against the lives of the Emperors and the enemy of the State!”
The two approached one another on the sandy field. Even from where you sat, so close to them, you could barely make out the look in their eyes. You assumed their was hatred, but your own eyes must have deceived you, because you swore you saw a hint of regret within Marcus’ own gaze.
You blinked and the battle between the two had begun. It was a different level of insanity at how they fought. Marcus was decades older than Hanno, and yet, there were moments where the Numidian had to keep up with him.
Than, the roles would be reversed.
Blood stained the floor of the Colosseum as they fought. Then, when all feel silent between them, and Marcus could barely stand, his lips moved as he spoke to Hanno, then raised his hand.
He yielded.
The patrons of the arena began to mumble amongst themselves, growing louder and louder. Geta rose to his feet. “Romans! What say you?”
In an instant, choruses begging him to be spared overpowered the few that wanted him to be killed. Geta shut his eyes, raising his hand, and they were silenced.
“The gods have rendered their judgement.”
His thumb pointed downward, and the crowd erupted in dissent. Your heart was forcing itself to beat out of your chest as you could only stare at the sight of Hanno glaring down at the general before him.
He tossed his sword to the side.
You hadn’t even noticed Caracalla stood until you heard him yell. “Kill him, kill him!” Like an angered child.
“Is this how Rome treats its heroes?!” Hanno shouted, staring at the audience all around him and pointing his sword. “If his life has no value, what are yours worth?”
Geta stepped up onto the barrier, balancing between the viewing box and a fifteen-foot drop into the arena. He held his arms out to his side, his sleeves dropping to the ground, and his pale face was red. “The gods have spoken! Kill him!”
From all sides of the stadium, hundreds of archers aimed their bows at the center of the battleground. Yet, none fired. Caracalla jeered.
“In the name of Jupiter, kill him!”
The arrows were released, and they screamed like none other as they fired into the center. As they pierced Marcus’ body, you did not know you had been wailing in fright until Geta had slapped you.
“You mewling cunt!” He cursed. “You wish to weep over the man who nearly had you killed?”
Blood fell upon your tongue from your bruised lip, and you did not dare to look at him nor Lucilla.
“Death will be too good for you!” She cried with all of her heart.
The noise from the crowd died as if the people themselves had done so. Then, just like the confused murmurs when Marcus yielded, the same began to grow and grow into a call of rebellion.
It was all in your ears. Lucilla’s weeping, the curses from the crowd, the panic of the emperors…but you stood absolutely still.
With hooded eyes, they drifted up to see that Geta stood just on the edge of the barrier, his back turned to you. Your gaze fell to the ground below you, and it was only then you realized how high up you truly were.
You do not know who or what willed you to, but you then looked at Hanno still the center, covered in blood. As if he knew what you would do, he shook his head.
“Ah, ah, ah.” Macrinus grabbed your arm roughly when you took one step towards Geta.
The emperors turned to him upon his appearance, and Macrinus loosened his grip on you before saying. “For our safety’s sake, we should leave.”
“Yes.” Geta stepped down, wrapping his arms around you. “We should.”
You never knew there was a safe house in Rome until you were forced into it. Perhaps that was the reason for it being a safe house, so that no one knew of it. Yet, apparently, almost all of the roman citizens found it that night. Or, they were simply rioting wherever a free patch of land was.
The cries played in your ears despite them being behind heavy walls of the safe house, and you dared not to peek out the windows as the several fires would temporarily blind you. In the house was you, Macrinus, Dondus (Caracalla’s pet monkey, although he’d call him his other half), and the twin emperors.
“How is the babe?” Geta asked as you sat with your head hanging low.
Of course he would ask that. You didn’t look at him. “He is in fear for his life.”
“I understand,” he sighed. “but there-.”
“-But what?” You finally looked at him, hissing. “Chaos has fallen upon the city because of your actions.”
“There was nothing else to do.” Geta glared at you. “He and his bitch were plotting to kill us! If I’d let him live-.”
“-Don’t you hear them?” Caracalla cried out from his seat, holding Dondus. “They’re calling for our heads! She is right, you brought this upon us!”
Geta placed his hands on him. “Calm yourself, brother. The Praetorians will put down this crowd like they have others-.” The money upon Caracalla’s shoulder chirped out in anxiousness from the people outside. “Keep the ape still!”
“Beware of how you speak to Dondus!” His brother berated.
“Perhaps,” Macrinus finally intervened. “you should take Dondus and Julia elsewhere. The noise outside is too much for them; you should comfort one another someplace quieter.”
Caracalla nodded, gathering up Dondus and moving to help you stand, but Macrinus reached his hand out first. You took it, and as you stood, he said into your ear.
“I will find you on the right side of the hall.”
This was not the time nor place for riddles, but you could not react in any sort of way. You looped our arm through Caracalla’s and walked out of the room, hoping to find somewhere quieter.
“I’m afraid,” you confided in him, truthfully.
“I am as well.” Was all he could say.
You stopped in the middle of the hall once he found an open door. “I…I need time with my own thoughts. Please.”
He nodded, cradling Dondus closer to his chest before entering the room, shutting the door tightly. Within the minute, you watched as Macrinus approached you from the other side of the hall.
You spat. “What do you want?”
“I know I stole your moment of vengeance, and for that, I apologize.” He stood before you. “But let me make it up to you.”
“How could you possibly?”
From his cloak, he brandished a knife, holding the handle out to you. You took it without hesitation, yet question was still upon your face. “I do it myself?”
“You could,” he shrugged. “or, you could have his own brother do so.”
“Caracalla? He is senile.”
“Then I have a proposition for you.” Macrinus pointed to the door Caracalla was behind. “Convince him that Geta will destroy all of you if he is not disposed of. Convince him that, as the new emperor of Rome, he will need more trusting subjects. I shall be his second in command, and you shall be free.”
You furrowed your brow. “Who shall be first?”
“The monkey.” He smirked. “Do you believe he would put me above him?”
It sounded so simple; too simple. Yet, as the crowd began to die down, and you could no longer hear their protests from outside, the quietness brought to you what you had always known: You would never be your own person again so long as Geta breathed.
You held the dagger to your heart, saluting him. “I shall do my duty.”
He nodded. “May the gods be with you when you do, Brutus.”
An insult to most, and while it shocked you, you took it in stride as you stood outside the door. You made yourself look smaller, more afraid, and hid the dagger within your cloak as you entered the room.
There, sitting upon the floor, was Caracalla and Dondus. Like a scared child, he held the monkey close to him, grooming one another as if it was the only thing to bring comfort.
“Caracalla?” You whispered.
He stared up at you, and you noticed he had been crying. Immediately, you sat before him, bringing him into your arms.
“Nothing was ever mine.” He cried, embracing you. “Everything was ‘ours’, always. Even in the womb, he gripped the umbilicus in his tiny fist to deprive me of air.”
“He did?”
“Certainly, one cannot forget.”
You pulled away only to hold his face tenderly in your hands. “You must listen to me, for what I tell you is dire. Your brother wishes to blame you before the Senate; for what happened, for the chaos in the streets-.”
“-That is a lie!” He tore himself from you. “I didn’t do it!”
“I know that, but they don’t. No testimony is more damning than that of a brother against another.”
“He lies! He always lies!” He sobbed.
“He’s very persuasive.”
“What will they do to me?”
“I don’t dare imagine, but…gods above, I don’t wish to know what they will do to Dondus.”
His jaw quivered with the rest of his body. “What-what shall we do?"
You sighed. “I…I have a proposition, but it is most outrageous and-.”
“-Julia,” he begged, grabbing your hands. “dear, sweet sister, please tell me.”
Breath shuttering, you reached into your cloak and held the blade out to him. “Slay your brother tonight. You shall be crowned the sole emperor of Rome when morning comes, and Dondus, the child I carry, and I will be safe.'
He took it, yet still had that look of terror. “This…It has always been he who led everything. I do not know who to trust or-or who to command.”
“Then let me-.” You stopped yourself, eyeing the monkey that lay at his legs. You held your hand out to him, and Dondus climbed into your arms. “Let us help you. Claim Dondus as your first in command, and I your second.”
You wished the same as Lucilla and Marcus; to have Rome be a free empire. Yet, you would have to free Lucilla yourself before that happened.
Caracalla nodded yet said. “You-you are with child. You will become delirious as time progresses.”
And he was the epitome of having a clear mind.
“I will need a third.” He settled.
You shook your head. “That has never been done before-.”
“-I will be emperor!” He screamed. “If it is to be done, it shall be done!”
Raising your hands in surrender, you pleaded. “It shall, it shall! For a third…Macrinus. He has been loyal and informed us of the general’s betrayal.”
“Yes, yes Macrinus will do.” He grabbed your face and pressed his lips against yours. It didn’t even truly feel like a kiss, yet it shocked you nonetheless. “You are the wisest woman I have ever met, dear sister.”
You nodded, forcing a smile. With that, he stood on his feet and left the room. IT would have been easy to stay in there and wait for his return…
Yet, you wanted to be the last thing Emperor Geta saw.
No fear toiled within your body as you approached the throne room, not even when you hear the cries that you knew belonged to Geta. You walked through the doors, watching as Geta held his hands up in fear, begging his brother to spare his life as he was forced onto his knees, trying to stop the knife in Caracalla’s hand.
“I love you!” Geta squealed, staring up at him through tears “You are my brother, I love you!”
You moved to stand behind the younger twin, glaring at the man before you. Geta’s eyes dropped in relief.
“My love, my love, please help me!”
There was nothing uncertain about how you grabbed Caracalla’s hand that held the dagger. With eyes unblinking, you guided the blade into Geta’s throat, pushing it further and further as blood drained from his mouth.
The emperor was dead, and you would sleep like a child once more that night.
There was something inside of you when you awoke that morning. Not the child you had lied to all of Rome about; it felt like a parasite. You threw up an hour after you woke up, but when you checked with the healers, they said that there was nothing ailing you.
Was it…guilt? No, no it could not be.
Was it possible to feel guilt for the act of killing someone, but not feeling it for who was killed?
You had no time to debate these issues as if you were a philosopher.
Dressed in your finest silks, you made way into the room where the hundreds of senators met, carrying a hefty sack beside you. You sat in a chair next to Macrinus.
“You have done well.” He said softly.
You smiled. “Only because of you.”
Your gaze turned to Caracalla, who sat in one of the two thrones that were there for him and Geta. He looked like the worst you had ever seen him be. A blood rag had been placed at his feet.
“Now I am the only one.” He began, voice low. “I was the true us, and he was the false me. We were always ‘we,’ all our lives, but now I am only I, me, alone.”
The senators look at one another in silent terror. The only ones to not feel fear were you and Macrinus.
Caracalla continued. “My hand held the blade, but my father’s hand guided mine. I was the puppet, dancing on his string. As Emperor, I have convened the Senate to appoint my First Consul and bestow upon him the power to administer the military and civic functions of the Empire.”
He tossed his hand to the second thrown, revealing his fury companion. “I name Citizen Dondus!”
Where the senators were beyond terrified, they were now confused. Macrinus was the first to rise, applauding. “Hail Dondus!”
You repeated his sentiment, clapping with vigor. Caracalla and the rest of the mortified senators applauded all repeating ‘Hail Dondus!’.
Once the excitement died down, Caracalla resumed. “As is custom, I am naming a Second Consul to advise the First and to assure his integrity. Though you will find that Dondus is incorruptible! As Second Consul, I name…”
Macrinus took one step forward.
“The mother of the future heir to the throne, Julia!”
All eyes fell upon you, standing taller than you ever had done in your life. How strange it was though, that the same reaction to a monkey being assigned first in command, was to you, a woman.
Utter silence, until Caracalla applauded enthusiastically. Like sheep, the senators followed; all but Macrinus.
“Yet, as mother to the heir,” the emperor said after finishing. “it is apparent she shall be incompetent for majority of her advising. So, for the first time in the history of Rome, I name Citizen Macrinus as my third!”
Even with this third twist in a counsel, the senators seemed more so relieved at the decision. Macrinus did not smile or even acknowledge the honor, simply stared ahead. Caracalla gathered Dondus in his arms.
“There will be a triumphal parade to celebrate. There will be games and mass executions! Long live the Empire!”
“Long live the Emperor!” You and the senators all yelled.
The Emperor Caracalla carried the First Consul Dondus sweepingly out of the hall, to the Senate’s terrified silence. You picked up the sack that had been beside you this whole time, then making your way to the center of the room.
You opened the sack, and out fell Geta’s decapitated head. The Senate gasped and gagged at the sight of the former emperor’s head. You almost felt sorry for the horror they felt that whole time. Yet, there horror is what would bring you fortune.
“This is what befell your emperor.” You pointed to the head at your feet. “He was slaughtered by the one who shared a womb with him. Tell me, senators, is this who we must trust to maintain the greatness of the Roman Empire?”
They did not glance at one another in uncertainty; no, no they were listening to you.
You continued, your heart stammering. “I am not the one who will stand with you for the rest of my days, it is the son I carry within me. And if it is my son who will become emperor, then there must still be an empire for him once he is born. Hysteria has poisoned the streets for decades now, it is time to put an end to it!”
Murmurs and nods of approval began to echo amongst the counsel.
“Every single one of Rome’s children matters; from the beggars to the emperor himself. If one falls, so shall the rest of the Empire. I have walked beside the lay people of the city, and they feel betrayed by the former emperor for the murder of their beloved general. To right this wrong, I call for the release of Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelias.”
Not one of the hundreds of senators made a sound. Deep within you, you knew that there wouldn’t be much rejoicing over Lucilla’s freedom, but you still had to try.
“The people adored her for far longer than they adored the general!” You pleaded. “If we kill her only for the amusement of the elites, then the children of Rome-!”
“-Shall live.”
You turned to Macrinus, who finally stepped all the way forward.
“Forgive me,” He bowed mockingly. “my lady, but for a woman complimented to have a golden mouth, you have no idea what you are saying.”
A few of the senators chuckled.
“You wish to free the woman who mean to have you, and the emperors killed?” He questioned.
You refuted. “I wish to show the world that Rome is capable of forgiveness.”
“A desire so foolish, only the emperor’s favorite whore could have it.”
“Another word of slander out of your mouth, and I will have your tongue removed!” You stood toe-to-toe with him.
He grinned like the devil, and just from your outburst alone, no matter how warranted it had been, he had you. Macrinus stepped away, looking around at the senators.
“Me thinks the little girl believes she is Marcus Aurelius himself born again.” He straightened his tone. “What say you, senators? All in favor of releasing a traitor to the Empire, speak.”
Not one of them said ‘aye’. If you weren’t under a sheer amount of duress, you would’ve seen perhaps a few faces of inner turmoil, debating on calling for Lucilla’s release.
Yet, no one said a word because they shared the one thing that will contribute to the death of humanity: Cowardice.
Macrinus tutted. “Now, dear Julia and I happen to have, through good fortune and not a little skill, the remaining emperor’s ear. We can speak reason in it and tame the madness in the street. Yet, I will leave the domestic work of calming the emperor to his second in command. As for myself, to restore order to Rome, I will need power over the affairs of the state. Including command of the Praetorian Guard. The decision is in your hands. Ballot or hand?”
One hand rose immediately. Another followed, then ten, then thirty, and then, all of them. He provided no evidence for his cause…yet there was a unanimous decision.
Macrinus held his hand out to you, and you could only stare up at him in question.
“I believe we shall take the seats that are rightfully ours.” He said lowly.
Carefully, you slipped your hand into his, and he led you up the stairs to sit upon the chair that belonged to Geta, while he took Caracalla’s.
This would be the first and the last time a woman ever sat upon the emperor’s throne.
After being embarrassed that morning, you paced around your chambers. Perhaps you could have found Caracalla and gave him the same reasonings the senate did not listen to. Perhaps he could somehow see to the logic that would be in setting Lucilla free.
No, of course he wouldn’t. Even if his mind was sound, he still knew she was apart of the coup to try and have him dethroned; killed in his mind’s eye.
As your mind grew heavy with existential possibilities towards the future, the door to your chambers opened. Stopping where you stood, you watched as Macrinus entered.
“Now, try to make me understand this," he shook his head. "I let you have your vengeance on the man who used you as a slave, I promised you freedom, and yet you wasted it.”
You clenched your jaw. "How dare you-."
“-How dare I?” He tensed his voice. “How dare I keep silent about your lie? How dare I give you the privilege to take your revenge? I have saved you more than you believe I have harmed you, lady Julia."
The name had always bothered you, but with one emperor dead and the other incapacitated, you assumed it would stop.
Now, it only enraged you more; or perhaps that was just because it was Macrinus saying it.
You glared. “It was your own mistake to believe you were the only one who desired power.”
He took a deep breath, then moving to sit on your bed. “Sit beside me, Rome’s Delight; I have a story to tell you.”
“I am not a child, you may tell me in short.”
“You are not the only slave wishing to be free.” He pulled back the collar of his clothing, revealing a branded ‘M.A’ “You are lucky enough to not carry your master’s mark, but were a slave nonetheless. Marcus Aurelius spoke of peace while still using violence against those who served him.”
Swallowing your pride thickly, you said. “I’m sorry.”
“You have learned now, that is all that matters.”
“But Lucilla will still be dead.” You tried to keep your voice steady. “She wanted the emperors to be gone as much as you, but she will-."
“-Her father enslaved me.”
“Her father is dead; and if taking his empire wasn’t enough, than killing his last child will satisfy you?"
Macrinus clutched your arm, fingers tightening with every word. “I would be careful with how you speak to me. I wish to offer you one last ounce of kindness before I regret it. Now tell me, Brutus, will you accept me as Rome’s new emperor?”
You had all the right to say it was Caracalla, but you thought better of it. So, with the softening of your entire person, you nodded. “I accept you.”
He dropped your arm. “I’ll let you say goodbye this time.”
Macrinus led you down into the dungeons of the palace, and he was right; somehow it was more heavily guarded than the gladiator pit. Even when the worst of the worst prisoners sneered or jeered at you, your sorrow and anger could not stir your fear.
The door to one of the cells was open, and you ran in just as Lucilla turned to see you.
“Five minutes.” Was all Macrinus said before locking the door and leaving.
You embraced one another when he left. Neither of you said anything, just clung to each other as if the world itself would tear you apart.
“Forgive me, mother Lucilla.” You choked up.
Lucilla pulled away, taking your face into her hands. “Sweet child, there is nothing to forgive.”
“I failed you.” The tears finally came. “I was right there in the senate’s room, I-I told them the chaos that would befell Rome if-.”
“-You were in the senate’s room?” She sounded as if her breath had been stolen.
You nodded. “Yes, but they wouldn’t listen!”
“My dear girl,” she smiled. “if you were able to even get half a sentence in, than they listened! My father but sixteen years ago said that it was a shame I had been born a women, for I would have been a magnificent emperor. Yet, here you stand; you who had been once a slave, rose above into having a sear in the senate council.”
Still, no matter how much pride she held, your own shame outweighed it. “I still have failed you.”
“I have already accepted my fate.” She whispered. “I must take care of those who matter to me before I leave this earth.”
“Do not say such things!” You cried. “I’ll still find a way to save you.”
“Hanno is my son.”
You expected her to deny your attempts at rescuing her, you even expected her to coddle you, curse you…but this?
“What?” You uttered.
“He is Lucius Verus Aurulius,” she said gently. “second of his name, but the first son of Maximus Decimus Meridius.”
“The-the gladiator?” Was somehow the first question you asked.
“Yes.” She nodded. “Lucius didn’t run away, I sent him. With him as heir to the empire, I know many would not rest until he was dead. How was he to fight for a claim he knew nothing about? Now, he is here; and I am no longer frightened of dying.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to!”
She shushed you, combing her fingers through your hair. “I can speak to you until the earth is burnt by the sun of how I have made peace, but I know that will not work. So, I have two final requests for you.”
“Anything.”
Lucilla walked to the small desk she had in her cell, then picking up a scroll loosely wrapped in twine. She handed it to you. “My first is to give this to my son before tomorrow. It…explains a great deal of things I do not have the time to say to him.”
You took it, holding it to your heart. “And the second?”
She smiled, wrapping her arms around you and kissing the side of your head. “To take care of him as I intend him to take care of you.”
It was not the first time that day your eyes had grown. “He despises me.”
“If the gods are merciful, then I truly believe you will both come to see eye to eye as the only two who remain.”
“I nearly killed him.” You admitted. “The night before his duel with Acacius, I brought a knife with me and stabbed him; well…not enough to harm him.”
Lucilla shook her head, giggling. “He will need someone who disagrees with him.”
You found yourself laughing along with her, even through your sobs. She pulled away from you, wiping your tears. “He is a good man. He may deny it but believe me when I tell you.”
“I trust you.” You nodded.
She took a deep breath. “I will be with you, even when I’m gone.”
“I…I know.”
“Now go before I beg you to stay.”
You forced yourself away from her before you could change your mind. You could not even look at her as you left her cell and went up the hall. Just in time, you remembered to hide the scroll as Macrinus approached you.
“Leaving so soon?” He asked.
Sighing, you said. “She’s…inconsolable. I couldn’t bear another moment with her.”
Macrinus nodded. “You should rest for the remainder of the day. It has been quite exhausting.”
“Yes,” you agreed. “it certainly has.”
It was the first time that night you were forced to sneak out of the palace on your own. Fortunately, you remembered the route you took to the Gladiator pit and managed to dodge any of the guards on patrol that night.
The pit proved to be more difficult as the overseers of it had less space to watch over, yet you still somehow managed to maneuver them.
Perhaps the gods were on your side.
“Hanno.” You whispered once you found his cell.
The man turned over his shoulder once he heard your voice and approached with a scowl. “What are you doing here?”
You wasted no time, holding out the scroll. “Your mother told me to give you this.”
He paused for only half a beat. “My mother died when-.”
“-Your mother is Lucilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelias.” You whispered fiercely. “And you are Lucius, the lost son.”
His eyes didn’t leave yours as he reached down to the latch of the door, and cracked it opened. “Get inside.”
Though you wished to, you didn’t question how he had unlocked it and only walked in. He shut the door tightly, then took the scroll from you. You stood there as he unraveled it to read. His face changed every few seconds, ranging from distress to downright confusion. When he was finished, he looked at you.
“She gave this to you?” You nodded. “Why?”
“I was allowed to say goodbye to her.”
“From Macrinus?” He tested. “Was this before or after you attempted to steal his power?”
“I was cruel to you.” You admitted. “Even after discovering Acacius had pillaged your home and murdered your wife, I expected you to show mercy. I am astounded you did, but as I look back, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t. My desire for the general to live extends to your mother; if not more. She did not give up my name at any moment despite the fact I too was apart of the coup to try and overthrow the emperors. I cannot simply let her die.”
Lucius stared at you, his gaze intimidating yet at ease. He approached you. “You wish to save her life?”
“More than anything.”
“It is a rumor that Macrinus was the one to puppeteer Caracalla in slaying his brother. But…it wasn’t him, was it?”
Breathing deeply, you looked at the floor. “It was I.”
“Look at me.” He commanded softly, and you did. “Would you kill again if it meant protecting her?”
Your mind said ‘yes’ without a moment’s hesitation, but your heart only sunk into your stomach at the thought. It must have been apparent on your face, for he said.
“There is no shame if you are unable to.”
“I will be with him in the emperor’s box.” You said, determination in your eyes. “I will simply need you to buy me time in the arena. It shall be done.”
Lucius nodded, and released along breath before saying. "I treated you harshly. I...I don't believe I would have survived what you have been put through."
You picked at your fingers. "I think you would have."
"No." He solidified. "I wouldn't."
A silence fell between the two of you. There wasn't a hint of discomfort; as if, for the first time, you felt seen.
“You never told me your name.” Lucius uttered.
You pressed your lips together, shrugging. “It was never important.”
“It has been,” he said. “and it is now. You know my true name, if I am to understand you as how my mother wishes I do, then I must know yours.”
Your mouth parted to speak the first syllable, but even that had felt foreign. You instead lied. “I do not remember it.”
As he looked at you, the steely gaze you always knew began to disappear. “You must remember how it sounded from your mother’s mouth.”
“She died before she could hold me.”
“Then your father.” He walked closer to you, yet you felt no fear. “It does not matter if he was wretched or kind, he spoke your name and your name alone. What did it sound like?”
Like he loved you. Even when he was cross, he never raised his voice. You hated more than ever how tears started to build within your eyes.
“Geta had beaten me until I could no longer use it.” you confessed. “It will feel like poison upon my lips.”
“Then whisper it to me so you will scarcely have to move them.”
You had been lain down on a bed and had every bit of a man touch and invade your body. Even before the emperor, you had lain with people in the past of your choosing…
But none of that amounted to the intimacy you felt in that cell as Lucius stood nearly chest-to-chest with you, hovering his ear over your mouth as you finally (finally) spoke your name aloud.
If the heat of his body lingering over yours did not set your entire being aflame, it was the breath he released once he said.
“It’s a kind name.”
It was all too much for you, so you pulled away from him, drying your eyes. “I…I will pray for your safety.”
He outheld his hand to you. “Strength and honor.”
A saying you had overheard people use as they entered the stadium. You shook his hand. “Strength and honor.”
You didn’t expect to be in the parade Caracalla raved about the day prior. Yet, there you were, draped in the finest and most colorful silks with jewelry in your hair. Inside your sleeve, you’d hidden the same kitchen knife you attempted to stab Lucius with.
You were sat beside Caracalla, who had Dundus upon his shoulder, and who had only grown more delusional since the day prior.
“Where is my brother?” He pulled on your sleeve like a child as you were escorted from the float and into the Colosseum.
A watery smiled pulled upon your lips, and you soothed him. “He feels most unwell today.”
“He should be here.” He sulked as you walked. “He would be happy for me.”
“And he is.” You lied. “You will see him again shortly.”
That managed to ease him, and you both were seated in the emperor’s box with Macrinus. It didn’t escape your vision how hundreds of Praetorians also circled the entire arena. As the time to the match grew closer, you did your best to calm your own nerves. This would be for the good of Rome. Once it was done, you would be able to rest easily again.
It was then you watched as, on one side of the Colosseum, a wagon was rolled out into the center of it. Tied to a pole, dressed up as if she were Venus herself, was Lucilla. All that attempt at soothing yourself was gone once you saw her eyes.
“Must we kill Lucilla?” Caracalla questioned.
You couldn’t even snidely repeat his question to Macrinus you were in such a state of anxiety. Macrinus responded.
“Until she is dead, you will never know peace.”
Thus, the event commenced. The announcer himself even sounded guilt-ridden as he spoke of the crimes Lucilla was being charged with. Treason, betrayal, all of it only anguished the spectators even more to see her being prepared for execution.
“Let it not be said that the Emperor is not merciful!” He yelled. “The queen will be granted a champion to defend her!”
Out from the other side of the arena came Lucius. Half of the Praetorians held their weapons to the man, while the other half faced the civilians as if expecting them to riot. Once again, at the sight of the scene before them, it would not surprise you.
You had been taught one a many myths by your father, mainly belonging to the Greeks. You were Cassandra; blessed by Apollo to speak of prophecies but cursed to not be believed.
When it seemed that hope was gone…Lucius rose his sword, and hundreds of gladiators sprinted from all sides.
The crowd and Caracalla were in an uproar at the excitement. Pandemonium ensued as the gladiators began to climb the barriers and civilians were attempting to enter the arena. The sound of arrows screaming entered your ears; so much so you could not hear what Macrinus was saying to another man, and why Caracalla was screaming.
You simply blinked, and once your eyes were open, you watched as Macrinus dove a needle into the side of Caracalla’s neck, killing him.
Only a gasp tore through your throat, having no ability to scream. Your body soon found reason to move, and you rose to your feet, remembering your duty. Macrinus had acquired a crossbow, aiming it towards Lucilla and Lucius now at the center of the arena.
You rose the knife from your sleeve, charging towards the man. The arrow was fired, and you leapt upon his shoulders.
He moved wildly, trying to force you off of him. You made attempt to slash his throat, but it made contact with his eye instead.
Still…he overpowered you. Flipping you over him, you dropped down into the arena, your head colliding with the ground.
The sky was orange above you when you opened your eyes. Your head had never felt so awful before, and you were surprised you could even sit up. All around you, bodies littered the Colosseum floor. If there was not blood laid before you, there were swords and shields.
Your eyes drifted to the center, and now sunken to the floor, was Lucilla on her wagon. You forced yourself to stand and walk towards her.
When you could see the arrow sticking in her chest, you began to run.
Climbing atop the wagon, you untied the ropes around her hurriedly.
“Mother,” you begged. “mother, can you hear me?”
“I am still here, sweet child.” She whispered weakly.
“Save your energy now.” You managed to free her, and then pulled her to your lap.
“I will be seeing my beloveds now.” She smiled.
“No,” you hissed. “you are going to live.”
She reassured. “It is alright. I have fulfilled everything that was asked of me, and what I wished for.”
“Mother-!”
“-You will look after him, won’t you?”
You wanted to cry; you wished that sadness was the first thing you felt. But no, it was anger. Still, you nodded. “I will, but you will be there to make sure he takes care of me too!”
“He shall.” Was all she said.
“You will live, just please stop talking.”
“I love you.”
“Lucilla…” Your voice broke.
“Tell Lucius I would do this all again for him.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Lucilla rose her hand to your cheek, brushing it tenderly one last time.
Her eyes were held open as she went limp in your arms. You closed her eyelids, knowing her gaze would haunt you.
You did not move for the first hour, nor did you cry out in despair. It was when the sun was completely gone, and you tore yourself away from her corpse did you collapse into a fit of sobs.
The ugliest sounds were released from your mouth as you could barely stand. You do not know how long you cried, but when you could finally move again, you crawled to the nearest sword, and trailed it behind you before climbing back up onto the wagon.
You tied the rope from her body around her legs, and brought her back into your lap, sword in hand.
There was no rest for you that night. You would nearly drift off into sleep, but you couldn’t bring yourself to give in until you could bury her properly. You also couldn’t bring yourself to bury her at the same time.
When you had lost time altogether, and the sky was purple as twilight broke, a gentle hand shook you.
Raising the sword in surprise, you felt your body relax once you saw Lucius. You should have asked how he survived, what happened to Macrinus, anything else…but all you said was.
“I wouldn’t let anyone touch her.”
He nodded, tears threatening to fall as he gazed upon his dead mother. He took a deep breath. “May I take her?”
You handed her to him, and he took her into his arms. You scooted off the wagon, your eyes reddened and exhausted.
“Where,” you cleared your throat. “Where should she be buried?”
“I…” He heaved. “I know where my father’s grave is.”
“Okay.” Was all you managed.
And you walked by his side, neither of you knowing what your fate would befall in Rome.
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.
whose gaze lingered a few seconds too long on Harry’s sister
whose eyes scanned his son’s letters for even the slightest mention of the other Potter
Lucius
who couldn’t help but gaze down at the stands during the Quidditch World Cup
who couldn’t help but observe what books she’d picked up during their brief encounter at Flourish and Blotts
Lucius
who made sure the establishments at Hogsmeade didn't charge her a single quid by having kept a tab open for her under an alias
who didn't dare send her gifts for he couldn't have her overwhelmed
Lucius
who knew it was all very wrong as he stared at her through the windows while she boarded the train for the start of her seventh year – his own weathered features reflected back and contrasted with her youthful countenance.
helloooooo just popping by to see if i can request headcanons for the pokemon horizons males and what their ideal type in a romantic partner would be (excluding roy and ult ofc)
and its up to you if you choose to add the older guys like hamber, ludlow, lucius and gibeon 😭🙏
Pokemon HZ men | Ideal Partners
Includes- Friede, Murdock, Spinel, Amethio, Lucius
Friede
Friede is someone who does things out on a whim, so he'd love a partner who can join him on all his last minute adventures. But he also won't say no to someone who'd take care of the Brave Asagi or the place they're staying at.
He'd also love a partner if they remind him of everything that slips his mind. Yes, it's be annoying to do that, but he'd appriciate it to no ends.
Friede is also more on the physically affectionate end,, so he'd prefer someone who doesn't mind physical touch at minimum. If they don't, he'd probably try to spend more time with them as quality time is another one of his love languages.
Murdock
Liking food is something that Murdock would need in a partner. His love language is baking/cooking, and there's nothing more satisfying than making something for someone, and have them enjoy it.
They don't have to love food by any means, but if they enjoy what he bakes, that's all that counts.
Bonus points if they can cook and/or bake with him.
Spinel
Enablers. Spinel would love to have a partner who enables him and asks questions later. None of that "stalking is bad, Spinel." "No, Spinel. You can't wipe people's memories. That's not a good thing to do."
But-- if the person isn't an enabler, Spinel will just hide what he does behind an excuse of him being a "private eye".
10/10 must get along with his Umbreon. No questions asked. If they don't get along with his Umbreon, that's an instant deal breaker.
In his early career, a nice luxury would be someone who checks up on him and makes sure that he's taken care of himself, that he ate something recently. He doesn't even know that he wants it, but he'll appriciate it.
Later on, with Exceed, he'd love someone who can stand next to him and be by his side during the countless events that he goes to.
Amethio
The biggest thing that Amethio wants in his partner is someone who has a lot of patience. He's been through a lot. Emotions don't come easily to him.
He'd also want someone who is mature. Sure, they can have their moments here and there, but in the end, he'd want soemone who can be mature at the end of the day.
Something he'd prefer is a calmer partner, or someone who can calm down near him. It's not a deal breaker by any means, but it's a luxury for him that he wishes to indulge in.
Lucius
Lucius is an adventurer, he's never in one place. So he'd prefer a partner who is fit enough to travel by his side. They don't have to be as fit as him, obviously, but they'll need to be to able to handle a good hike.
If he does settle down though, that preference does soften to a "I'd like a partner who can hike with me".
His love language would probably be quality time, so he'd appriciate someone who he can spend time with too.
Note- I apologise if I skipped anyone accidentally,, (I know that I've skipped Zir and Onyx),
