Randomness Post & Imagine stories

🐦‍⬛ Chapter One

🐦‍⬛ Chapter Two

🐦‍⬛ Chapter Three

Date Published: M/D/Y

Date Completed: M/D/Y

Last Edit: Oct. 15th, 2025

Dream of the Endless Masterlist

It’s the night of the Perseid Meteor Shower, where Earth passes through the debris trail of Comet Swift-Tuttle, as the humans call it now. Though Morpheus knows her and her falling stars as Sidra. For this night, the wishing stars will streak across the sky and give to their dreamers a peaceful night’s sleep. For one night a year, no nightmares may disturb the resting. And, for one night a year, he hosts a ball for the influx of dreamers. 

“Is my queen asking if we can slip away from our own ball?” He asks softly, a playful teasing tone eclipsing his voice. When you give an eager nod, he murmurs conspiratorially. “I believe we can manage that.”

Your heart skips a giddy beat, a flare of defiance and mischief in your eyes. Already edging towards the outskirts of the throne room, you look back only once at the murmur of the ball before you’re pulling Morpheus’ arm, scurrying into the castle’s garden maze. Your giggles echo in the warm summer night, the secret escape only known by the stars. 

Morpheus allows himself to be pulled along by your enthusiastic grip, a soft laugh managing to escape him as the two of you hurry through the garden’s maze—a rare moment of pure joy and freedom from your shared royal duties. 

As you round a corner of the maze, Morpheus spins you to his chest, his hands warm as it spans across your lower back. The moonlight catches your shocked features as the familiar smell of old books fills your lungs. Morpheus smiles, his nose brushing against yours, as his eyes twinkle with his own playful mischief. 

“Caught you,” he murmurs. 

You huff playfully, your hands against his chest to give yourself some room. “It doesn’t count if I was technically holding your hand the whole time we walked in here.”

Morpheus is silent for a moment before he surrenders. “Of course, my dear. You’re right,” he says softly.

The night air breathes against your skin as he takes a step back, releasing his hold on you. “There,” he challenges. “Run from your king now.”

You meet his challenging gaze, tilting your head to see if he is merely teasing you or not. When he gives another step back, and his form merges with shadow, you let out a shriek, realizing he isn’t. 

Your laughter is infectious, free and unladylike, as you disappear deeper into the maze. Morpheus gives chase easily and you risk a peek over your shoulders, hands fisted in your skirts so as to not trip over them on the cobblestone path. You see Morpheus’ graceful prowl toward you just as you round another corner of the maze. 

Morpheus quickens his pace, but he’d never run. A king does not run. Besides, he does not need to when your soft laughter is a guiding light in the dark, all he needs to do is keep an ear open and he knows where you are at all times. 

As he rounds the final bend of the maze, where he finds you panting slightly just before the exit. Your hand is covering your mouth as you try to hide another smile and under the moonlight of his realm, you look more like a playful nymph than the queen of the Dreaming.

Still, Morpheus thinks as he wraps his hands around your waist again, no matter what you may be, you are his wife at the end of the day. 

Morpheus lifts you off the ground easily, and your hands go to brace themselves on his shoulders as he spins you. From this height, you could see past the maze hedges, towards the castle, where a few members have begun to wonder where you two had wandered off to. But when Morpheus brings you back down, it’s just the two of you. As it always should be. 

Morpheus allows himself to laugh softly at your laughter, wanting to bottle your joy and keep it close to his heart for the remainder of his long life. 

“And so, I have captured you,” he murmurs slowly into your ear. “Caught like a common thief.”

You laugh again, your cheeks starting to hurt. “And what have I stolen from his highness?”

“Hmm,” Morpheus thinks aloud. “My peaceful kingdom, as you drive me mad with love? Or perhaps… my ability to remain serious around you. Or even… my inability to deny anything it is you ask of me.”

“Your heart then?” You smile. 

Morpheus’ eyes soften, their colors changing from purple to a soft blue. The stars in them shimmer with mirth. “Yes, but you have stolen that long ago.”

“Can I keep it then?”

“As if I would ever take it back,” he whispers. He leans in closer, pressing a simple kiss to the corner of your lips. “You own it. You have my heart, and I would never have it any other way.

One of my moots told me this should've become one of those predator/prey kinks. Y'all nasty (I should've, but I ran out of inspiration)

‎"Oh!" she smiles, taking in my appearance, "you must be the rock star."

‎I chuckle, "ahhh," and brush my damp bangs out of my face, "I mean, if you say so."

‎The woman looks out into the tables and thinks, "hmm, most of the dates are paired up already..."

I look and find it to be true. That is— I perk and point, "what about him?"

She turns to whom I'm pointing to and freezes, "oh."

My brows quirk, "oh?"

"Christian Wolff," she turns back to me, "accountant."

"Oh," my lips curl as I watch him straighten up.

"He's..."

I turn back to her.

"... awkward. Painfully so."

My lips curl, "hot."

Her brows furrow at my reaction, "he... said he found a fomula for a perfect date, but it backfired. Hard."

I chuckle and smile at her, "sounds delicious."

Before she can respond, I am strutting over to him, clutching the handle of my bag in both hands.

I stop just beside his table, "hi."

He turns to me, hands atop a clipboard.

"You're Christian Wolff, correct?" I reach a hand and introduce myself.

He comes to a stand and I feel my belly drop when I find how tall he is. He shakes my hand, examining me, "you're wet."

I chuckle and bite my lip, "I am."

He doesn't react to how I tilt my head back and appraise him.

I chuckle again, "it rained out of nowhere. It's why I'm late."

"I see," he sits back down, turning to his clipboard, "you're not normally late for important events, are you?"

My brows raise but I end up chuckling once more when he looks back at me with a stoic expression. I shrug, "I try not to be. Being late makes me anxious."

He nods, "I feel the same," he motions across him, "please take a seat."

My lips curl in amusement, especially when I see a note he has on his clipboard: smile with teeth. "You come here often?" I raise a brow as I set my bag down.

"No," he scribbles something, "the Boise Romance Festival is an event held annually. This is my first time attending."

You smile, "cute." I begin to peel off my jacket.

He turns to me when I don't sit.

I mutter, "a little help?"

"Of course," he stands and pulls my jacket off with a swift motion. He stares at mostly exposed back, "you're very wet."

I fix my dress as I turn to him. I lick my teeth, "that I am."

I'm about to take the jacket from him but he hangs it behind my chair then pulls it out for me. I smile and gratefully sit, "thank you, baby."

I notice him tense slightly at the nickname, but he sits back down in silence.

"So," I fix my violet halter dress, leaning onto the table, "how did you get into accounting, Christian?"

"I like numbers," he straightens in his seat, flattening out his paper using the side of his ballpen.

"Huh," I tilt my head, "are you any good?"

"I'm excellent."

I giggle and nod once more, "I love the confidence."

His face twitches in thought, "it's a fact," he clears his throat, "I don't necessarily consider myself a confident person."

"Well," I rub my arm as a the cold makes me shiver, "you might not classify yourself as such, but the fact you know of your excellence is actually confidence."

Christian stills.

I offer a smile, "makes sense, no?"

"It is..." he nods, "logical."

I giggle, "huzzah."

He looks down and skims his paper, "it says here you work in the entertainment industry."

"Yes, I do." I smile.

"Do you have a managing label?"

"No," I furrow my brows, "I mostly post my work online, but I perform wherever I can, whenever I can."

He nods and scribbles.

I lean into the table, trying to get a glimpse of what he's written.

"Your career instability makes me attractive to you."

I freeze, eyes widening.

He looks up at me, "do you-"

I burst into laughter, leaning into the table with my hand over my mouth.

Christian tenses as my giggles spill over. His lips twitch into a smile, trying to mirror the mood, though he, in truth, knew not what was so amusing.

I wipe a tear from my eye and catch my breath, "hmm, yeah," I chuckle, "I'm actually looking for a sugar daddy."

If it were possible, he tenses further.

"Are you interested in that?" I sigh and lean further into the table.

It was then that he notices my cleavage.

His face begins to turn pink; it only makes me laugh again.

He clears his throat, "I- I-"

"I'm joking," I grin and raise a hand, "I'm messing with you."

Christian's surprised expression flares before he breaks into an awkward and nervous laugh, "ah," he chuckles rigidly, "I see. I'm not very good with jokes."

I tilt my head and lean back on my chair, "really? I didn't notice."

He adjusts his clipboard, "social cues and humor are my weak suit..." he looks back at me, "I'm not very funny."

"I disagree," I shake my head, "I think you're very funny— deliciously so. I could eat you right up."

"..."

I grin.

"... I'm not sure of the metaphorical implications of your words."

I snort as another shiver runs down my spine. I rub both my arms, "I'll be unmistakably direct then. I do, in fact, find you attractive," I shrug, "and yeah, sure, partially because of your accountant money-"

He adjusts his tie.

I laugh at it, "- but mostly, it's because I like..." I think for a moment.

Christian tilts his head in expectation.

"Silly boys," I decide to say.

His face subtly contorts, but I notice.

I lean my head on my hand, "you're very awkward and seemingly disconnected, and yet," I motion to his clipboard, "you're clearly very thoughtful."

He merely looks.

"And honest," I smile, "I don't think I'd have to guess with you. I could just ask."

He clenches his jaw and offers a soft smile.

My brows quirk, "am I right?"

"I..." he pulls his smile wider, "in fact, don't make a habit of lying."

I nod and tap his clipboard, "do your notes conclude mutual attraction, accountant?"

His brows quirk. He is taken slightly off-guard, judging by how he takes the thing, eyes shifting between me and the paper, "I-" he clears his throat, "we have compatible interests, such as music and art-" he flips the paper, "you enjoy travelling with an itinerary, which I too find pleasant—"

My laughter cuts him off.

He looks up at me for a moment, then looks back down, "you also-"

"I just need a yes or a no."

Christian's gaze lifts.

I smile, "you might have learned to sugar coat to an extent, but you won't need to do that for me. I prefer directness actually."

He nods, "as do I."

"Good," I raise my brows, "yes or no then," I raise a finger, "pinkie promise I won't be offended if it's a no."

He stares at my pinkie for a moment then looks back at me, "I-"

I cut him off by bringing my pinkie nearer.

Reluctantly, he wraps his pinkie around mine.

My heart races at his flustered expression.

"Yes... I find you very attractive."

I press my lips together, "very attractive, you say?"

His jaw feathers.

"It's settled then," I pull away and pat the table, "you should ask me out."

"..."

I pout, "you do want to ask me out, right?"

"I..." he thinks then nods, "I do."

I encourage him with a motion.

"... ... I..." he rolls his shoulders back and adjusts his tie, "... would like to ask you out on a date?"

I laugh and lean into my hand. I then straighten up and sigh, nodding as I did, "I would absolutely love to, baby."

Christian's brows quirk when I come to a stand.

"We should have that date now," I look over my shoulder, "although it might still be raining."

My breath catches in my throat when I stands in front of me.

I look up at him, a soft smile on my lips, "you wouldn't happen to have any rainy date ideas, would you?"

"... how about dinner?"

I tilt my head and cross my arms, "where?"

He hums and looks away in thought, "there's a Greek restaurant nearby."

I hum, "Greek food it is then," I motion to the table, "do you mind grabbing my things for me? My bag's kind of heavy though."

"Not at all," he promptly takes my things "I am quite strong."

My brows quirk as I watch him gather his things next, "that you are, darling."

"I can carry this for you, if you like."

A gentle flurry begins to build in my belly, "I'd like that very much. Thank you."

"Don't y-" he stops himself when he sees me walking off. He quickly follows after me and clears his throat, fearing I'd forgotten about what we just agreed over. He calls my name and I give him a soft hum. He continues, "don't you want to talk to the other participants to better apprise your decision?"

My lips curve as I turn back to him. I shake my head, "if you're good at numbers, then I'm good at people."

He looks down when I adjust his collar.

"And I know what I want," I mutter.

He gulps.

"Isn't that nice?"

Braxton was yanked back into the land of the conscious by the feeling of his new cat stepping directly on one of the many bruises that was littering his stomach. He groaned, having to fight the instinct that told him to smack whatever was causing him pain. Instead, with his eyes still shut, he grumbled out a few curse words and tried to gently nudge the cat onto a part of his chest that maybe wouldn’t hurt so much. It was slim pickings at this point but if the thing would just lay down then—

His nonstop train of thought was interrupted, a beckoning whisper hitting his ears, but more importantly his cat’s. The sound was enticing enough that he walked down Braxton’s chest and stomach, causing little shots of pain with each step, before finally getting off of him. He let out a small huff of relief at the loss of pressure—how such a small creature managed to feel like it weighed as much as a car while it walked on his chest was beyond him.

Still laying flat on his back, he started to bring his hands to his face to wipe the last of the sleep away when he realized that the whisper sound had to have come from someone, and it certainly hadn’t come from his brother.

Shooting upright, Braxton reached and fumbled behind him for his pistol. His eyes were wide open now, only creasing slightly at the edges as he winced in pain from his injuries that still weren’t fully healed, and still weren’t ready for him to be moving at full speed again.

He continued to feel around behind him for his gun as the rest of his vision came into focus. It was only when everything became clear again and he saw you sitting there just off the edge of the bed that he realized searching for the gun was useless. Partially because he knew he wouldn’t shoot you, but mostly because you were holding the pistol up like a trophy while his cat settled down in your lap. Every time you turned up you always ended up taking his things. He never figured out how to keep it from happening.

There were a million other thoughts that should’ve crossed his mind before that, but he wasn’t awake enough for it. And, even if he never admitted it out loud, you’d always had a way of throwing him off his rhythm.

“Rise and shine,” you said with a laugh. Using the hand that wasn’t holding the gun, you gently scratched the top of the cat’s head between his ears. You looked down at it for a moment, smiling before returning your attention to Braxton. He looked disgruntled as usual, but the injuries he was sporting were fresh ones. “Lookin’ a little rough there, Brax.”

He groaned, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes for a moment as he gathered himself enough to respond. His hands fell back to his lap as he said, “You hunt me down just to tell me I look like shit?”

You were smiling as you rolled your eyes. “I didn’t say that. I’ve seen you look like shit.” You paused, tilting your head like you were really considering him and taking in the sight of him, like you hadn’t had ample time to do that before he woke up. “This ain’t that bad.”

“How the fuck did you even get in here?” he asked, sounding a little bit more like himself, like the man you remembered, now that he was a little more awake.

Hand still holding his gun, you shrugged. “Your brother opened the door when I knocked, and then let me in once I pinky promised him that I wasn’t here to blow your brains out.”

Chris’s voice drifted back from the other end of the trailer. “We did not pinky promise.”

You nodded in agreement, a chuckle dangerously close to the tip of your tongue. “Yeah, it was more like a regular promise.”

“Well, if you’re not here to kill me,” he adjusted himself, sitting up a little straighter, rolling out his neck, “then what the hell are you doin’ here?”

If he’d been looking at you, he would’ve caught the tiny crack in your façade of nonchalance. You shook your head, mostly at yourself, and got your face right again by the time he was done rolling his neck and seeing how far he could stretch before something started to hurt. As you looked at him, you could say with near certainty that there were plenty of injuries that his t-shirt was currently hiding, along with the blanket that was pooled in his lap. His face was bruised, cuts on it scabbed over—his knuckles were in much the same condition. You wondered how well the bruises went with his tattoos underneath that graphic tee.

Your tone came off in the casual way you wanted it to, and you were thankful for that. “Heard about that shit that went down in Juarez. I had a feeling, but once I asked around…”

He cracked a smile, one of those ones you knew was real even though whatever he was about to say was going to try and make it seem like it wasn’t. All that gruffness and sarcasm but sometimes if you looked at him just right, you could see clean through it. You’d had more time to practice that than most people, maybe with the exception of his brother sitting out in the opposite end of the trailer.

“You were worried about me?” he asked, clearly dramatizing for comedic effect, that type of deflection he’d always been good at. “I’m, I’m touched. Real fuckin’ touched.”

“Alright,” you said, making a vague waving gesture with the gun, something like a dismissal, “don’t go getting a big fuckin’ head about it or anything. Otherwise you’ll never fit out the door.”

The two of you shared a laugh at that, and the tension that had been there at the start was beginning to go away. He was cranky and in pain, and you were grumpy and exhausted, but that was the usual for you two. There was an element of status quo there, familiarity in the physical discomfort.

“How’d you find us?” he asked. He knew that there was no way his brother used anything resembling real personal information when he made the reservation at the park, not after everything that had just gone down.

Resting your free hand on the cat in your lap, feeling the warmth coming from his fur and the vibrations of his purring, you gave Braxton a disappointed look. Finger off the trigger, you pointed at him with the gun, his gun. “You tellin’ me that you don’t know by now that I can track you down if I really want to?” You cracked a grin. “Done it before, and I’ll do it again if I have to.”

He sucked his teeth as he shook his head at you. His attempt to look annoyed fell through, amusement still showing through his eyes that gave him away every damn time. “That first time didn’t count—I was tracking you down too.”

It felt like it was years ago and yesterday all at once. The two of you had been playing cat and mouse, each thinking you’d been sent after the same target until you realized that the two of you had been sent after each other. Clearly your boss had decided you’d each run your course. Your first real conversation had happened while he had a gun to your head and your knife was buried into his thigh, one quick pull away from destining him to a quick bleed-out. The plan for mutually assured destruction that people higher up in the food chain had pulled together all fell apart right then and there, covered in sweat and blood and curse words.

That was a few identities ago now, but you still thought back on those first few weeks together with a certain brand of fondness. Not that you’d be able to explain that to anyone if they’d asked. Some days you weren’t sure how much you understood it yourself.

It must’ve been quiet for too long, or at least, too long by Braxton’s standards. There was a tinge of softness in his expression for a moment, one that told you he knew you were going down memory lane. That was the only reason he’d been able to stay quiet for as long as he had. It was kind of impressive in its own way.

“So you’re not here to kill me. Just here to make sure I’m on the right side of the dirt? And to steal my gun and my new cat while you’re at it?”

“The cat is a nice surprise!” you chirped, laughter punctuating your sentence.

His brows furrowed, but the frown on his face quickly flipped into a grin as he scooted closer to the side of the mattress you were sitting by. He managed to scramble out from underneath the covers in the process, and you rolled your eyes at the sight of him. You were fairly certain that if it hadn’t been a major safety concern, and would probably get him flagged for indecency in a few places, Braxton would go out on jobs in his goddamn boxer briefs.

The observation fell by the wayside as he reached the edge of the mattress, swinging his legs over the side of it so that they were slotted with yours, one after the other after the other. Extending his hand, he reached for the cat in your lap rather than the gun in your hand. That was new, and it made you smile.

“Gimme my fuckin’ cat,” he said as he pulled it over from your lap onto his. The small orange creature didn’t fight him on it at all, happy to be pulled and lifted like he was made of jello instead of fur and bones. Braxton’s voice dropped to that half-murmur he did when he was talking to himself as much as he was talking to whoever else was in the room. “Everyone keeps taking my goddamn cat. I’m the one who rescued him. Me. And yet every-fucking-one else gets to hold him and pet him and—”

“Didn’t realize you were such a cat guy,” you cut him off mid-tangent, laughing as you did so.

He grinned. “Me neither.”

“I did,” Christian piped up again. A reminder that he could hear everything that the two of you were saying and doing, even if he didn’t mean for it to be that.

Braxton didn’t look like he cared that his brother could hear everything, so you weren’t going to waste any energy caring either. Braxton shook his head, speaking a little louder on purpose even though Christian clearly didn’t need the assist to hear, “Yeah, guess that guy just knows everything!”

When there was no response, you pressed the back of your hand to your mouth to try and stifle your laughter. Braxton was chuckling quietly too, shaking his head as he pet the cat in his lap. It was already laying down, all curled back up into a ball again, happy to be with just about anyone as long as he was getting attention. You were looking back and forth between Braxton and the cat, enjoying the closeness and feeling of his legs being pressed against yours in the tight space.

His eyes were still fixed on the creature in his lap as he asked, “You also acquire an Airstream since I last saw you? Or you just walk in here with a backpack and a tent?”

You hummed in amusement. “Neither. I really was just stopping to check in.” You glanced over your shoulder and you could see the very edge of Christians’ silhouette as he sat at the table, one leg and one shoulder not obstructed from your view. “Glad you two are alright.”

That got Braxton to look up. He followed your line of sight, and when you turned your attention back to him you saw him smiling as he scratched the cat underneath it’s chin. “Yeah.” Clearing his throat, he locked eyes with you. “You stickin’ around or…?”

You chuckled and shook your head. “I don’t think that bed is big enough for all three of us.”

Braxton was expecting another well-timed interjection from his brother, but it never came. He shook his head at you. “Nah, I just mean, well,” he laughed, “you know what I fuckin’ mean, don’t be a dick about it.”

You smiled. “I know.” Pausing, you rested your hands on your knees, neither of you paying much mind to the gun at this point. “I’ll let you guys have your time.”

His expression faltered—he could feel you starting to stand up. Words came tumbling out in an attempt to stall you, knowing that once you stood up there was not going to be any stopping you from walking back out the door. “If you want, we’re just gonna be hikin’ and shit, but we’ll probably head into town at night. It’s fun. He’s, he’s cool.”

Something in the roundabout way he expressed his feelings had your smile stretching a little wider. Turning your head slightly, you called back over your shoulder, “Whatcha think, Chris?”

“Last time was fun. I got a girl’s number, and Braxton threw some guys through some windows.”

You barked out a laugh. “Damn. Least one of you was smooth.”

Even though you couldn’t see him, you could picture Christian nodding in agreement. “I was very smooth.”

You and Braxton both were laughing quietly to yourselves. You were sure there was a story there, one that Braxton would be happy to tell you if you bothered to stick around or meet up with them again.

Taking a deep breath, you looked around the cramped bed space, not quite big enough to be called a bedroom, for something to write with. Reaching down, you grabbed the pen that was on the floor right by a tiny leatherbound journal. Once you pulled the cap off the pen, you took one of Braxton’s hands in yours, scribbling down the number to your latest burner phone.

You spoke as you replaced the cap on the pen and put it back in its rightful spot. “I’ll be in the area for a few more days at least. Let me know if you wanna go out or meet up.” You leaned in, and you caught the way that Braxton leaned to meet you, thinking that you were going in for a kiss. Instead you planted a quick kiss to the top of the cat’s head. “I’m glad you’re alright though. Cat’s cute, too.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes at you. “C’mon, what the fu—”

You stopped his annoyance short with a uncharacteristically soft kiss. Your hands were calloused like his but your palm still felt soft and warm against his cheek when you rested it there. Pulling your lips off of his, you stood up, keeping yourself bent slightly even though you knew logically that you could move around the trailer without knocking your head off anything.

You didn’t offer much else in the way of a goodbye as you stood up and started walking back towards the door. Braxton watched you for about a stride and a half before he realized he should probably get up and do something. He carefully scooched the cat off his lap and onto the bed before going to follow you.

“I’ll see you ‘round, Chris,” you said with a smile as you walked by him.

He spared you the briefest glance, a teeny tiny lift to the ends of his lips as he said, “Most likely, yes.”

You opened the door to the Airstream and walked down the two small steps that separated the floor of the trailer from the ground. Braxton followed you but stopped in the doorway. Reaching up, he rested both hands on inner side of the top of the doorframe, leaning so that he was close to swaying right out over the steps after you.

“Good seein’ you!” he called after you.

You spared him a look over your shoulder, a smile on your face as you said, “I’m sure it was!”

Braxton stayed there to watch you walk away. He watched as you tucked his gun, the one that he’d gotten in Berlin and had made it through all the bullshit that happened afterwards, into the back waistband of your jeans. He shouldn’t have been smiling at that, but he was. He was shaking his head too. It was always something with you.

He only retreated when he heard your bike come to life. Pulling the door shut, Braxton looked down at the palm of his hand where you’d scribbled your new phone number. He wondered how long this one would be good for.

Plopping down across the table from his brother, he held out his hand. “Guess who was the smooth one this time!”

Lifting his eyes from his laptop screen, Christian looked first at his brother’s freshly inked palm, and then at the excited smile on Braxton’s face. Christian smiled too. “She likes you.”

Braxton leaned back in his seat, hands dropping into his lap. “Yeah, why wouldn’t she?” He saw his brother take a breath in to respond and thought better of it. “Don’t answer that,” he said with a dismissive wave. Looking down, Braxton stared at the number, your handwriting. “Not bad for a transient, right?”

Christian shook his head, attention back on his laptop but he still had a whisper of a smile left on his face. “Not bad.”

So, naturally, you did what any reasonable person would do: you tiptoed barefoot through the dimly lit hallways, skirts hitched up slightly, and made a straight line for the kitchens. The palace kitchens were quiet—surprisingly quiet. A few embers glowed faint in the hearths. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread still lingered in the air, teasing your already growling stomach.

"Just a bit," you whispered to no one, creeping inside. You scanned the room like a thief—not because you were stealing, but because, in truth, you didn’t even know if you were allowed to be in here anymore.

You managed to find a warm roll of bread wrapped in cloth and a slice of salted lamb left out to cool. You grabbed an apple for good measure. You sat on one of the prep tables, legs swinging beneath you, and began to eat in silence. That is, until—

"You know, most people would just ask for food."

You jumped, nearly choking on the bite of bread. You turned around, wide-eyed, to find Emperor Geta standing in the doorway, arms folded, looking far too amused for someone who had just caught someone ‘stealing.’ He was no longer in ceremonial robes—just a loose tunic and sandals, his hair still damp from .

You swallowed hard. "I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to eat with the servants or the nobles. So I picked…this."

He stepped forward, crossing the room, then took a seat beside you on the prep table with all the casual grace of someone who didn’t care about royal decorum in the middle of the night.

"Then let’s make a new rule," he said with a smile. "If you are hungry, eat. If you are confused, ask. And if anyone tells you that you not allowed in the kitchens, tell them the emperor gave you permission."

You squinted at him playfully. "Did the emperor give me permission ?"

He tore off a piece of your roll and popped it into his mouth. "He just did."

You both chuckled and you gave him your apple. But then, a question popped up in your mind.

"So…what happened to them ?" you asked, looking at Emperor Geta before developing. "Emperor Caracalla and Macrinus, I mean… What did you do with them after…you know ?"

Emperor Geta stared at the apple for a moment, his fingers lightly tracing the smooth skin as he considered your question. The humor had faded from his expression…

"My brother was sent off to one of our secondary estates far from Rome…or somewhere he couldn’t be as easily manipulated anymore," he told you and sighed. "He’ll come back eventually but…I want him to rest the time I manage things here in the capital."

You nodded. Emperor Caracalla, the brother who had once been by his side, was now out of power and Emperor Geta was now…truly alone.

"And Macrinus ?" you asked, hesitantly.

Geta’s gaze darkened, and his jaw clenched slightly, his eyes flickering with anger before he spoke again.

"Macrinus has been stripped of his wealth and titles," he told you, his voice growing colder. "He is in a cell beneath the palace—under constant guard. No gold. No influence. No visitors. He will never see the light of the Senate floor again."

You winced at the finality in his words, but a part of you couldn’t help but feel a sense of justice being served. Macrinus had betrayed not just the emperor but everyone who had placed their trust in him. His fate, however harsh, felt deserved. You reached out without thinking and patted his shoulder soothingly. He blinked down at your hand in surprise, then met your gaze with a quiet sort of curiosity.

"To be fair. For someone who nearly got stabbed to death," you said, with a small smirk, "you turned out alright."

He gave you a small smile. "That is very true," he replied and took a bite of the apple in his hand. The silence stretched between you, comfortable now. There was no tension, no awkwardness, just two people sitting side by side in the quiet of the palace kitchen, the remnants of a shared experience hanging between you like a thread you didn’t want to let go of. Then, after a long pause, Geta spoke again, his voice softer, but there was a sense of resolve behind his words.

"Tomorrow, there will be a Senate meeting," he announced. "And I want you there. Officially."

You raised an eyebrow, surprised. "To do what ? Steal bread off the senators’ plates ?" You tried to keep your tone light, but a part of you was genuinely curious. What role was he imagining for you in that room full of power and politics ?

Geta’s lips quirked up at the corners in a fleeting smile, but his eyes remained serious.

"No," he replied, "I want you there because you have earned a place." He paused, then added, "You have a voice, and I wish to hear it."

His words caught you off guard, but you couldn’t deny the warmth that bloomed in your chest. It was a strange, surreal feeling—this idea of being seen. Truly seen. Not just as a servant or an outsider, but as someone who had fought for something.

You swallowed, suddenly unsure how to respond. "But I…I am not a senator," you reminded him, almost timidly. "I do not know the first thing about politics or making speeches."

"Then learn," Geta replied with a shrug. "We can start with the basics." He held out the apple, offering it back to you. "You may not know politics now, but you will learn."

You stared at the apple for a moment, then at him, and something inside you clicked into place. Maybe this was your chance. Maybe this was the start of something new. With a deep breath, you took the apple from him and nodded, the resolve settling within you, alongside a renewed sense of purpose.

"Alright, Your Highness," you agreed, meeting his gaze with a spark of determination. "I will be there. And I will learn. I will make sure the people’s voices are heard."

Geta’s smile returned, just a little. "That is all I ask for."

You smiled back and took a big bite of the apple in turn.

…

The next day, Emperor Geta had sent you the finest dress you had ever seen to attend the meeting with the Senate. The dress was unlike anything you’d ever touched, let alone worn. Soft as clouds, woven in deep imperial blue, the fabric shimmered faintly in the light like moonlight on water. Golden threads embroidered the hem with delicate laurel leaves, each stitch fine and careful. A small, weighty clasp shaped like an eagle pinned the sash over your shoulder, and your hair had been done in soft braids coiled with tiny pearls.

You barely recognized yourself in the polished bronze mirror. But your hands were the same—rough and hard as a proof of your past status. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You trembled slightly—because you knew what room you were about to step into.

You remembered Emperor Geta’s words.

"You will attend the meeting with the Senate."

You’d laughed at first—still thinking he would come back on his decision. But he hadn’t.

"You’ll sit beside me."

Now, here you were. Standing in the cold marble hallway that led to the Senate chamber, guards at every pillar, their spears gleaming. The tall doors loomed ahead, and behind them—dozens of senators, cloaked in power, suspicion, and carefully trained smiles.

The guard beside you opened the door.

You took another breath.

And stepped in.

Heads turned. Conversations halted mid-sentence. You could feel their gazes raking over your dress, your face, your status—or rather, the absence of one.

A servant girl in silk.

The room fell momentarily silent, before the protests began. "My Emperor, this is completely unacceptable," one of the senators protested. "A servant girl at the table of the Senate ?! A girl without noble blood ?! We are not savages. There is proper protocol to follow, proper—"

"ENOUGH !" The room fell silent again at Geta’s booming voice. All the senators snapped their mouths shut, too scared to speak anymore. Geta looked around, his gaze sweeping over the room like a snake. "There will be no arguments," he said—leaving no room for disagreement. "This woman is my friend, and the woman who stood between me and death—while NONE of you did. She is as if not more worthy than all of you !"

The different senators looked away guiltily and Emperor Geta himself stood from his seat to cross the floor and offer you his hand. Not to lead you, not to command you. To invite you.

"My new advisor," he declared once more, as several old senators blinked in disbelief. "She speaks with honesty, and saved my life. You will show her the same respect you show me. That is an order."

There was only silence as a response. Then finally a few reluctant nods. A slow ripple of acceptance—or the performance of it.

He leaned slightly closer to you as you sat. "Breathe," he murmured. "You are my advisor—act as such."

You didn’t respond, but you did sit straighter.

And as the session began—with talks of land, unrest, the people’s hunger—you felt his hand rest briefly on the edge of your chair.

A quiet reassurance. He wasn’t pretending to know everything. But he was trying. And he’d brought you to help him do it. It gave you more confidence and you held your head high. That’s right. He had chosen you to come and hear them talk, he had chosen you as his advisor.

You had nothing to feel ashamed of.

You belonged here.

Let the empire watch…

The voices in the chamber were sharp and calculated. Senators stood to speak one after another—most with carefully veiled complaints, others with outright disdain cloaked as concern.

"The grain stores are being pillaged in the south. The people grow restless."

"The treasury cannot sustain these peace offerings to the provinces much longer."

"And now His Highness brings a servant to advise him ?"

That last one was meant to be a whisper. It wasn’t. You kept your gaze ahead. Your pulse was thunder in your ears. But when you turned your head slightly, you caught Geta’s face. His jaw was tense, but his eyes flicked toward you. He was giving you the choice. You could remain silent, or you could speak.

You stood and the chamber froze.

"I may not be noble," you began, your voice steady despite the way your hands clasped tightly in front of you, "but I know how cold the palace stones get when you sleep near them. I know the smell of spoiled grain because I’ve been ordered to clean the storerooms no one else dares enter. I know what people say when they think no one important is listening."

A ripple moved through the room. One senator shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

You continued, "The Empire is not dying because of lack of coin. It is dying because too many of you have forgotten what it means to need. To hunger. To fear. To serve."

A pause. Sharp. Powerful.

"His Highness has not forgotten." You turned and met Geta’s gaze. You said it for him, but also for yourself. "He sees you. He listens. And if he is to rule, truly rule, it will be with open ears and open eyes."

There was silence. A long, tense silence broken only by the soft sound of your breath and the crackle of torchlight. Then, at the far side of the room, an older senator with silver in his beard and a deep scar down one cheek stood slowly. He bowed his head.

"I see no reason why truth, however humble its origins, should be unwelcome in these halls."

Others shifted. A few nodded. Some glared.

But the ripple had begun.

Geta stood beside you now. His hand brushed yours as you took back your seat beside him—brief, subtle.

You didn’t smile. But he did.

And when the session finally ended, and the senators filed out—some grudging, some thoughtful—he turned to you with a victorious smile. "You’ve done more with one speech than I have in a year."

You smiled. "Maybe next time, they’ll know better than to underestimate the girl cleaning the floors."

He laughed quietly. "I’m never going to hear the end of that, am I ?"

You smirked. "Not from me."

…

Outside, the city still roared with unrest.

But inside the palace, for the first time in years, someone had shaken the halls…

A warm breeze swept through the marble corridors as you and Emperor Geta exited the Senate chamber. The golden light of late afternoon pooled across the floor, catching in the folds of your gown—silk, impossibly soft, a far cry from the rough-spun linen you had worn not long ago. You were still adjusting to the shift. Still half-waiting to be scolded or dismissed or corrected. But Geta walked beside you, quiet and proud, arms tucked behind his back, the weight of his youth offset by a strange steadiness growing in him. It wasn’t the crown that had matured him—it was the fire he’d nearly died in.

"You made them listen," he said after a moment.

You glanced at him, lifting a brow. "You mean we made them listen ?"

He shook his head slightly. "No. They would’ve tuned me out again. But you—you reminded them what it means to serve."

He paused just before the towering arch that led out into the courtyard. Guards stood at attention, but none dared interrupt.

"You could’ve chosen an easier path. Taken Macrinus’s offer. Gold, freedom…comfort."

You tilted your head. "Comfort’s never meant much to me. Not if I had to watch the wrong people get power for it."

He smiled faintly, but there was a shadow behind his eyes. "You might’ve made a fine emperor."

You snorted softly. "Gods forbid. I’d have half the Empire chasing me with pitchforks by morning."

He laughed—a real laugh this time. Rich and unguarded. The guards blinked, surprised. It was the first time anyone had heard that sound in months—if not years. Then, as the laughter faded, he looked at you again, something unreadable in his gaze. The weight of the moment settled between you.

"You’ve seen me at my worst," he confessed, "and you didn’t flinch. I don not know what the future holds. I do not even know if I will still be emperor in a year…but if I am, I want you to be part of whatever I build."

You studied him, the boy who had once stood trembling before a crowd that hated him, the boy who had nearly died because those closest to him betrayed him. And now here he was—standing taller, not because he wore a crown, but because he had chosen to grow.

Slowly, you nodded. "Then let’s build it right."

Geta’s eyes softened. And then he extended his hand—not as an emperor, but as something closer. A friend. An equal.

You took it.

And the winds that swept through the palace that day carried more than the scent of coming spring.

Suddenly, you stood up and took your cleaning cloth before bravely running forward to hold the dagger back by wrapping it around the sharp end.

Geta seemed in shock before he shouted:

"GUARDS !"

But nobody came. You gritted your teeth as you desperately tried to hold back both Emperor Caracalla and the man you had recognised as Macrinus. However, Macrinus suddenly slapped you. You fell to the floor and the weapons’ dealer wanted to try stabbing Emperor Geta again when he noticed that the dagger was no longer in Emperor Caracalla’s hand. He looked back at you and found that you had stolen the dagger from him. You were panting—wiping the blood off your chin.

You were tired and your eyes were glassy as you took a few steps back. Macrinus approached you.

"Give me the dagger, girl. Give it and I will make you rich."

Your fingers clenched tightly around the dagger, the cloth barely shielding your skin from the sharpness. Blood from your palm began to stain the fabric, but you barely noticed it. The sting was nothing compared to the weight of the decision pressing down on you.

You stared at Macrinus as he stepped closer, his voice honeyed yet laced with venom. You hesitated. Meanwhile, Emperor Caracalla seemed lost and confused while Emperor Geta shouted at Macrinus.

"How dare you try to kill an EMPEROR ?!"

But Macrinus didn’t look at him. Emperor Geta wasn’t the one holding the winning card—you were. If you gave Macrinus the dagger…you knew that you would be condemning Emperor Geta to certain death as both his brother and Macrinus wanted him dead. You would also maybe be well-rewarded for your silence. His words dangled before you like bait, tempting, shining. You could already imagine the coin, the comfort, the way you’d no longer have to scrub palace floors until your knees ached. But then—your eyes met with the frightened ones of Emperor Geta—the child. He had been crying…crying over a people that didn’t like him—or respect him.

He was trembling—not just from the threat of death, but from betrayal, from fear, from everything a child never should’ve had to face. Despite the robes and the crown, you could see it in his eyes: he was terrified.

And yet, he hadn’t run. He’d stood his ground.

You swallowed hard, your voice shaky as you addressed Macrinus.

"I was just cleaning the floors."

Macrinus blinked. "What ?"

"I was just cleaning the floors," you repeated, your grip on the dagger tightening. "And now I’m standing between a man and a boy you tried to murder—by the hand of his own brother no less."

Macrinus’s eyes narrowed and he scoffed. "Fine. Then die for him."

He lunged.

But you were already moving.

With a sudden burst of energy, you pivoted and flung the dagger—not at Macrinus—but toward the hallway, where the sound of armored footsteps finally echoed. The blade clattered across the marble, catching the attention of the incoming guards.

"Intruder !" you screamed. "Traitor !"

The guards charged in, surrounding Macrinus. Emperor Geta gasped and backed away, eyes wide as his brother was restrained. Caracalla shouted—something about lies, about trickery—but no one was listening anymore. The moment had passed. The threat had been seen. You stood there, breathing hard, covered in dust, your hand still bloody snd trembling from the fight.

Geta stepped forward towards you with eyes widened in shock.

"You…You saved my life."

You didn’t bow. Not this time. You just met his eyes and said quietly, "Don’t forget the people who clean your floors, Emperor."

And then, finally, the weight of the moment crashed down, and everything went dark. When you awoke, it was with a sharp gasp—a breath that clawed its way up from your lungs like you’d been drowning. Your hand throbbed, wrapped now in linen. You blinked against the soft orange glow of the oil lamp on the bedside table, your mind still caught somewhere between dream and memory.

And then you saw him. Standing at the foot of your bed—silent, solemn—was Emperor Geta.

He hadn’t changed out of his ceremonial robes. The deep reds and golds still clung to him like the weight of a crown too big for his head. His eyes—those wide, tired, frightened eyes—were locked on you. You tried to sit up, wincing as pain lanced through your side. He stepped forward instinctively.

"Careful," he said, his voice soft and steady.

You sat up slowly, wobbly, propped against the cushions someone must have placed behind you. "Your Highness…" you murmured, unsure what else to say.

He didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, like he wasn’t sure he should even be here. Like he wasn’t sure you would want him to be. Then, finally, he said, "You could have run."

You frowned at him.

"You should have," he added. "When you saw my brother. When you saw Macrinus. You should’ve run."

Your throat was dry. "I know."

"So…why didn’t you ?" His voice cracked slightly. "You are not a guard. You are not a soldier. You are not even supposed to be in the throne hall at that hour. You knew they wanted me dead."

You looked at him—really looked at him. And for the first time, you saw not just an emperor or a boy with a crown, but someone drowning in too many expectations, too much fear.

You shrugged.

"Because you were crying,” you replied simply—not expecting what that answer would lead to. He said nothing for a long time. His hands were clasped in front of him, gripping each other tightly—white-knuckled. When he finally spoke, it was almost a whisper.

"You are no longer a servant in this palace."

You blinked in surprise before frowning in confusion. "What ?"

"You saved the emperor’s life," he said and smiled. "And that makes you someone important now."

A silence stretched between you. The air was heavy.

He tilted his head. "What is your name ?"

You hesitated—then gave it, quietly.

He repeated it, tasting it like something sacred. Then he straightened and nodded, more to himself than to you.

"I won’t forget it," he promised and turned away. You followed him with your eyes and once he was out of sight, you let out a sigh.

What now ?

The soft creak of the door closing was the only sound in the room. For a moment, it felt like the whole palace was holding its breath.

You stared up at the ceiling, the linen sheets scratchy against your skin, your hand burning beneath its bandages. You weren't a servant anymore. The words rang in your mind like a bell.

You are no longer a servant in this palace.

But what did that mean ? What did one become when they weren't a servant, but not quite a noble, either ? A hero ? A pawn ? A liability ?

The door creaked again.

"Emperor Geta told me to bring this for you."

You turned your head to see a young palace attendant step into the room, balancing a tray with a bowl of warm porridge, fresh bread, and water. You sat up straighter.

The attendant set the tray down gently. "He also said if you need anything, to send for him. Personally."

Personally.

You nodded, though your mind was still spinning. "Thank you."

When the attendant left, you stared down at the meal. The bread was soft, the kind usually saved for higher court members. The porridge smelled of honey and herbs. You took a small bite, and for the first time since you'd stumbled into that throne room, your body began to thaw.

Still-questions swirled in your head like smoke.

Would Emperor Caracalla be exiled...or return ?

What of Macrinus ? Would he rot in the dungeon or plot revenge ?

Would the people still cry for blood outside the palace walls ?

And perhaps the heaviest question of all: what would Emperor Geta do now, now that he had lived through betrayal? And where did you fit into that story ?

You reached for the cloth beside the bowl, gently dabbing your mouth. A drop of blood stained the white. You didn't wipe it away.

Days passed...The palace had changed.

Where there was once a quiet, predictable order-servants moving like shadows, guards standing stiff at their posts-there was now something tense, something watchful.

Murmurs followed you when you walked.

Some bowed lower than they had before.

Others turned away quickly, as if afraid to meet your gaze.

Word had spread.

The servant who had stood between an emperor and death. The one who had stopped Macrinus. The one who had changed everything. But for all the whispers about you, Emperor Geta had remained silent. He hadn't summoned you since that night. You still weren't a servant, but you weren't entirely sure what you were. No longer scrubbing floors, yet not dressed in silks like the nobility.

No longer bound by orders, yet still confined within the palace walls. You were...waiting. For what, you weren't sure—until a summons came.

It was evening when a guard found you in the palace gardens, where you had taken to wandering in quiet moments. He didn't offer you a reason, just a simple, "The Emperor requests your presence."

And so, once again, you found yourself standing before Emperor Geta. He was seated this time-not on his throne, but by a low table, the golden glow of the lamps casting soft shadows against his face. He had changed from his ceremonial robes into something simpler, yet still elegant. A tunic embroidered with gold thread, the imperial seal glinting at his chest. His eyes, tired yet sharp, lifted to meet yours.

"I thought you wouldn't come." His voice was softer than you expected.

You hesitated before stepping forward.

"Would you have ordered me to ?"

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips—but he didn't reply. Silence followed. The kind that weighed heavy, thick with things unsaid. Then, with a slow breath, he gestured to the seat across from him. "Sit."

You did. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The distant sound of fountains filled the air.

The muffled murmurs of the palace beyond these walls.

Finally, Geta spoke again.

"I have been thinking about what you said.

About remembering the people who clean my floors." He leaned forward slightly, his fingers drumming lightly against the table. "It wasn't just words, was it ?"

You held his gaze. "No, Your Highness."

His expression darkened-not in anger, but in something else. Thoughtfulness. Uncertainty.

"I want to know," he said slowly, "what you would do in my place."

That caught you off guard. "In your place ?"

"If you were me." He straightened. "If you had survived betrayal. If you had a brother who wanted you dead. If the people outside still whispered for your downfall. What would you do ?"

A test. Or maybe something else-maybe he truly didn't know what to do. Maybe the boy-emperor, who had spent his life overshadowed by Caracalla, was reaching for answers in the most unexpected places. You looked at him-really looked at him. The weight of the laurel wreath atop his head. The tension in his shoulders. The flicker of exhaustion behind his sharp gaze.

What would you do ?

And more importantly...Would he listen ?

You took a deep breath and decided to be honest. "If you keep neglecting the people, you will lose their love."

Geta blinked. He didn’t flinch—didn’t scowl, didn’t bark an order. He just…sat there, as if your honesty had peeled something open inside him. He leaned back slowly, his fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the table.

"You think they hate me," he said quietly.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you looked past him—through the arched windows to the torch-lit city below, where unrest still simmered beneath forced peace.

"I think they do not know you," you replied truthfully. "And you do not know them."

There was a pause. Then you continued.

"They see you through the taxes they cannot pay, the soldiers who knock on their doors, the grain that never comes on time. You see them as noise beyond the palace gates. But when they cheer, you believe it. And when they scream…you hide."

His jaw clenched and he looked away.

You leaned forward just a little. "If you want to rule, Your Highness, then let them know your voice. Your real one. Not the words your advisors tell you to speak. Let them see that you are not your brother."

Geta stared at you. Then, after a long, stretched silence, he whispered, "…I cried that night because I thought I was already dead."

Your eyes widened in slight surprise.

He looked away again and let his fingers dance in the air like waves. "When I saw them outside—when I saw Caracalla—I realized no one was coming to help me. Not even the gods. I was just a child in a crown, surrounded by wolves. But then you…" His voice caught and his eyes looked back at you—two golden orbs staring right at you. "You, a servant…you stood between me and the blade."

You looked down at your still-bandaged hand and suddenly felt the need to hide it behind your back. He noticed, but didn’t mention it.

"I do not know what to do," he confessed. "Not really. I know how to pretend. I know how to smile. I know how to sign decrees. But I do not know how to be…loved."

There was something haunting in that admission. Not desperate. Not dramatic. Just…true.

You stood up slowly. He looked up at you, startled. You placed your hand over your heart and said, "Then let that be your first act, Emperor. Learn. Don’t rule by fear or favor. Rule by understanding."

Geta stared at you, as if committing every word to memory.

"…Will you help me ?" he asked, the question so small it barely escaped his lips.

You blinked in surprise. "What ?"

He looked at you with a certain desperation in his gaze.

"I want someone who isn’t afraid to speak like that. Someone who will tell me the truth, even if it hurts. You saved my life…now I ask you to help me live it."

Your heart stilled for a second.

"I do not have titles to give you," he added quickly. "Not yet. But I have a place. At my side. Not as a servant. Not as a noble. But as…an advisor—perhaps a friend."

The choice hung there—between past and future, silence and voice, fear and change. And for the first time in your life, you were the one holding the winning card. You took a moment to think about it before replying…

"Then I will gladly accept, my Emperor." You raised a hand to your heart and knelt before him. For a moment, Geta seemed at a loss before a smile stretched across his face.

"You and I…are going to reshape history."