Maddison

your family had always struggled for money, and most of your childhood and teenage life was spent wondering if there was going to be a meal on the table for you tonight. he was the very thing you couldn't stand in this city. while people like him hid in their sheltered gated communities, people like you fought for scraps in the streets.

you knew your family would be overjoyed to hear that your soulmate was the heir to the wayne fortunes - their son in law was going to be - well, is - a billionaire. so, for your own sanity, you didn't tell them you actually knew your soulmate's name.

in your dreams, you caught brief snippets of his gated life - life in wayne manor, with a butler, countless pets, and everything handed to him whenever he asked for it. you pray you never meet him, already having it in your mind that he's just another stuck up, selfish rich kid heir.

the universe had never been kind to you - especially not today. everything that could've gone wrong, went wrong. you felt like crying while on your commute home. surely it couldn't get any worse.

as if some higher power had took that as a challenge, you felt a painfully strong grip on your bicep before being hauled into the alleyway beside you. before you could even scream, you were pressed up against the wall with a shove way too forceful and a man was rummaging through your college bag for anything valuable.

'you won't find anything of value in there,' you wanted to spit out at the man, but you were too struck frozen by your own fear to even take a deep enough breath. just as you were about to surrender your belongings, the man was suddenly swept off his feet and hit the floor. a blur of black and red was on top of him, apprehending him and reclaiming your bag.

your saviour stood up, revealing himself to be the sidekick of the batman - robin. you'd never imagined yourself to be one of the victims that either member of the dynamic duo would ever save.

a grunt from the boy in front of you snapped you out of your train of thought as he was holding out your bag. you reached out with a shaky 'thank you' to take it back, but instead, only a wince left your lips as you reached to cradled your arm.

everything happened so fast that the memory of the injury had escaped you. robin didn't seem to worried at the injury as he looked at it, "you should go to the hospital to get that seen to."

.. you don't have the funds for that. so instead, you wave him off with an empty promise, "yeah, will do."

an awkward silence falls between you both. the look in his eyes hidden behind his domino mask told you that he knew you were lying, but he made no move to call you out as you made your move to leave.

"you know, it's common practice to thank someone after they save you," robin forced out, looking away from your injured arm. you stopped dead in your tracks - was robin attempting to banter with you? or was he being serious?

"thank you," you offered him, still a bit shaken by the events of earlier. robin looked around, "do you live around here? it's unsafe."

you started walking out of the alleyway and back onto the street, unaware that robin had taken that as an invitation to follow you, "oh, yeah. my apartment building isn't that far away from here."

"oh," he coughed out, "that's unlucky."

did he mean about being assaulted and nearly robbed so close to my own apartment or the fact that i stay in the poorest neighbourhood in gotham? you wondered, but didn't dignify him with a response.

you both stopped in front of your apartment after a short walk, and you turned back to look at robin awkwardly, "well. this is me."

"right," he said after a moment, taking in your run down apartment before turning to see you scanning your key and inputting your apartment number.

before you could slip into your building where he wouldn't follow, he forced out a goodbye that you could barely hear. you turned back to him, taking him in. he looked stiff and tense, barely able to look you in the eye as you offered him your own goodbye.

gotham's vigilantes are weird.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

that night, when he returns from his patrol and strips himself of his alter ego, damian wayne dreams of you again. dreams of your fingers running through his dark curls, dreams of your life together, dreams of your laughter filling the barren hallways of wayne manor.

he wants to slap himself for his behaviour earlier. the moment he clocked your appearance and realised who you were, he was no better than a fish out of water. he made an absolute fool of himself.

luckily for him, however, you didn't seem to recognise him - it seemed like you didn't dream of his alter ego, only damian wayne. so he had another chance at a first meeting - hopefully one where he would actually know what to say to you.

meeting his soulmate had been on his mind all day - leaving him preoccupied as he sat at the large dining table, with dick, tim, bruce, and surprisingly, jason. his change in behaviour since returning from patrol had not gone unnoticed by his family.

dick, ever the concerned older brother, was the first to comment on it, "so, damian, did anything happen on patrol today..?"

"nothing happened," damian quipped immediately, giving his older brother a sharp look.

jason bristled at damian's instant defensiveness, "kinda sounds like something happened, demon spawn. you've been on edge since you got back from patrol."

"i am not on edge," damian seethed, "why can't any of you just mind your own business?"

bruce sat watching the conversation play out silently, studying his youngest son's body language as he tried to gauge what was happening.

tim finally spoke up from beside bruce, "you came home from patrol early. you didn't attend your usual training session afterwards. something definitely happened on your patrol. something has the damian wayne rattled."

as if tim's words struck a chord within him, jason suddenly spoke up with a wide grin, "or someone. was it a girl?"

damian flinched imperceptibly at how quickly they'd gotten it right on the nose. jason and tim burst into laughter again, before bruce cut them off.

"was it her? the one you've been dreaming of?"

bruce took damian's silence as his answer. jason and tim quickly stifled their laughter at the mention of the mysterious girl damian has been dreaming of. he rarely ever mentioned something so personal around his family.

"did she know it was you?" bruce questioned simply. what he really meant was: did she know damian wayne is robin?

"no, father, i don't think she recognised me," damian grumbled, throwing glares back at tim and jason as they started chuckling again. dick finally chimed in, "then i think you should introduce yourself to her as damian. you wouldn't have to tell her that you're robin yet."

damian weighed his other options, but he knew deep down that dick was right. which is what led to where he was right now - small cafe near your college. he'd pulled some strings, looked into where you worked, and wound up here. dick had suggested this - you were the barista at this cafe, giving your wages to your parents to support your family. he said that showing up here would end up being a 'meet-cute.'

he's going to kill dick grayson when he gets home.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

of course this just had to happen during lunch rush. you stood, ready to take the next customer's order, making friendly eye contact with them before your face - and heart - dropped.

in front of you was damian wayne - the boy from your dreams who you've been dreading to meet. he opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, as if he was just as shocked to see you here as you were to see him.

after a few more moments of gaping at each other in shock, you quickly excused yourself and slipped out into the staff room to hide. you felt like you were reeling, seeing him so abruptly and unexpectedly.

you planned on hiding in the staff room for the rest of your shift - who knows how long he could stay out there for? but, the universe has been really hating you lately, and you were met with the scrutinising gaze of your boss.

as much as you wanted to hide away from the world (and damian wayne), you needed this job and your family needed fed. you couldn't get the encounter off of your mind for the remainder of your shift - every time you took a customer's order, felt the same phantom fright incoming.

your shift came quickly to a close. your mind wandered as you closed up the cafe, your body on autopilot as you brushed and wiped, eventually closing the shutters and beginning your commute home. obviously you knew the dangers of walking home alone this late on your own in gotham - you'd been a victim of the danger only recently. but you had no other option.

tonight, you walked quicker, trying to make your way home before the wrong crowd could spot you. that was until a familiar voice stopped you dead in your tracks, "what's the rush?"

you paused, turning to the alley and squinting to see the owner of the voice before heaving out a sigh of recognition, "robin."

"you never answered my question," robin pressed again, making himself visible from the shadows of the alley. you smiled slightly to yourself, feeling safer now at with the company of gotham's protector's sidekick.

"i don't want a repeat of what happened last time," you said, before an idea popped into your mind, "hold on, what are you doing here?"

robin tensed slightly, coming out of the alleyway and standing closer to you, "i'm on patrol, what else would i be doing at this time of night?"

"you know what i meant," you restated, "what are you doing here? at the same alley you saved me in last time? don't you have criminals to stop or villains to catch?"

"i should be doing that," the boy wonder admitted, looking a little sheepish, "i just believe it would be advantageous for you to have an escort home."

there was a short moment of silence between you as you registered his words, "let me get this straight. robin, the boy wonder himself, wants to.. walk me home?"

robin looked abashed as you reworded him. you tried to stifle a laugh, but you ended up cackling, "so you're walking a girl like me home instead of, y'know, capturing villains?"

you're not sure when you both picked up your feet and continued your commute, but the lively conversation between you both halted as you were met by the front door of your apartment building. robin was nicer than you thought he'd be - more outgoing. you didn't think that the sidekick of the batman took time out of his patrol to walk girls home.

"so do you walk every girl you save home or just the ones from the poor neighbourhoods?" you question him teasingly, gauging his reaction as he fails to meet your eyes.

"you're home safe now, are you not?" robin quipped back, making you chuckle slightly at his inability to handle a bit of teasing. a short silence rested between you both, as if you were both hesitant to say goodbye. robin spoke up again, "are you okay? you seem tense. did.. something happen earlier?"

you flinched at the memory of damian wayne appearing in your workplace earlier. although you desperately needed to rant about how terrible your day had been, you're not sure robin was the best ear for it.

"well i didn't have the greatest day," you admitted, fishing around your bag for your keys, "but i won't bore you with the details."

robin looked eager to press for more, but decided against it. you put your key to the door to let yourself in, before turning to wish robin a goodbye, only to see that he was gone. you looked around, before shrugging to yourself and entering your apartment building.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

about a week later, you were rudely awoken by the sound of your bedroom window rattling. you shot up out of bed, hair a mess, eyes darting around your bedroom in alert. your first instinct was that one of your little siblings had got up in the middle of the night and caused a riot.

but when your room was empty, you found yourself settling back into your bed in a sleepy haze of confusion. before you could even try to go back to sleep, your bedroom window rattled again, harsher this time.

with an annoyed groan, you crawl out of your bed and towards your window, shoving it open way more aggressively than you should've - clearly annoyed at being disturbed while sleeping,

you were surprised when robin himself fell through your window, clutching his stomach and landing on your room floor with minimal grace. you stared down at the black haired boy on your room floor and cursed to yourself. of course you deserved another run in with the vigilante.

the boy looked up at you with a sharp glare, arm still clutched around his stomach, "are you going to help me or just stare at me like an idiot?"

you scoffed at his behaviour, before whisper-shouting at him, "i'll get the first aid kit from the bathroom. after this, i have a lot of questions for you."

part 2

Your husband, the Emperor, has not made you witness this horror, nor has he spoken of it. He avoids your gaze like a man haunted, slipping between council chambers and war rooms, conferring with Hizuru and his closest advisors. The silence he’s offered is not mercy, it is distance. You suspect your sobs over another man’s body did not escape his notice. Levi can be a jealous man when unsure, though right now, his absence stings less than your grief.

In place of sorrow, a darker bitterness blooms. You mourn, yes, but you also seethe. Not just at Levi, whose blade slashed Porco’s throat, but at your brothers across the sea. Zeke, in particular, has become the target of your most venomous prayers. You've poured your curses into ink, drafting letters filled with rage and heartbreak, letters that will never leave your chamber.

Marley is closed off to you. Even simple requests to write to your parents have been denied. That is not the only freedom stripped from you though. You are kept in your quarters like a prisoner dressed in silk. The room, once gilded in delicate tapestries and radiant light, now closes in around you like a tomb. Its opulence feels cruel in contrast to your grief. Outside your window, the elder tree stands barren, its petals long since fallen to the soil turning an ugly brown color.

On the tray beside the fireplace, your tea has grown cold. The untouched breakfast before you, fresh bread, soft cheese and ripe fruit, wilts in its own warmth, ignored from you. Dressed in only a mourning robe, you warm yourself and watch the flames, wondering how much they would hurt if you touched them. Your hands lie limp in your lap, pale and still, like lilies set upon a casket. There is no fever in your body, no true illness, and yet you are sick with fatigue, with sorrow too heavy to swallow.

The court has turned its back. You feel it in the silence of the halls, in the way the walls seem to listen. Whispers trail behind you like echoes. Lady Rico of Brzenska, once a loyal lady in waiting, has vanished under the pretense of poor health. Lady Marie Louisa Dok followed in her shadow the next morning, her farewell no more than a shallow curtsy aimed not at you, but the Emperor. She has been pursued by her father the Lord Commander Dok. It was Sasha, your maid, who whispered the truth as she brushed your hair in the early morning hours. Sweet Sasha, the only one lighting up your gloomy days with gossip.

Even Ramzi, your quiet miracle, has been taken from you. The boy you rescued from starvation and prejudice has been summoned to begin his knightship training. They dress the order in the language of honor; of duty to his new home, but you know better. It is not a reward, it is exile. A gentle banishment for adopted sons and bastards, Levi has undergone the same procedure. You remember the way he clung to the edge of your gown when they called him. You kissed his forehead before he went, and told him to be brave, but deep down you swallowed down fear and sorrow for the little boy.

Your gaze drifts to the breakfast again, stomach coiling at the sweet scent of wild berries. A part of you longs for the comfort of food, the warmth of something ordinary. But your hands remain folded, unmoving. The hunger is buried beneath a deeper ache; one of betrayal and quiet humiliation. The very people who once bowed to you now question your presence in their sacred palace.

A knock disturbs the silence. A soft, deliberate knock, too polite to be a knight, too firm to be one of the maids. You do not answer, yet the door creaks open regardless. Your guard Jean must have let the person in. He has been on edge as of lately, even scared away your ladies Petra and Nifa when they tried to visit you for tea.

Hange Zoe enters like a gust of wind that has nowhere left to go. Her spectacles are fogged from the cold, her long coat damp at the hem. She must have walked all the way from the main palace to your wing on the outside. She carries parchment and ink in her hands like offerings. Her expression is tired, unreadable even. It doesn't suit her usual ecstatic energy.

“You’re awake.” She states, a little surprised, like she expected you to sleep in now that you are forced to be of duty. You don’t respond. Your gaze lingers on the hearth, where the fire burns low. It's not resentment you feel for her, no, but you wouldn't particularly say that you are happy to see her either. Levi must have sent her.

Hange sighs, crossing the room with a familiar kind of authority. She sets the writing tools down gently on the side table and takes a seat at your side, leaning forward on her elbows, as she follows your gaze to the flames.

“You need to write home.” Hange speaks, her voice quiet, almost reverent, as though she’s intruding on a sacred grief. Still, you do not reply. The words hover in the space between you like a silent declaration of protest.

“It will be your final letter-” She continues, gently, but with the authority of someone who understands the machinery of power.

“After this, the Emperor has declared you to have no further contact with Marley. Your brother, Eren has forced the same rule upon Princess Mikasa.”

Those names, Marley and Mikasa, land between you like a drop of ink in a basin of clear water. You gasp at the thought, feeling for your sister in law with the shared loss of autonomy.

“I know this isn’t fair.” Hange murmurs, folding her hands in front of her. “But fairness, fairness has never had a seat at court.”

Your fingers, resting still and pale in your lap, clench slowly, so tightly your knuckles whiten beneath the folds of your morning robes, as though your bones themselves are protesting.

“I did not know what they were planning-” You whisper, at last. Your voice is raw, unused and tired.

“-I swear to Ymir, I did not know.” While you do not share the beliefs of the goddess Ymir, you know that swoon would earn the trust of our personal advisor.

“I believe you.” She replies, and there’s something steady in her tone, measured, perhaps even sincere. And you think, or perhaps only hope, that she means it, but belief, you know, is not strong enough to unfasten the noose that has already begun its slow, silent tightening around the edges of your life.

“Emperor Levi wants you to let your relatives know about where your loyalty lies.” Hange says after a breath.

“Give them an official declaration. A denial to their actions perhaps. It would also strengthen your position as Empress at this court.”

“And if I refuse?” Your eyes, dimmed with grief but still burning with some faint spark, lift at last to meet hers. Said letter would perhaps support your claim as Levi's wife, yet it will certainly break the last bond you had with your family. It could even cause damage to Mikasa’s treatment. Hange doesn’t smile, doesn’t soften. Her voice is calm, almost tired, she must have worked non stop to save your image.

“Then they’ll write one in your name. Words you won’t choose. Sentiments you won’t recognize.”

The ink bottle glints beside her in the firelight, dark and thick as old blood. Ready to be used for a final goodbye. A hush follows her words, long and threadbare, stretched between you like a worn curtain fluttering in a wind neither of you can stop. Neither of you dare to draw back. Hange studies you for a moment, her gaze sharp but not unkind. She has always looked at people with a certain knowledge, like they are translucent to her wits.

“You’re grieving.” She notes, softer now, as if something in your silence moved her.

“I can see that. You cared for him, that warrior.” You give a single nod, slow and heavy, like a secret falling into confession. You haven't outspokenly admitted to it, but rumors in the palace spread like a deadly virus rapidly.

“He died in the belief of saving you. Very honrable.” She continues, her voice unwavering. Yet you find her choice of words unnervey, it is nothing you would have expected to hear from an eldian.

“Yes.” The word leaves your lips like a drop of warm wax; brief and painful. You are not mad at Porco, he did what he thought to be right.

“And now he guards the gate as a warning.” She says it plainly, as if it were just another fact in a ledger. But the cruelty of it still blooms beneath the surface. You inhale, sharp and sudden, and your eyes sting with tears you have refused to let fall. You blink them back, too ashamed to show your grief.

“He did not deserve that.” You argue, and your voice falters, trembling as though it might shatter mid-air. Your face turns bright red, as you feel hot all of a sudden, realizing that you really shouldn't argue the Emperor's comments in front of his dear friend.

“Not like that, I mean.”

Hange stands up, without ceremony, crossing to the desk near your window, leaving your words unanswered. She sets the inkwell down beside the blank parchment, the quill resting delicately beside it like a blade not yet drawn.

“I’ll leave them here.” She murmurs in deep thought.

“Write something, or don’t. But remember; silence, in this court, is a language too. And it is often misread.” She moves toward the door, her steps measured, then pauses with her hand resting lightly on the carved wood. Her warning consumes your thoughts loud and clear.

“For what it’s worth-” She adds over her shoulder, gifting you with her magnificent smile.

“I think you’re stronger than they want you to be.” Then she is gone, making sure the wooden door is locked behind her.

The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting shadows against the walls, long and flickering like ghosts. The ink waits in silence, while you simply stare it down, wondering if there is any hope in writing this dawned letter. If Levi is displeased with it, he would let Lord Smith or Duke Arlert rewrite it anyways.

You rise slowly, as though your limbs carry weights unseen. Your feet press softly against the velvet rug, bare and cold. With each step toward the desk, your breath grows shallower. You stand before the parchment, letting out a heavy sight as you take it into your hands, letting the raw material distract your senses for a while.

Right now you don't feel like you are in the right mind to write it. You need to collect your thoughts first, regain control of your emotions and find closure with your situation. Letting the parchfallpaper fall back onto the window frame you walk to the closed door and knock onto it twice.

“Your Majesty?” Jeans Kirstein's muted voice answers you, your loyal guard always at your service.

“Bring me Sasha. I need her to draw me a bath.” You demand clearly, crossing your arms as you wait for an answer.

“Yes, of course your Majesty.” Jean is quick to reply and the last thing you hear before you walk into your bathing chamber is him sending another knight away to fetch your maid.

The bath was drawn just thirty minutes later, steam curling through the air like silk threads unraveling from some ancient loom. Tried elder petals float listlessly across the surface, their color pale against the smooth color of your skin. Sasha's careful hands comb through your hair, her fingers tender, as though you are a precious object in the empire's collection.

Sasha doesn’t speak much, only humming now and then as she rinses your shoulders and presses a warm cloth along the nape of your neck. You let her. You sit in stillness, quiet and heavy, your thoughts dulled by days of confinement and the ache of things unsaid.

You don’t hear the knock so much as feel it; a vibration through the tiled floor, subtle but unmistakable. A hush falls over the space beyond the doors, servants pausing mid-step, ears tilting toward tension. Sasha looks up, her brows tightening.

“I will take care of it, no worries my Empress.” She promises, drying her hands quickly on a linen towel.

“I’ll see who it is.”

You nod absently, the water lapping gently at your collarbone. Candlelight flickers against the marble, long shadows swaying across the walls. Your limbs float, weightless, dreamlike in the warm pool of water, a wonderful feeling in this cold winter season.

Then you make out the voices, low and clearly tense.

“My lord, this is the Empress’s private hour. You can't-” Sasha repeats, but the Lord is not easily dismissed

“I can. And I will.” You are certain you know that smooth voice from somewhere. Sasha’s tone sharpens into protest.

“You are not permitted entry. She’s undressed!”

The door crashes open. You sit upright, startled but poised, water cascading down your chest and arms as you wait for the intruder to burst in. Your eyes find Sasha first, wide with disbelief and fury, before they shift to the man who follows her.

Lord Commander Erwin Smith. He strides into the bathing chamber as though it belongs to him. The scent of parchment and cold wind follows his cloak, his boots echoing on the marble with calm brutality. His face bears no emotion, only the iron mask of command.

Behind him, Jean hovers by the entrance, stiff and uncertain, one hand resting uselessly on the hilt of a ceremonial sword he will not draw. You understand, Lord Smith is his commander, he has no power over the man's desires.

“I tried to stop him.” Sasha snaps bravely, breathless and shaking with fury, positioning herself between you and the oncoming presence.

“Are you not ashamed, my Lord? Bursting into your Empress's bath?” Erwin doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

“You have served her well, Sasha Braus.”

He says, with a note that almost sounds like respect.

“But your loyalty does not outrank the will of the throne. Leave.” He demands sternly, his sky blue eyes roaming over your figure shamelessly as he takes in your flusheshed state. The clear water offers a sight that should be hidden from all men other than your husband.

“I’ll do no such thing-”

“Sasha.” You beg quietly, cutting across her with soft finality.

“Please wait outside with Jean.” She turns toward you, disbelief etched in every line of her face.

“Your Majesty-” She starts, startled by your clear plea.

“Please.”

Your voice does not rise. It doesn’t need to. Sasha’s mouth parts in protest, but the words never come. Her fists clench at her sides before she finally steps away, her glare burning into Erwin like a curse. Jean follows her, wordless, the door closing behind them with a hush like judgment.

Now you are alone, alone with the warmth of the bath, the rising steam and the chill of his presence. He approaches the edge of the bath, hands folded neatly behind his back, his posture too perfect, too composed, as though he stands at a war table instead of before a woman stripped down naked.

You make no move to cover yourself. Let him take in the sight in a desperate need of showcasing dominance over the situation. Though, you are aware that you truly have no say in what's going to happen next.

“You have come to humiliate me?” You ask, your voice cool as the marble beneath his boots.

“I have come to remind you-” He replies.“-that you have a role to play. One that you seem to have forgotten in the softness of your confinement.”

You tilt your head, arching a brow.

“And what role is that? Decorative wife? Or a political hostage perhaps?” Sass hasn't helped you, but you feel like it's the only way to measure up with him.

“You are the Empress.” Smith reminds.

“You are Emperor Levi’s wife. And yet, there are whispers that you’ve lost his favor. That you are failing the Empire’s most fundamental expectation.” Your jaw tightens. You know what’s coming. You’ve heard it murmured behind closed doors, felt it in the silence of your husband’s absence.

“There is no heir. Nine months have passed. Your sister in law will receive her babe soon, yet your womb remains empty.” You turn your face away, your voice low but cold.

“You think I am not aware of that?” His eyes finally meet yours, stopping the gawinking of your exposed mounts that peek out from underneath the water's surface. The cool air covers your shoulders in a goosebump and hardens your sensitive nipples.

“Oh. I know you are well aware of that. And I know that you spread your legs dutifully in the past.” Erwin answers, his tone level, calm and infuriating.

“But that does not change a thing. You receive him too irregularly.” His voice is steady yet insulting. Your cheeks turn red, uncomfortable with the way he casually talks about your intimate life.

He takes another step toward the bath, creating a suffocating environment. “From tonight on, you will summon him daily.” Your eyes snap to him.

“You will ask for your Emperor. You will prove that your loyalty remains, even if your womb remains empty.”

You rise slowly, deliberately, water cascading from your skin in silver streams. You do not cover yourself. Not out of pride, but out of defiance. You face him not as something fragile, but as something unbroken.

“I do not take orders from Commanders.” You say, voice sharpened like drawn steel. Not showing your discomfort at how close he is to you, you choose to stand proud and tall.

“No, perhaps not.” Erwin agrees, his gaze holding yours without flinching.

“But you live and die by the court’s favor. And that favor is slipping through your fingers.” He closes in, not touching you, merely whispering into your ear.

“A breedable Empress has a good survival rate in this palace, Elise. Think about your precious life, hm?”

He steps back, shamelessly glancing down and taking in your body one last time. Then he’s gone, marching out of your chambers as he leaves you there standing, naked and vulnerable. It’s the first time you feel your life being in danger since the incident with knight Miche.

Water clings to your skin while the candles burn lower, their flames dancing against the quiet fury in your chest. The petals floating around in the bathwater have begun to curl at the edges, their beauty decaying in silence. Before Sasha comes rushing back, a quick, hitched breath leaves your lips and deeply frustrated sob escapes you. The maid hugs you in a comfortable towel and suffers with you in silence, her hug comforting. If there was one man you hate more than Zeke right now it would certainly be the Lord Commander of the scouts knightship.

Levi, exhausted from a restless week, strolls through the halls of his palace, his guard following after him. When your note reached him he was surprised to say the least, perhaps he felt a little offended about your demand too. You were in no place to order him around and yet he complied like a love sick man, walking through the dark wing to your personal quarters.

He's not sure what to expect, maybe you wanted to talk him out of keeping you locked up. What once started as a mere measurement for your safety ended as a form of punishment. Levi was the one saving you from being kidnapped, yet you cried and clutched the body of the man who wanted to take you away from him. He felt hurt, offended about it. You showed no sign of interest that your brothers infiltrated the empire you're sworn loyalty to.

Knocking on your door, Levi doesn't even await your answer and simply turns the key to push the wood open. His silver piercing gaze cuts through the quarters, looking for your presence. The Emperor’s eyes widen as he finally takes notice of you, mouth gaping open at your sensual appearance. You look paler than usual, thinner perhaps too, but he can't help but to be fascinated by the sheer dress that clings to your skin or by your beautiful hair that shines in the candle light.

Levi slowly strolls through the dimly lit room, eyes never once leaving your body as he appears more of a predator than your actual husband. These weeks have been hard on him, you know, yet you haven't done anything to comfort him. You rather drowned in your own sorrow and failure.

You watch him nervously, well aware of your flesh and curves shining through the fabric of your flowy dress. This one, as you've been told, was made for the soul purpose to seduce the husband. It's thin, shiny in the right light and adored with pearls. It was a wedding gift, yet you have felt too ashamed to even look at it. Tonight you have decided to wear it, you are following a duty afterall, a comment and a call to bear the heir of this empire.

“Do you like it?” You ask softly, making a little spin to show off all of you. Levi gulps, staying quiet as he admires your beauty in dead silence.

“Why did you call for me?” He replies after a minute passed, his silvery orbs meeting yours as he appears suspicious, flattered, but curious as to what you actually want. You consider his questions, taking a deep breath as you fold your hands behind your back. The dress doesn't help with your uncertainty, on the contrary, it makes you feel even more unsure.

“I have had time to think.” You start, carefully stepping forward as you bite down on your lip, trying to hold back the pressure that heavies your heart. If you could, you would make yourself bleed, as you believe it to be the only way to release that sickening feeling.

“I came to the conclusion that I have acted irrationally. I disrespected you and my duties to the empire, making me feel deep regret for being led on by my own emotions like that.”

“Your behavior hurt me.” Levi declares, his clear avoidance to look your way only seems to enlarge the growing hole in your heart. You believe that your husband has never truly opened up about his feelings before, you knew he was the type to keep emotions to himself, seeing him like this feels like a slap to the face.

“I am sorry, I was not thinking-” The king leaves you no room to defend yourself, he only lifts his hand, giving you a quick and fiery pierce as he shuts you down completely.

“No you weren't thinking, my silly wife.” While his tone comes out playful you can't quite depict his actual meaning behind them. They were certainly meant to make you feel guilty too, perhaps even belittled.

Levi lets out a sight, dragging his aching body over to your silken sheets as he lets himself plumb down onto it. He casually brushes off his fine jacket and reveals the purely white shirt underneath it. You blush, the indication clear as he loosens his cravat and belt, making him appear more casual and less formal.

“You are going to be the death of me.” He breaths, face flushing red as he traces his metal like orbs over your flimsy gown, admiring the view of your naked mounts.

You just stand there, flabbergasted that it actually worked. You thought he would reject you, curse you out and banish you from his empire for good, yet his gaze and tightness in his pants indicate otherwise.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” The invitation is plump, an indirect order. You gulp slowly, treating forward as goosebumps run over your arms. The coolness of your quarters easily brushes through your silly thin fabric, forcing a shutter down your spine, though you believe the temperature is not to be the only reason. Levi's usual freezing glare has turned into something hot, burning even.

“Lay down for me, let those legs tangle from the edge.” He breaths in a heated manor, patting to the free room on your mattress by his side.

You do as you are ordered, obeying the Emperor like you were a servant yourself. Heart pumping against your ribcage, you spread yourself over the cool silks, but make sure that everything below your hips is loosely hanging in mid-air. Your legs are slightly shaking and are only kept up by the sheer strength of your feet.

“Good.” Levi compliments, a shallow smile replacing his prior, unhinged grimace. His hand finds its way from his side to your belly, tracing down further until he firmly presses his flat hand between your legs.

Gasping you close your eyes, stretching into his touch as you enjoy the sudden pressure.

“Mhm. I can feel your wetness through this damn dress already.” Levi hums, moving into a standing position between your legs. There is a dark expression on his face and the candle lights reflect in hushed eyes like hot flames. Levi doesn't appear cold any longer, he appears to be burning now and the moment he decides to rip open his pants indicates a tense way, you too feel the same burning bliss.

He brushes the thin fabric up your legs and lets out an amused hum as he eyes your bare slit.

“You couldn't even be bothered to wear undergarments.” You blush at his words and shamefully smile up at him. Somehow that domineering display of him hovering over you only helps to increase the coating of your slit and you feel yourself spreading your legs even wider in a mindless way to welcome him. Your eyes are locked with his as he moves closer to you, pressing his pelvis against yours. Levi breaks the silence of your chambers with a gasp as he feels your heat against his now bare flesh, his hardness resting between your folds as he breaks eye contact to close them.

Teeth bared and muscles tense, he moves his hips in a calculated way against you, manipulating the movement in his will to softly glide into you. Discomfort settles in your abdomen at first, though you try to relax your muscles for your own comfort. Foreplay would have been preferable, but right now it seems that your husband has no time to lose. He is hungry, starved even and you serve his need for intimacy just perfectly.

He moves fast, holding himself up with one hand while the other one moves to grope your breast. Its outline peaks through the fabric, indicating your arousal clearly. At first his pace feels too harsh, but with time the pain fates and what stays is the undeniable lust.

“Levi-” You whine, hugging your arms around him as you pull him closer, even going as far as to swing your legs around his hips. It allows a deeper angle, making the feeling of his movements even more intense.

Huffs of air leaves the Emperor's lungs, while he rolls his length deeply into you, groaning at the growing wetness that makes it easier for him to pleasure not only you but himself too.

“Needy woman.” You gasp at his words, leaning into the touch of his hand.

“If I wasn't so jealous I would take you like this in front of the whole fucking court. Show them how good my little obedient wife is.” His words leave you stunned, should make you feel discomfort even, yet the only thing you are able to feel is being desired.

Jealousy doesn't suit Levi, or anyone for that matter, but its said emotion that leaves you a whining mess right now. You are showered in ecstasy, clinging to a man that uses your body in a way to release the immense stress of the past week. His dip just hits the right spot inside your core and before you know it a wave of carnal lust has your whole body shaking.

Your cheeks, red and heated, flush with the intensity and your breath hitches in your throat as you accidentally scratch over Levi's shoulder.

“Mhm. You look pretty when you cum.” He yasps, his hips slopply fucking your release back into you messily. Just a minute later his own orgasm hits him. Levi stills midthrust and bites his lower lip, slightly shuddering as strings of his cum fill you up, making your core feel even hotter than before.

Your irregular, mixed breaths fill the room in your aftermath, the cool air suddenly feels comfortable against your warm skin. Just as you relax against the mattress Levi pulls himself out from inside you and stands up straight, brushing through his hair as he eyes you lazily.

“Better stay like this for a while. The doctors say it makes pregnancy more likely.”

With that he leaves, pulling up his pants while he turns his back to you, walking out on you like you two didn't just share your bed. You feel a peg rising in your chest as you watch him close the door after him, but there is something he missed to do: locking the door.

The Colosseum is filled to the brim with people, standing and cheering loudly as the fight unfolds in front of them right down in the arena. The sun rays down at the circle shaped creation with no mercy, its strength wearing you down. Eager and bloodthirsty roars echo through your ears as swords clash, the sound of metal blended with the overwhelming buzzing of people. You fight the disgust lacing into your features as you sit in the area reserved for royalty, seated inches behind the emperor himself as his bride to be. Your fingers grip onto the handles of your seat, causing the gold jewellery you’re draped in to shackle. You blink, and blood seems to gush out, spilling on the ground due to the merciless slash of a sword blownwed by the winner — piercing through the flesh of the loser. Screams pinch through the air, earning frantic chants from the audience.

The sight hurls your insides, causing a nauseous feeling to take over you as the intestines of the fighter flee out of his dismembered body, falling to the ground without any trace of life. Even more aversion swallows you as you catch the grin tugging at the ruler’s lips from your angle. He’s quick to stand up and clap, the whole arena dying down into pure silence in response.

“You have fought well my champion, though today’s fight is not yet to be finished,” his deep voice spills through the Colosseum, the audience remains quiet as you continue to be on the edge in your seat.

“Rise,” the Emperor tilts his head in your direction, commanding you. You don’t dare to defy him in any slightest as you know any of your slip up could resolve in one of his episodes. You delicately lift your body from the wooden throne, quick to close the distance between you, and to step under the weight of the burning sun which paints the sand floor in golden fury. You create a shield with your palm, blinking away the sunlight before locking your gaze with the man you’re promised to.

The man’s hand sneaks around your waist, bringing your side to his. Your hands fly out to rest at the railing made out of stone, feeling a piece of security. The emperor looks down at you with a twisted smile, deliberately crafted golden crown consisting of laurels resting at the top of his head.

“Bring out the prisoners,” his other hand gripping a golden cup is lifted into the air, a gesture of bidding. As soon as he speaks those words out, large gate opens up. The guards push dozen of men inside the arena — their hands buckled together in one iron chain, bringing their rate of survival against the champion to absolute zero. With spears pointed at their figures, they have no other option than to step on the battlefield under the eyes of hundreds.

Most importantly, the emperor himself.

“My lord, you are going to have them fight in chains?” your soft voice breaks out into the open, questioning the outlook of the situation. The men are offered a weapon against all odds, but being connected to one another is seemingly putting all of them into a disadvantage. From their filthy and bruised appearance it’s clear these men are mere prisoners or slaves. Trapped souls dragged into the arena, not as warriors but as bait for the amusement of the citizens.

“Yes, is it not exciting? It is all for you, my future bride,” from the tone of his voice it’s absolutely clear this man who is yet to be your husband is serious, assuming he’s pleasing you with this dehumanising act. It awakes a terrifying and electrifying wave of anxiety within you. The emperor is known for his cruel ruling and rational punishments, regardless of it, it never ceases to shock you just how merciless he can be.

You don’t protest, only smiling at him and moving your hand to rest at his chest in gratitude. All of it a scene, an act you feel you’re bound to preform in exchange for your safety. You have no power to do anything but watch, your eyes squinting upward at the sea of spectators before falling on the muscular figure standing across the arena in chains. The champion covered in bronzed armor that glimmers with polish, he stands with the casual grace of a justified killer. He’s armed with a simple curved blade which is still dipped in blood from its previous encounter, and a round shield, bearing the imperial crest. The champion is a living legend among the audience — undefeated and unscathed.

They chant the name of the gladiator as if it’s a sacred prayer to the gods.

It sickens you.

The dozen men murmur among themselves, panic rising in their expressions as they throw their sword from hand to hand. A nervous gesture signalling their rising worries as the undefeated gladiator makes his way towards them.

“We cannot fight him head-on. But if we use the chain together as our weapon, then we might have a chance,” a man placed at the end of the chain mumbles to the other men, but panic has already taken its hold. A few men scream and rush forward, dragging the rest behind them. The chain becomes chaos, jerking bodies in every direction and dragging some of them to the ground while The champion moves.

He’s swift, a blur of lightning speed as there’s no baggage holding him back.

The first man falls, his chest opened with a single slash of metal. Another tries to keep away, unfortunately he’s yanked back by the chain, straight into the champion’s killing stroke — keeping his streak of robbed lives. A third decapitates himself by bringing the weapon to his throat, ending his misery before he’s killed by the hands of others. Blood paints the sand, pooling on the floor. The survivors stumble back, heaving with eyes wide open as sweat drenches their bodies and are left bereft of oxygen. Four lie dead now, perhaps five. It’s hard to keep a track.

The crowd is screaming, drunk on the violence and the man who spoke before forces himself between the others, grabbing the chain and snarling something which goes unheard by the audience. Leaving you to guess whenever they listen or lead themselves towards death.

And indeed, they hear him. Out of fear, if nothing else.

A man with unusual ball of white hair directs them to move in a circle, to feint and pull in coordinated tugs. They spread out, using their own bindings as both weapon and trap. When the champion charges, confident. They act. One man dives in sacrifice, drawing the champion’s first swing. Another yanks the chain, unbalancing the warrior.

Like a tide, they shift, loop, and bind.

In moments, the champion is tangled into the chains with no room to move his body, imprisoned just like them.

Without a scratch, not hurt, but humiliated and bested.

The crowd holds its breath. The emperor whose face is painted with neutral expression as he stands beside you, raises a hand to give his final judgment.

His thumb points downward.

Death.

The champion’s eyes shift into utter panic, unable to move.

“Kill the man, drive a blade through his throat and you may live another day,” The emperor calls out to the six men who survived the bloodbath. Your head jerks towards him, brows lifted in surprise at the punishment to his favoured champion. The man captured by the chained prisoners breathes hard, unable to mask his fear.

“Your majesty, with all due respect, spare the man’s life,” you wrap your arms around his bare biceps, closing the distance between you before anyone else can interfere to kill.

“What was that, princess?” his cold gaze falls down at you and you tense up with a swirling cannibalistic terror that you might have overstepped your set limits.

“He is your champion, let him have at least a gracious death,” you modify your words, offering a kind hint of a smile in contrast to his calculation gaze.

The crowd awaits his answer in silence, your words not audible to any one else.

“You are quite right, dear,” his palm pats your shoulders, his proximity distancing and you loosen up in quiet relief. From both his words and his action of leaving your personal space.

“You,” the emperor’s finger points down at the man who strategically brought his champion to defeat “you will face the champion one on one. Battle for either life or death,”

Not exactly what you had in mind when you pleaded for the man’s life to be spared.

Your gaze follows the direction of his finger, landing on the clever prisoner who saved five other lives along with his own. The man’s hair is coloured pure white, the exact shade of your delicate tunic — unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. His features are quite a mess from the distance you’re facing him, the details tucked away. The blinding white of his locks and a reflection of his iridescent eyes are the only two things to be mapped out.

“I do not kill for amusement, your highness,” the prisoner is fast to decline, bowing down to his knee. The other men mimicking his motion, which only appears to anger the ruler further. You stand unmoving, frozen in fear of what’s coming.

“You are brave to defy my orders,”

“Do it, or else you and your men are doomed for the same fate,” the madman demands with a crazed smirk, turning his gaze to glance at you briefly. From below, the victorious prisoner looks up towards the royal box as the emperor announces his decision, breathing heavily with sweat and blood running down his face. His eyes dart to you standing next to him, noticing you for the first time. Seeing you look down at him, the man's exhausted gaze meets yours fleetingly, but his attention is quickly called back to your soon to be husband.

“As you wish, your highness,”

He has no other choice but to fight.

The sun blazes higher than moments ago as it reaches its highest peak, casting long shadows of the Colosseum. The crowd roars once more like a tidal wave of bloodlust and anticipation. At one side stands Valerian, the undefeated champion who’s been gifted a second chance, armour glinting like a god’s wrath in the sweltering weather, though there’s a certain hesitation in his movements now.

At the other side stands the white haired prisoner— no title, no name, no armor, just chains recently broken and scars scattered across his body. The crowd jeers, expecting slaughter. But there's something in his eyes — calm like the sea before a storm, it creates a pit in your stomach.

The horn rings and Valerian moves forward like a warhorse, his massive blade cutting through the air. The unknown white haired man dodges with impossible grace, grabbing a fallen shield from the sand, and ducking under the swing. The wind coming from the blow nearly taking his head.

He answers with a broken spear, driving it into Valerian’s knee.

Gasps echo through the arena, painting an amusing grin on the emperor’s lips as the giant falters.

From now on it’s a dance — brutal and desperate. Valerian attacks with the fury of a man defending his honour, but the unfamiliar prisoner slips through his reach again and again, turning every mistake into an advantage. He moves like a ghost with precise strike.

Another drops of blood stain the sand, leaving marks of the battle.

The prisoner’s shoulder is cut.

Valerian’s leg wobbles.

They circle around each other, crowd no longer cheering as the fight leaves them breathless.

Then, in a haze of a motion, the prisoner feints left, ducking from a wide swing. Only to drive a dagger which was stolen mid-fight into Valerian’s side. The champion instantly drops to his knees, meeting the gaze of his opponent one last time before collapsing to the ground like a house of cards, unmoving. The arena erupts while the bloodied prisoner stands and towers over the champion’s dead body, collecting himself from the overwhelming adrenaline of the fight.

“What do you think of him, my dearest?” it pulls you of the awing trance, sending you back to present. Not knowing whenever you should be disgusted or pleased with how the fight had turned out. Your hands soothe down your tunic, eyes fleeting between the victor and the man you’re betrothed to.

“He has proven himself worthy,” you shakily breathe out near the shell of his ear, orbs still unknowingly flickering down to sneak glances at the extraordinarily looking man with fur of white hair. Meanwhile you’re held by the one who’s been letting the empire to starve and suffer under his reign.

One thumb pointed up, mercy.

The marble halls of the palace glisten under torchlight. Silent and still as though the night itself holds its breath at your bravery. Somewhere beyond the columns and guarded doors, Rome sleeps — drunk on the violence performed in the arena earlier that day.

You move like a shadow. A princess, betrothed to an emperor you neither love nor trust, slipping through a hidden passage behind your chamber’s tapestry. Feet tapping against cold stone. A hood drawn over your head to conceal your face as a secret from passersby, draped in your silken robes.

Every creak of wood, every echo of footsteps sets your heart pounding incredibly fast in your ribcage. The guard’s numbers are smaller at this hour, their concentration dulled by routine and drinking too much wine throughout the day. You time your movements with the changing of the watch, slipping behind statues, darting through moonlit courtyards, where a loyal servant from your home waits at a forgotten gate meant for deliveries, holding a satchel and a stolen dagger.

Your eyes meet briefly, both of you know what’s at stake if your soon to be husband was to find out about your whereabouts.

He’d have your head.

You carefully step out into the open, beneath the night sky that belongs to no ruler. The city looms ahead. The streets dangerous, filthy and still alive. You inhale its scent which consists of smoke and liquor. Behind you, the palace glows like a gilded cage. A cage where you’ll harbour by the end of the night anyway.

You don’t look back again, despite the guilt and fright nibbling at you.

As you stroll through the alleys of the city that’s drifting off to sleep, you no longer feel like a locked up princess who’s been sent off into enemy territory to play out a pack of marriage to attempt for peace.

The Colosseum spreads out before you, vast and silent beneath the cloak of the night sky decorated with small lights of the stars — towering arches of the architectonic building looming like a massive beast, the roar of the crowd now just a ghost echo in the stone. You approach it with no hesitation, heading for a narrow side gate. One not meant for nobles like yourself, but for the lowest layers of the society.

A man scouts the entrance. Old, bend, one eye milky with age. He doesn’t speak and neither do you. He simply nods and lifts the iron latch with a screeching sound. A debt repaid, nothing more. One’s coins you never deemed to recollect til now.

Inside, the air shifts as you descend underneath the huge arena. It’s surprisingly cold and damp, your silky robe not providing enough of warmth. The flicker of torches guides you down the narrow stone stairs, the further you go, the more of death hangs in the air. You move quietly like a mouse through the corridors, hood drown low to keep your identity a secret, robes brushing the filthy floor. The cells appear, row opposite to another row, dark iron bars separating men from the world above and from each other. Some sleep. Others sit in silence, eyes distant. Barely acknowledging your wandering gaze. Your attention peaks all over the place, glancing in all directions to not miss the glimpse of white hair.

You have no idea what force urged you to hurry down here, risking your life for a stranger — as if the gods poisoned you, rushing you in here.

You freeze in motion.

He sits before you like a god carved from war itself. The torchlight dances across his skin which is faintly burned by the overwhelming force of the sun, tracing outlines of his defined muscles. His chest rises and falls with a slow, steady rhythm, broad and unyielding. You could see the trail of old battles on him, pale scars that curl across his shoulders, a jagged line down his side.

They should repell you.

They don’t.

There he sits in the shadows, head of white hair bowed, arms resting on his knees. No chains this time, but he’s caged nonetheless. You clear your throat, gentle enough to not scare him, and it works like a charm. He instantly snaps his gaze in your direction, straightening his posture — arms hang heavy at his sides now, thick with strength, veins popping like vines winding over stone. Even at rest, there was a quiet violence to him, mixed with ethereal features of those worthy of being a prince. You had seen marble statues with less perfection, but none with heat of a real man.

“Who is there?” he asks, his voice a low growl as he tries to make out your figure in the darkness which perfectly helps you mask your identity as well.

“It matters not,” you respond firmly in the dark, keeping a reasonable distance between you and the bars. Partially out of fear, who knows what else he’s capable of after what you saw in the arena. The newly crowned gladiator looks at you, his expression guarded with suspicion but also curiosity. A scoff escapes past his lips.

“You are hurt, are you not?” worry embodies your tone, not sure why as this is the first time you’re ever directly speaking to the gladiator.

“What is it to you?”he mumbles, sounding tough and unaffected by your mysterious presence. The man's hand moves to his upper body, carefully touching the slashed area of his shoulder, and wincing slightly at the lightest of touch.

“Nothing. Still, takes this,” you mumble with all the politeness you were raised to offer, regardless of the strange circumstances you’re finding yourself in and bend down to slide a numbing cream in between the bars. In a quick motion, not wanting to risk anything.

“It is a numbing cream, for your slash,” the gladiator gazes up at you with narrowed eyes after he scans the cream, a mix of confusion painting his face. He reaches out for the box you slid in, only then noticing the intensity of his penetrating orbs. The colour of them is darkened by the dim lighting, nevertheless, they still shine like they’re crashing waves of sea water splashing against the rocks at shore.

“How did you get your hands on this?” he questions gruffly, though there's a note of gratitude in his voice, while he looks between the cream in his hand and your cloaked presence.

“That is unimportant,” you breathe out softly, swinging your hand in the air to brush it off. You tug your hood lower as you feel it sliding upwards, revealing parts of you.

“If you are not here to mock me, what for then?”he utters neutrally, his voice less rough than the first time. His hand hesitates for a moment, dipping his fingers to gather the cream so he can apply it on his injured shoulder. He’s wincing lowly as soon as the cool substance touches his raw wound. A soft sigh follows, his nostrils flaring.

“To help you, I know it is something you are not used to. I simply thought you fought well,” you mumble back with a hint of nervousness, hands soothing down your silky robes — the hems layered with dirt from your outing. The white haired gladiator listens to your words, his expression hardening at the mention of his performance in the arena. His digits finish massaging the cream into his injury, treating it.

“I fought well, so what? Not that it matters. I will just have to fight again tomorrow, and the day after, and then the day after,” he rises to his feet, startling you a little with the swiftness of his movement. You retrieve a step, tilting your head up to somehow catch a glimpse of him — the hood blocking your view.

“You fought unlike anyone I have ever seen before. I am sure you will earn your place here. Temporarily, of course, before you are freed,” you whisper into the dead of the night while his hands reach for the bars, knuckles turning white from his tight grip. It makes you swallow a lump forming in your throat, this is probably the longest you’ve ever talked to a man alone. It doesn’t help he’s practically stripped of his garments, muscular chest to your display.

And most of all, he’s a vicious killer.

“Freed? You either must be delusional or naive if you think that will happen,” the gladiator can't help but snort at your words as he retorts, skepticism returning to paint his sharply defined features. Desperately trying to see past the hood covering your face.

“You simply have to be good, keep winning and charm the audience,” you advise him with all you’ve come to know over the months you spent here, even though he seems to find your behaviour naive. He falls silent at your statement, contemplating your advice.

“And how do you know that, huh?” he hums, still wary — letting out a long sigh and leaning against the chilly wall of the cell, gaze fixated on your masked figure.

“I have lived in city for a long time to see,” what you say is not hundred percent right, however, your time spent in the city is great enough to know how things work around here.

“Why not stop walking around the bush and tell me who you are?” he leans forward into the bars again while still fixating his somewhat cold orbs at you, demanding to drop the mysterious act.

“Trust me, it is safer for you if you remain unaware of my identity,” you chuckle quietly to yourself at his pressing demand, finding his presence shockingly welcoming. The gladiator listens to your words, his expression hardening at your chuckle. He lets out a low huff of annoyance, but curiosity pierces his system.

Just who exactly are you?

“You someone of importance? Someone with power?” he goes on, pushing you to give him answers.

“No one has power in city expect for the emperor,” you frown automatically at the harsh reality of being in the hands of someone so cruel. His expression mirrors yours, your truthful declaration resigning with him.

“You got a point there, mysterious stranger,” he mutters, his hand mindlessly touching his shoulder where the injury is. As if out of habit. There's a moment of silence between the two of you in which you step closer, hand reaching for the bar — your gold ring illuminated by the moonlight revealed to him, unbeknownst to you.

“I will bring you food the tomorrow, if you live, that is,” his eyes linger on the gleaming gold of your ring, processing your words, expression conflicted. Part of him wants to know more about you, to uncover the mystery that shrouds you, but he also understands your sense for secrecy.

“Alright," he finally responds, his voice gruff but with a hint of resignation.

“What is your name?” you keep standing by the cell, less afraid of what he’s to do. Curiosity gets the better out of you and since you’re half hidden in the safe embrace of your robes and hood, you ask. Otherwise you wouldn’t be as brave.

“Two can play the game,” he curves his lips into a lazy grin, huffing out and refusing to provide you with it.

“See you tomorrow, oh saviour,”

Days stretch out into weeks and each night, you slip past the velvet-draped guards and silent marble corridors due to the help of your loyal servant. Your heart pounds louder than anyone’s footsteps as you sneak through the palace each night, crippled with fear that you may be caught. One would expect a practiced ease due to how often you preform, however, it seems to make an opposite effect. You’re worried your luck of being unnoticed will run out. Though you can’t bring yourself to sleep peacefully without paying the white haired man a visit.

The gladiator. Your gladiator.

At first you told yourself you were doing him a favour, treating his slash. That you have no reason of coming back here.

And yet, here you are.

Time and time again.

He waits for you in the shadows of the cell below the training pits, always stiff at first, as if unsure if you’ll come. As if each time might be the last and you wonder if someday, it might truly be.

His body is bruised and bandaged from battles played out earlier in the daylight in front of hundreds, but you never him voice his complains out loud, regardless of how roughed up he ends up.

You silently admire that.

Meanwhile you’re betrothed to the emperor, unbeknownst to your gladiator, weak and forced to follow his orders. You’re the empire’s prize, it’s what they call you. A future empress, beautiful and admirable. Expected to bring prosperity and sense into the crazed mind of the ruler. Bring children to continue the lineage. But they don’t see how your hands tremble when you hear the crowd roar, how you flinch at each touch of your soon to be husband, how you perk your ears each night — hoping you’ll hear silence and not his footsteps.

What frightens you perhaps the most out of all is each time the gladiator steps into the arena. It feels like a piece of you goes out with him. You’re on the edge of your seat, nervously gripping at layers of your tunic as metal clashes in the arena. Each time he fights to live another day.

He might have earned the favours of people effortlessly and the emperor himself, nonetheless, how long can you steal moments in the dark with him before the light of the world finds out? Before the emperor learns that his bride’s heart doesn’t belong to him, that it never did nor never will. That instead, it belongs to a man with blood coating his sword at the end of each day?

Who knows what would happen then, in the best scenario — he’d have you both killed.

Despite all the risks, you don’t regret coming to him every night like a prayer and leaving each morning, feeling like a sinner. Though every day, you fear the gods are listening, judging and plotting against your odds.

“You are Greek, I can tell from your accent,” you finally let out what you’ve been meaning to for the past few days, from the moment you picked up on his light accent. It wasn’t noticeable at first and those not born on greek lands would overlook it entirely.

“I was born there, yes,“

“I was leading an army into a battle. Lost, got captured, travelled miles without knowing where we are headed. I stopped hoping after endless days of walking, and by a miracle landed here —into an arena in the capital of the empire,” he shares his story with you, glazing you with a form of vulnerability and the simple reality behind his path leading him to you. It leaves you feeling sorry for him, but you don’t wish to shower the gladiator in pity. You’re sure he’s had enough of time to do that himself.

“No wonder you are as skilled,” you point out instead, tone tender as ever. He snickers in response, watching your cloaked figure from the corner of his eye.

“Where from Greece are you?” you investigate, since there’s not much you know about the man and he’s the closest thing to home in months. He’s cautious, only offering what you’re offering. So you’re afraid he’ll brush you off like you usually do with him.

“I was born on Mykonos, however, my time there was short lived as I was quickly transported to Athens for training,” the mention of his home sparks a memory of your own island within you — shimmering in the late afternoon sun, its walls and painted columns casting long shadows. The sea breathing quietly in the distance, and the scent of salt and thyme carried on in the breeze. Bells echoing from the high towers, marking time. You’d walk alone, past frescoes of dancing bulls and gods with lion eyes, your sandals gliding over mosaic floors. A child of Crete, promised to an emperor across the great body of water. One you barely knew, but whose ships brought you to the heart of the empire. Your home might not be your home anymore, though your heart will remain anchored on the island forever.

How you dread being separated from it.

Knowing the foreign gladiator was brought from the southeast, thrown to the beasts just like you were, brings you a sense of comfort.

You’re about to answer, opening your mouth to spill something of your own, but the interruption of footsteps prevents you from it. You’re quick to stand to your feet, brushing dust off your silky robes. Panic seizes you, heart thundering in your chest as the sound circles closer and closer, until you’re met with the face of the gatekeeper.

Relief fast to embrace you.

“I am incredibly sorry to interrupt, but here is what you asked of me, princess,” the gatekeeper bows a little as he hands you the list of all the gladiators in the Colosseum, eager to depart from the both of you. Your efforts to keep your identity hidden are crushed in a fraction of seconds, by one word. You grip the papers tightly, pushing it into your pocket without giving it a look. Papers which were meant to reveal his name to you.

The blue eyed warrior stops dead at the sound of the man's words, his thoughts racing as he processes your title spoken into the hollow walls of the Colosseum.

"Princess?" he whispers, stunned at the unexpected revelation from the gatekeeper. The white haired gladiator stares at you in disbelief, his gaze no longer curious, but now utterly shocked from your secret flattening. He takes a step closer to the bars, his expression bathing in disbelief while trying to make sense of the situation. You offer him nothing but overpowering silence, head tilted to stare down at the floor.

“You are royalty?” he ponders — hushed, needing to hear the words coming from you so he can be sure his mind isn’t playing any tricks on him. He takes yet another step towards the bars, reaching his hand out to wrap it around the metal bar.

“No, you must have misinterpreted the situation,” you attempt to play the doomed situation down, voice shaken up due to the unexpected reveal. The man on the other side of the cell certainly doesn’t buy it as he continues to tower over you.

“Do not take me for a fool, I heard him call you a princess,”

You remain unmoving, debating innerly on what should your next step be. He knows, there’s no turning back. You could run, never show up here ever again. Only watch him from the box, married to the brute.

No.

Without a word, you lift your head from the ground, letting out a deep and long breath. Your hood slides backwards, revealing the lower part of your face. The gladiator is left breathless as he watches the scene he fantasised about for so long playing out before him. He’ll finally be able to capture the face of the one who’s become his reason to keep fighting. In the faint light, he can make out the delicate curve of your cheek, the gentle slope of your nose, and the fulness of your lips.

He leans in closer, nearly coming into contact with the iron material. The beat of his heart quickens, crazily drumming against his ribs, mind struggling to reconcile the fact that royalty’s standing right in front of him.

The intensity of his icy blue globes suffocates you with anxiety, hand reaching into the air to brush away the hood entirely. Revealing your face, the one he’ll surely be certain to put a label to. And indeed, the gladiator’s breath hitches in his throat as you push away your hood fully, showing him your face in its full glory and offering vulnerability. In the soft light, your features are even more graceful and delicate than he could have imagined.

As he studies your face with great detail, the realisation dawns on him. He recognises you. You’re the woman who sits by the emperor's side everyday, watching each fight play out with a horrifying expression painting her beautifully sculptured features.

You’re basically forced to dart away your gaze, his eyes urging you to feel like you’re standing completely bare in front of him. You survey the long corridor, brushing a strands of your coloured hair behind the shell of your ear. Though his attention never entirely leaves your frame, eyes tracing every feature, studying the way you brush away your hair. He can't help but be captivated by your beauty — similar to the one gods posses — a wave of conflicting emotions swirls through him yet again. He should be respectful to you as a princess, bow down to you. Though there’s a part of him that simply sees you as this mysterious woman who visits him night after night. Nothing more, nothing less.

A mysterious woman whom he thought to be a commoner, turning out to be a princess betrothed to the emperor himself.

“I suppose it must be tad of a shock for you,” you huff out, continuing to look somewhere to the side. Successfully avoiding the gladiator’s eyes, not fully ready to capture them once more.

“You could say that,” he replies, still studying your averted gaze, the sight bringing him to chuckle softly in amusement. He’s baffled by the overflowing emotions you’re portraying, the way you’re unable to fully lock your eyes with him — he’s taken aback by it, even more so since you’re the closest he’s been to a member of a royal family.

He should be the one to be nervous, not you.

You lightly shake your head, in disbelief of the situation, which causes your hair to come undone from the clip that had been holding it together at the back of your head. A few front strands fall into your vision, urging you to blow them away with your mouth. The gladiator watches with a devoted look, the hair framing the shape of your face like you’re in an ethereal painting. He then fully presses his body into the metal forming the bars, face sticking out in between the space with the intention of wanting to reach out and touch you.

He’s so close, regardless of the barrier separating you. One brief movement and he’d be able to touch you, but he’s careful to respect your boundaries. A certain warmth radiates off him, luring you to give in as his breathing fanes across your face. Still, his orbs remain utterly glued to the sight of you — admiring the shape of you and your soft looking hair enveloping the sides of your hair.

His mind is clouded with confusing desires.

The gladiator can't help but be taken aback by your alluring presence, his heart skipping a beat as you leap closer. He watches you intently, his gaze locked on your face while his mind races with thousands of thoughts per second. He reaches out, fingers gently grasping one of the bars — touch tender despite the rough calluses on his hands, but rather swift in response to his own pleas.

Your body flinches away out of fear at his fast movements, a habit you harvested throughout your months at the palace. The emperor is unpredictable, you never know if he’s about to soothe your hair, pinch your skin or something far worse. You curse yourself innerly for your doubts, because you trust this caged man more than you ever would your soon to be husband.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, princess,” his voice is smooth as he makes out your fear, even if it appears for a mere second. He is quick to retrieve his hand from the bar, remorse filling him up to the brim. He shouldn’t have let himself go, shouldn’t have forgotten that you’re royalty and you’re not used to being sought after so casually.

The gladiator whose name you’re still unaware of steps back, creating distance between you in an apologetic manner.

“No,” you let out quietly, closing the distance again to seek out his proximity by sticking your hand in between the metal barrier, waiting for him to take it and scoot over to you once more. Your gesture shows him that you’re not afraid of him, though you perhaps should be as you see what he does to other men inside the arena. However, you can see it pains him. That he’d rather be anywhere else, he kills simply out of the need for survival. If he didn’t strike first, then he’d be dismembered. That made you grow fond of him in the first place.

He’s taken aback by your unexpected gesture of trust, mixture of awe and hesitation overtaking his being. With a slow movement, he reaches out and gently wraps his much larger hand around yours, holding it soothingly. His hands are rough and scarred while yours look like they’re made of porcelain, polished and well taken care of. Your own heart stops for a moment at the difference in the sizes and at how surprisingly gentle he is with you.

“How did you end up at the mercy of the madman?” he holds your hand delicately as he asks you, as if afraid he might hurt you, knowing the strength he possesses.

“I was born on Crete. My father is the king of the island, one well connected. The second the emperor’s mother announced that her son is to be wedded, I was brought to a ship as a candidate,” his touch electrifies you, not in the same way when you were near other men in your life. Not that you have ever been left alone with one like this before — in the night with only dim light illuminating your vision, tucked away from the sights of everyone.

When you compare it to polite gestures with your suitors, it failed to do such as his touch. It failed to do half of what this man stirs in your insides.

Your father would be furious, yet the simple thought of it excites you. The forbidding atmosphere excites and scares you at the same time.

“Sadly he took a liking to me. And although I loathe to breathe the same air as he does, I have no other choice,” you finish speaking, hesitant to lock your gaze with his again. Your tone picks up on a hint of sadness, lacing your expression as you retell him the simple story of how you became the target of the emperor.

“I’m sorry, it is horrible, and you do not deserve it,” he gently squeezes your hand, and it feels refreshing to hear someone voicing out their sympathies. All you’d get from the noble society is how ungrateful you’re for not being over the moon, that countless of women would throw themselves off a cliff for a chance to meet the ruler. How gladly you’d let them have him instead.

“Do not apologise, you do not deserve to be treated like this either,” your free hand flies to the air, gesturing at the darkened place where a metallic smell of blood hangs heavily in the air.

“No need to worry about me,” he mumbles to interrupt you, shaking his head to strip you of your worries.

“But I do, each time you step into the arena,” the words are simple, yet holding an immense power.

He bends down to your level.

It happens in a quick moment, away from the eyes of courtiers and the weight of your duties. In a place where the air smells of iron and stone. A princess of Crete, a bride promised to the emperor, raised in silks and showered in gold jewels. You’re meant to be wise, untouched and perfect — served on a silver platter for the empire. But when you look at him, the gladiator chained in these dungeons, all of your problems seem to unravel and dissolve like sea foam. He isn’t beautiful in the way noblemen are. There is nothing polished or rehearsed about him. He stands in front of you, inches separating you, bruised from the acts of the fight. His eyes holding no brutality when they met yours. And at this moment, you’d trade all of your life and all those noble men for a simple taste of a gladiator.

You truly didn’t know why you kept coming back. But you did at the same time. You told yourself it was curiosity, pity, maybe even rebellion —though standing in front of him now with little space between you and the atmosphere heavy with something unsaid, you know it’s far more than that. You reach out absentmindedly, fingers slipping between the bars, brushing the line of his jaw. He doesn’t flinch nor forces you away, he welcomes it. His skin is warm beneath the pillows of your fingers, rough with scars, real in a way nothing in your world had ever been.

And then you slowly lean in, eyes fluttering shut in the process. Resulting in the fact you can’t make out anything besides the ramping organ in your ribcage.

Your lips meet, just barely at first. More a breath shared than a kiss. Something in you shifts into place as it happens though. It’s soft, then urgent, and another second you’re trembling with all the things you were never allowed to want, but dreamt of in secret. The white haired warrior kisses you back like he knows this might be the only time he’s offered the opportunity, like the moment is slipping through his fingers even as he holds you close.

It’s your first kiss, and it strangely feels just as natural as breathing.

You liked to imagine you’d share your first kiss somewhere in a garden, smelling petals of roses or at the foot of a golden throne with a prince. Instead you’re here, in the shadows, with a man whose name is a mystery waiting to be discovered. And still, none of your scenarios could compare to the real thing, to the heat shared between you as your lips move in sync with his.

“Satoru,” he whispers into your mouth in between your shared kisses, his hands slipping further past the bars to pull you closer by your perfect silky robes. Pressing you into the metal cell, in hopes of feeling your body against his.

“Satoru?” you repeat in confusion.

“Oh, Satoru,” you coo in realisation of his name, and whisper your own in addition.

“Say it again,” he demands, fingers brushing past your robes.

And you do.

Again and again and again and again.

It tastes sweetly on your tongue, just right.

And when you finally pull away due to the lack of oxygen, your lips are still tingling with the taste of him and suddenly, all is different. Your cheeks are flushed with a tint of pink, silently praying he won’t speak of it out loud. And he doesn’t, he actually seems to ride the same wave of adrenaline as you.

He clumsily sneaks and twists his hand in order to be able to caress the swell of your cheek. Pushing strands of your hair to rest behind your ear, causing you to chuckle fondly as the featherlight touch tickles you.

“Is there anything you would like for me to bring tomorrow, before your fight?” you suggest, hoping to make his time in the cell more accommodating.

“Just your company,” he smiles down at you, turning it into a smirk only a moment later. The one which grabs you by your throat, robbing you of any common sense.

Isn’t it crazy how one person can make you feel what other never could nor would in such a short period of time?

“I appreciate your flattery, but in all seriousness, do you not need anything?”

“No, your presence will be enough of a fuel,” he goes on, refusing anything before you even offer it.

“Do you think differently of me, knowing I am a princess?” you mumble worriedly, looking to the side for a while. Not wanting to appear pretentious, hoping his outlook on you won’t change despite him knowing who you really are.

“A stupid title will not alter the way I think of you,” his voice drops an octave, meant only for your ears. The gesture seemingly intimate, causing an entire havoc in your stomach.

You hold his face in your palms, memorizing the lines carved by his skills and the spots where the sun attacked brutally — surveying the kindness etched onto his features that hides beneath his nonchalant armour throughout the day. And you kiss him full of gratitude like you can press your soul into his, because by dawn, you both return to your cages.

It doesn’t matter whether it’s the arena or the palace.

The sun rises like gold urns pouring water over the city of Rome, spilling light through the stained arches of windows straight into your chamber. Soft beams brush against your bedsheets and the heading of your bed. You awake slowly as it reflects into your face as well, breath catching in your throat — not from your disturbed sleep, but from a creeping dread you could no longer push away.

Your wedding is in a week from today.

The scent of jasmine and rose water fills the room, meanwhile maidens move quietly as they notice your awake state to draw open the heavy curtains and to sett out gowns the colours of twilight and fire. All for you to try later in the evening. They smile as they walk past you, greeting you and whispering of the day’s important schedule. Their cheeriness brings you sorrows as they surely must picture you as their future empress already — you’re their fraction of hope for a better life. You force yourself to smile back, no sign of real joy as the rmperor’s image doesn’t stir your heart with same admiration as they imagine it does.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the silk sheets falling around you like waves. Outside, the palace garden blooms unnaturally early, flowers coaxed into blossom by alchemists to match the emperor’s vision of a perfect wedding day, not that he cares as much. Trumpets call faintly in the distance, and you recognise the sound instantly. The city below is already alive with celebration for your upcoming wedding. But all you feel is the weight of your duty, heavy as the golden jewellery you’re putting on.

A soft knock at the door echos through the walls of your room, handmaiden entering with a polite bow.

“The emperor sends word, princess. He awaits you in the throne room and then you will be allowed to have a breakfast,” is all she says before she places an ivory stola on the edge of your bed, disappearing with yet another bow. The long gown she brought fails to bubble up any form of excitement. You don’t move, gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the window, where smoke swirls through the air. Too mesmerised by yesterday’s occurrence, the ghost of Satoru’s touch shimmering you, regardless of his absence. The mere fantasy of his proximity sets you on fire.

Your nightly encounters are the only thing pushing you to get up, letting the maidens do their magic on you and slipping into the long gown your soon to be husband picked out specifically for you. You're standing tall, wrapped in the clothing which drapes over your shoulders like liquid moonlight. It’s beautiful, not what you’d choose but it works. The fabric is soft and cool against your skin, flowing down in elegant folds. Every movement feels you’re drowning in fluid, effortless. A delicate golden belt rests at your waist, shaping your figure not too tightly.

The palace buzzes with preparations for your upcoming wedding day as you stroll through the corridors of the palace to reach the throne room — golden silks hung, rose petals thrown across marble floors, laurels placed on the columns, songs rehearsed to honour an empire’s union by perfecting hymns dedicated to Venus and Juno. The goddesses of love and marriage. The sound nearly sickens you, the mere thought of standing in front of the altar with your palms rested in his and giving him your youth for free wrenches your gut. And for a moment, it truly feels like you might throw up. Especially when you reach the throne room, your heart thundering against your ribs like it might give out any second.

The emperor sits on his tremendous throne decorated with reflecting gems at the far end of the room, draped in crimson and gold robes. His presence nothing compared to the vastness of the room — he looks like a boy, a fool pretending to be a ruler and yet, you’re at his mercy. The throne is a masterpiece on its own, carved out of the finest marble. Unlike the ruler, it seems to pulse with the weight of power.

“Ah, there’s my bride,” he coos, eyes sharp and calculating as usual. Fixated on your every move, inviting you closer.

“Come,” his monotone voice lures you in.

Your heart pounds unevenly, caught between the sight unraveled before you and the impossible secret you carry in form of love that belongs to another, to one not too far from this gilded cage. The silence feels heavy, broken only by the distant hushes of courtiers and the soft shuffle of your footsteps on polished stone. As you approach, the emperor’s gaze never ceases.

“Your highness,” you let out softly, bending your body to show him respect in hopes of pleasing to achieve a piece of security for yourself.

“Come here, sit,” he pats his thigh, fingers gesturing for you to take a seat.

His words hang in the air as murmurs of servants ripple softly, awkwardness flushing you. Still, you have no choice, so you walk forward to climb the stairs — each one drawing you closer to the throne and to the man who plays to be the ruler. He extends a hand, guiding you gently onto his lap and cradling you not just with power, but possession. As if he owns you. And in a way he does. You feel overly stiff, unable to loosen and the fact it’s being witnessed by every bowed head in the room adds a sting.

At first, he speaks of your wedding day which is hurrying your way. The tone of his voice low, only meant for your ear. It causes goosebumps to grace your skin, not in a pleasant intimate way your lover would make you feel, but rather in fear and disgust. From time to time, mere sight of him boils your blood and spins your head, therefore sitting in such a close proximity makes you want to tear your hair out.

You loathe him dedicatedly, overflowing with hatred for the one you’re supposed to be wedded to, but you can’t be bothered to feel guilty while you’re seated in his lap. His heinous acts can’t make you.

“I must say I am growing rather bored of the new champion,” a mush of his words reaches your ear, they come unexpectedly and it feels like a punch to the stomach. You instantly recognise who he’s directing his words to and what it could mean, knowing his corrupted ways of thinking.

“How so, my lord?” you speak up for the first time since you sat down onto his lap, voice careful and precise.

“Winning over and over gets repetitive, does it not?” he cocks his head to the side lightly, peaking at you from the corner of his eye, a smirk tugging his lips up. A glint of mischief in his gaze, nearly making you choke on paranoia. There’s no possibility he could somehow find out about my nightly outings, you keep repeating in your head.

“I suppose, your highness,” you agree, not wanting to rile him up beyond recognition, even though it takes everything within you to not push him away.

“I will fight the gladiator,” he announces as if it’s some grant gesture, expecting to earn an encouragement, yet all it does is wake up a raging storm of emotions in your chest. Thousands of thoughts running through your mind, all sort of scenarios overtaking your sense. Each one ending in the favour of your soon to be husband and not the man you’ve grown so fond of, because wealth and power win in the end. Not strength and bravery.

“You have seen how skillful the man is,” your spoken statement is an opposite of what he thought you’d say, earning yourself a tight squeeze on your hip. His fingers digging into the fabric of the gown he picked out for you, into your tender flesh.

“Do you trust the slave more than your own emperor?” you can see it then, the change in his mechanisms. It’s like someone flipped a switch and there’s a whole another person, the action urging you to bolt. Nonetheless, you stay, loyal to the one you’re promised to — discarding your own needs.

“I would not dare, I simply worry too much,” you breathe out shakily, trying to appear genuine. It brings you to hesitantly reach out your hand, the motion slow enough that he could slap it away if he wished to. He doesn’t, he welcomes your touch instead, taking you by a surprise the second your palm comes into contact with the swell of his cheekbone.

“I appreciate it, though suggest you keep your mouth shut, sweets. Worry doesn’t look too good on you,” his lips curve into a malicious smile, hand flying out to grip your wrist tightly. You almost whine aloud, not from the pain, but from how unexpected the action was. You swallow the dry lump building up in your throat, barely visibly nodding your hand. And with that, he jerks your arm away from his face.

“In five days, I will face the champion,”

Your world crashes down, ambers of horror turning into flames. You don’t try to convince him to do otherwise due to his stubbornness, regardless of how unlikely he’s to win honourably in the fight. Your mind only wanders to the white haired gladiator, the worry you feel now incomparable to the one you feel each time he goes out to fight in the arena. It’s far more devouring that he’s ought to be robbed of his life in such a disgusting manner.

His arms untangle from your body, hand patting the side of your thigh to show you you’re no longer welcomed in his lap. He dismisses you, finally. The gruesome time spent in his presence seeming overly time consuming. And as soon as that, you’re on the path to your room, you feel both at ease and horrified. The thought of having breakfast making you sick as reality of what is to come for your heartfelt warrior crashes down on you just, coming your way in full speed. Your footsteps pick speed, flying through the corridors of your new home.

When you reach the inside of your chamber, your words are quick to send the maids away, not caring whether they’re finished with their task or not. The one sensation you can focus on is the burning in the walls of your throat and on the entirety of your chest. You manage to breathe slowly in and our in order to keep your emotions at bay until every single one of your ladies exits the room.

Then it hits you, like an arrow to your heart.

He’s going to die by the hands of your monstrous future spouse.

Tears spill from the corners of your eyes, running down the swell of your cheeks and continuing their way down your neck. Meanwhile, your back remains pressed against the entrance door to the room. You close your orbs shut, thinking that maybe — just maybe — it’d go away if you tried hard enough. However, you can’t stop the reality from dragging you down. And you feel pathetic for allowing your emotions to get the better out of you, because of a man who’s always been bound to be taken away from you. Although, it never occurred to you it could be done by the man you’re betrothed to. It makes you hyperventilate, each cell in your body bursting while trying not to let out a single sound. It’s agonising, all you wish to do is let it out, but with the ladies still lingering behind the closed door to your room, it’s unimaginable.

“In five days, therefore before our wedding,” you mumble out inaudible and in disbelief, piece of hope swallowing you whole as an idea bubbles up to surface.

Seven days to your wedding ceremony, five till the fight.

You’ve still got time to try, try to either talk the emperor into stepping away from the fight or help the gladiator escape before it comes down to it. Either way, you’d then proceed to marry the emperor, be miserable and preform your duty as a princess — bringing the empire a slice of hope for the future. And as great as it sounds, you know you’d regret it till the end of your days. And then there’s the last option, which includes packing up your necessities and losing yourself in the city, sailing away on a boat with Satoru’s hand in your. The fantasy robbing you of any logical way of thinking.

It’s all you wish for, from the marrow in your bones to your fingertips — your whole being years for a chance at a new life, away from the madness of the empire.

Small pieces of ideas begin to form a unit in your mind, and the last thing you need is the agreement of the one you’re so eager to run away with.

It causes you to pick yourself up, each shattered piece, and smile. You smile your way through the day, trying out dresses and answering all the prying questions coming from your court ladies to appear as much in love with the idea of marrying the emperor as they do. You lunch with him in the gardens, you endure each time he picks on you with grace and dodge everything which leads to suggesting being in any shape or form intimate with him. He hasn’t tried anything, but with the wedding date nearing its expiration, he’s certainly growing rather bold with his words and it’s simply a matter of time before he does try. You play out your role of the low maintenance loyal princess who appears to be amazed by what’s happening in her life. All of it just to wake up in the dead of the night, filled with anticipation and anxiety, ready to take on yet another nightly outing. This time being different, tainted by a horrible sense that you’ll soon run out of time for good.

In the stillness of the night, the city transforms and gleams in a strange way under the light of the moon. Each step a defiance to your obligations, betraying your lineage and the ruler himself by plotting against his judgment. The air feels exceptionally thick as you reach the entrance leading to the gladiator’s cells. Your heart heaves with news that threaten to shatter your clandestine fantasy. The emperor, perhaps having caught whispers of your affections, had announced his participation in the upcoming games — not for sport, but for execution. And you’re soon going to be the one to deliver these news.

“I need the keys this time,” you demand, the old man guarding the entrance nearly choking on his own saliva.

“But princess—“

“I said I need the keys,” your voice cuts him off before he can finish, repeating your wish once more and empathising it while reaching into the pocket of your silky robe to pull out a leather sachet, packed with gold and denariuses.

The nameless man scans your hooded figure, arm hesitantly handing you the keys in exchange for your treasure, and then he lets you in without any other words — aware this might not end up well for him. But it doesn’t stop you either like it normally would, you can’t bring yourself to care as you descend down the stairs.

“You are late tonight,” his voice calls out from the darkness of his cell, collected and oh so soothing. Your shoulders loosen up and the speed of your racing heart comes to a halt. You pull your hood down, revealing yourself to him as you inch closer towards the metal bars.

“I am sorry, I had to wait a little longer tonight,” you whisper into the silence, keeping the keys hidden in your pocket as there’s a small uncertainty blooming in you about using them, about stepping inside and that he might run.

“You came, that is what matters,” he exhales with a low hum, stepping out of the darkness to close the overbearing distance between you. Your heart ceases to function at the sight of his beautiful face, each time you see him it grabs you by your throat like it’s the first time and it doesn’t cease to amuse you. The sharp cut of his jawline and cheeks-bones, the delicate curve of his nose and the light sunburn grazing his skin from working in the open sun, but most importantly, the gleam in his eyes — the softness that defies the rest of his muscular frame.

“I am afraid I am not a barer of good news,” you break the silence with a heavy heart, the reality coming together once again as the amusement goes on to pass. Satoru furrows his brows at that, arms sneaking through the metal to touch you.

“The emperor, he is out of his mind, and he wants to fight you before he is to be wedded to me, Satoru,” pure shock paints his face the moment your words make the situation real, his hand gently squeezes your side before his fingers play with the slippery fabric of your gown.

“Let him, then. I will crush him with ease,” he states with confidence and if it were anyone else facing him, you wouldn’t dare to question his skills.

“You are not reading me correctly,” you shake your head slightly, tone cracking, and part of you knew it wouldn’t be easy to convince him of what is building up outside of the walls of the Colosseum.

“He is not to let you win,” you speak slowly and deliberately, allowing him to digest the meaning behind it in hopes that he’ll listen to you.

“He does not need to, I will defeat him,” he copies your way of speaking, trying to convince you to put your faith in him. His palm slides up your body to rest upon your cheek, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

“Do you truly think he is a man of honour? He will cheat his way out,” the words escape your lips in a quiet and desperate way, while you pool your eyes into his. Their shade almost dark blue in the darkness. Like the ocean that threatens to drown sailors on a stormy night.

It makes you realise that there are no torches lit this night which is suspicious.

“I will send him to his own grave, I promise you princess. That you will be free,” your face falls into frustration even though his thumb works in small sensual circles on your skin, it’s still not enough to soothe down the raging ache.

“You cannot possibly think they will let you kill the emperor in an arena full of guards. In front of hundreds, it will be a charade,” you continue, growing more desperate. So much that you might start pleading, it’s what your eyes are doing anyway and it seems to shake him up a little, because you take notice of the way his features soften up.

“They will take your life too, even if you by some miracle will succeed in killing him,” you add, leaning into the security of his touch.

“At least you will be free, I am to take the risk,”

And that is what utterly undoes you, so much you have to pull and step away.

“Please, I beg you to stop,” you plea, clasping your hands together.

“There is no other way,” his voice is calm in comparison to yours, as if he’s already reconciled with his fate and it only deepens the hurt burning through you.

“Satoru, listen,” you start off shakily, but you manage to form it into coherent sentences, “we could board a ship in four days, sail to Greece together at dawn and leave this behind.”

Your hands tremble as you reach for the gladiator before you, but he’s the one to step away now. Your eyes are wide with desperation, searching his face for traces of hope. He remains still, his muscular frame silhouetting against the stone walls of his cell — your lips quiver, breath hitching as you silently plead for escape.

“I cannot strip you off your titles, your birthright,” he speaks up, crushing your build up hope in a fraction of second, making you reel.

“None of it compares to you,”

“I have nothing to offer you,” the gladiator's expression is a tapestry of conflict. His brows knit together, eyes reflecting a storm of love, sorrows and resignation. He gently takes your hands in his, the touch both tender and firm as he slowly shakes his head.

“It matters not, you are worth more than all the jewels they bathe me in and it would be silly to marry someone I would never be able to love, would it not?” you chuckle lightly, expressing the doubts you haven’t spoken out loud before. You squeeze his hands, urging him to give into this.

“I would simply not be able to forgive myself for robbing you of your comfort,” his iridescent globes pierce yours and it’s admirable, the way he so easily gives up what he wants in order for you to be secured. Even as you’re begging him to do the complete opposite, even knowing the marriage would never fulfil you, but he would rather die than to rob you of everything, give you nothing and make you more miserable. It’s better to be miserable in a palace than somewhere God knows where, it’s what he tells himself as he fights to not do what you’re asking him.

“You are not listening to me,” your tone becomes more firm, demanding. And it irks you how much this affects you, nonetheless, you can’t phantom a reality where you stay with the emperor and leave him to die.

“You are not either,” he doesn’t pretend to be calm anymore, the expression on his face a mixture of remorse and frustration.

“I cannot watch you leave your life behind, and for what? A gladiator?” the echo of his sarcastic chuckle rings through the long dungeon, striking your heart right where it hurts the moment. And you realise just how crazy this is, what you’re asking him to do — to steal a princess under the nose of the emperor — but it doesn’t stop you.

For once in your life, you want to be selfish.

“And I cannot lose you, do you not understand? I have fallen in love with you,” you say exactly what you’re thinking, cheeks flushing in the process due to the simple fact you have never felt the need to say those word nor had anyone ever to say them to.

The gladiator looks just as surprised by your confession as you do which unsettles you.

“What?” he mumbles, barely audible as he implores you to repeat what has left your lips.

It showed in everything he loved- his dragons, his job, the way his hands were always a little calloused from handling creatures that could (and would) turn a man to ash without a second thought. He liked things wild, untamed, full of passion and fight.

Which is why, when he met you, it all made perfect sense.

Because you were just like his dragons.

Stand-offish. Sarcastic. Sassy as all hell. And prone to overwhelming bouts of affection that usually ended in your teeth sinking into his skin.

Like now.

It was early- too early. The sun barely peeked through the window of your shared bedroom, casting a golden glow over the tangled mess of sheets and limbs. You were curled into Charlie’s side, trapped in the warmth of his arms, his rough palm smoothing over your back in lazy circles. He was a furnace, always running hot, and you should have been grateful for it in the chilly morning air.

But he was being too affectionate. Too soft.

And you didn’t know how to handle it.

“You’re warm,” he murmured against the shell of your ear, voice still thick with sleep. “Could stay like this forever.”

You grumbled something unintelligible into his chest, refusing to let your heart melt at the way his fingers traced absentminded patterns into your skin.

He chuckled, clearly picking up on your growing restlessness. “What, can’t handle a bit of affection, love?”

His teasing was met with a sharp bite to his shoulder.

Charlie didn’t even flinch. If anything, he laughed “Merlin, you’re worse than Norberta,” he mused, pulling you closer instead of retreating. “You know, she bit me the first time I tried to feed her. Damn near took off my hand.”

You growled- actually fucking growled- and bit him again, this time at the curve of his bicep, the firm muscle giving slightly under your teeth.

Charlie let out an appreciative hum, completely unbothered. If anything, he sounded pleased.

“Fuck, I love that,” he admitted, voice dipping low.

You huffed against his skin, barely resisting the urge to do it again just to shut him up.

It wasn’t just the mornings when this happened.

It was whenever Charlie got too much.

When he wrapped himself around you on the couch, arms and legs tangling with yours like he wanted to merge into your very being. When his hands got a little too handsy, slipping under your shirt absentmindedly while he talked, utterly unaware of how flustered you were becoming.

When he leaned in too close, eyes burning with mischief, lips quirking into that goddamn smirk.

That’s when your instincts kicked in.

Like an overstimulated cat- except instead of claws, you had teeth.

And Charlie? The absolute menace of a man adored it.

“Didn’t realize I’d be dating a feral little thing,” he teased one night after you nearly bit his knuckles when he tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

You’d glared at him, half mortified and half infuriated. “Then leave.”

“Not a chance,” he grinned, pressing a kiss to your temple before murmuring against your skin, “Wouldn’t have you any other way.”

And fuck if that didn’t make your stomach twist into knots.

But it was worse when he knew.

When he realized exactly what his affection did to you.

And, worse still, when he used it against you.

Like now.

You were still trapped in bed, your limbs tangled with his, his broad chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. The warmth of him was suffocating in the best way, his scent- embers and earth, something deeply, irritatingly comforting- enveloping you entirely.

He shifted, just enough to make you hyper-aware of the solid weight of him, of the arm still wrapped around your waist, fingers splayed against the curve of your back like he had no intention of letting go.

“Hmm,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep. “Still pouting?”

You scowled, refusing to lift your head.

Charlie huffed out a laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

You bit him. Again.

Hard.

Right on the curve of his collarbone.

Charlie groaned. And fuck, the sound sent a jolt of heat straight to your stomach.

It was barely a second before he moved, suddenly rolling you beneath him, pinning you to the mattress with nothing but his weight.

You gasped, hands automatically bracing against his chest, fingers digging into the solid muscle.

He grinned, slow and smug, his stubble brushing against your cheek as he leaned in. “That’s not very nice, love.”

You glared up at him, breathing uneven. “Then let me go.”

Charlie tilted his head, considering. And then- because he was a menace- he leaned down, his lips brushing over your jaw, his stubble scraping just enough to make you shiver. “Not a chance.”

His voice was rough, teasing, but something deeper simmered beneath it, something possessive.

You clenched your jaw, your pulse thundering, your body caught between the instinct to fight and the overwhelming urge to give in.

You hated- hated- how easily he unraveled you.

Charlie chuckled, completely unbothered by your internal battle. “Go on, love,” he murmured, dragging his lips lower, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot just below your ear. “Bite me again.”

You shuddered, fisting your hands in his shirt, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

And Charlie- fucking Charlie- just waited, watching you.

His gaze burned into yours, blue eyes half-lidded, his expression one of utter satisfaction, of someone who knew exactly how much he affected you.

“You love this,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement. “Don’t you?”

You grit your teeth. “Fuck. You.”

Charlie smirked. “That an invitation?”

You let out a strangled noise- half groan, half exasperation- and, finally, sank your teeth into his shoulder.

He growled this time, the sound rumbling low in his throat, and before you could react, his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Overwhelming.

And so fucking unfair.

Because Charlie Weasley had a thing for fire.

“kento, i got you your favorite bread!” your classes hadn’t even started yet, and you were already greeting him with a smile and an outstretched arm, offering him a sandwich from his favorite bakery.

“HAH?! it’s 8:12 in the mornin’! you mean to tell me you deliberately went outta your way to pick up a sandwich for nanami and nothin’ for anyone else?!” gojo interrupted, approaching you and swinging an arm around your shoulder as shoko and geto, your other upperclassmen, trail behind him.

the latter chuckles in amusement, eyes forming two thin lines as he smiles, “ah, young love.”

“that’s how my grandparents started off, too.” shoko joins in on the teasing, making you roll your eyes at their antics.

thankfully, nanami saves you from humiliation when he speaks up, sighing as he shakes his head. “don’t mind them. thank you, i really appreciate this.”

kento takes the sandwich and unwraps it, then splits it in half before handing the bigger slice to you, making the others gasp and woo. gojo pushes you towards kento with the arm he had previously wrapped around you, making you falter as you fall in the blonde’s arms. their teasing shrieks only get louder, with geto muttering a little “i was unfamiliar with your game.”

kento lets go of you once you find your footing, and he scolds the white haired man, furrowing his brows as he does so.

he looks back again at you, face softening as he offers you a small smile. his brown eyes find yours as he apologizes, extending his arms for the second time as he gives you your half of the sandwich.

suddenly feeling bashful under his gaze and the added presence of the others, you look down as you clear your throat, having no choice but to take the food, fearing that their teasing would only worsen if you refused.

times were much simpler then. you can’t help but wonder how different things could have turned out had you all been born as non sorcerers, away from the responsibilities forced upon you, the responsibilities you inherited, and the weight placed upon your shoulders since your birth.

but then you remember how everything, even the bad aspects of your upbringing, only made you and kento closer, and suddenly you don’t mind so much. because for kento, you’d take all the pain if it meant being able to keep his love.

like that time when you and kento were walking home after a duo mission when the sky suddenly started pouring. without an umbrella or even a jacket to keep either of you dry, you head to the nearest convenience store together and shake off the droplets of rain caught within your clothes.

taking a seat, you watch the world through the glass walls of the store. kento follows your gaze, before he fishes a handkerchief out his pocket. it’s surprisingly dry when he offers it to you without a word.

looking up at him in confusion, you take it from his hands. you’re about to speak when he beats you to it, muttering a quick and simple, “i’ll get us some ramen,” before he disappears into one of the aisles.

you’re left in confusion, feeling stunned before you clear your throat and pull yourself together. that’s just how kento is, you think, shrugging it off as you pat yourself dry.

minutes later, he returns with two cups of noodles and gently places your favorite flavor in front of you, then a wooden pair of chopsticks on top. taking a seat next to yours, he begins eating as you two watch the rain.

silence fills the room, save for the sounds of slurping and the harsh drops of rain outside. the tranquility provides a sense of comfort to the both of you, wrapping you up like a blanket after the harsh mission you’d just returned from.

the atmosphere is light and peaceful, much like how kento’s always made you feel. offering his seats, holding your bags when you feel tired, and even keeping an eye on you during missions. you don’t know how he does it. be perfect, you mean, because there is not a single flawed bone in nanami’s body.

it’s evident, especially in that one memory you hold so dearly in your heart.

after being separated for years after high school, you all went to your respective colleges. you thought it’d be the end of your little high school crush story, but little did you know what the future held in store for you.

years after, you and kento are in a french café, a pain au chocolat and a croissant resting on your respective plates. he had come across one of your social media accounts on accident, stumbling upon it when he was looking for… honestly, he doesn’t know what he was looking for. all he remembers is seeing your name and picture, and, as if a moth to a flame, clicking the message option to shoot you a text.

“that day is engraved into my brain,” light breaths of air escape his lips as he talks about the 7/11 ramen run, and you wonder how he can make even the slightest noises like that sound perfect, “i think about it a lot. you know, that was probably the first time i’d ever seen you in that sense.”

“you still think about that?”

…

“you don’t?”

———

kento nanami was a man of unwavering patience and little indulgence. every decision, no matter how small, was carefully well thought out, so you were surprised when he proposed to you after only 3 years and 7 months.

as waves of sunlight illuminated your face, kento sat up in bed with a pen and a newspaper, his bare back against the headboard as he pushed up his glasses. he clears his throat when he feels you shuffle awake, one of his hands snaking its way into your hair.

“good morning, sweetheart.” his voice is husky, clearly just having come from slumber.

you groan against him, nuzzling into the sides of his torso, your cheeks resting against his abs, “good morning, handsome.”

“you flatter me, my love.” he chuckles against you, and if it were up to nanami, he’d stay in this moment forever, the snug fit of your body against his aiding the sun in warming him up. he snaps the newspaper straight, catching your attention.

“what’s that?” you ask, closing your eyes and pressing yourself further, as if magnetized.

“today’s word search. would you like to help me?”

you groan, sighing as you pull yourself together and force your eyelids open. you rub your eyes and yawn, mirroring his posture as you sit up and rest your head against his shoulder.

that’s when you see it.

the encircled words: me, my, marry, will, love.

“my love, will you marry me?”

and as the sweet answer of “yes” escapes your lips, nanami sees it clearly now. how he’s always been yours. even if he didn’t know it. even if you didn’t know it.

but now you both do. and he realizes, that day when he found your account.

he’s always been looking for you.

———

your wedding ring fits snugly on your finger as you fidget, rolling it around.

it’s been a year since kento’s departure. a year since shibuya. a year since your life turned upside down, and you’d lost all you ever had.

you remember a time when you thought you held the world in your hands. because with kento, he never made you feel any less, always at your disposal.

so now you keep his last name, and although you and kento never really had kids, you find yourself with three of his.

nobara, yuuji, and megumi all pool around you as you visit his grave. they’re laughing, conversing happily as they tell him stories of how good you’ve been to them.

“yuuji keeps eating away all of the food mrs. nanami makes!”

“nanamin, that’s not true! shut up nobara, i have to eat a lot because i work out!”

“both of you, shut up. this is so embarassing…”

despite not being able to physically share these memories with your husband, you’re not worried. you know he’s looking down on you, maybe even guiding you like the angel he is. knowing him, he’d probably argue with even the highest of beings if it meant being able to watch over you once more.

and maybe you lost all you ever had, but now you’ve gained a whole new world.

because no amount of sorrow or grief or heartache could compare to even a fraction to the miracle that is kento’s love. because regardless of the short time you’ve shared together, nanami’s love was enough to last you a lifetime.