#gladiator 2

He knew it was a sin long before it ever felt sweet.

Rome had rules for everything; bloodlines, marriages, women like her. Rules Marcus Acacius had enforced with an iron hand. He had watched men die for breaking lesser ones. He had never questioned them.

Until her.

She belonged to Rome. 

That was the problem. Rome took what it wanted the same way it always had — without asking, without mercy. Her father had bled for the empire. The empire had answered by claiming his daughter, crowning her, binding her to a throne that did not love her back.

Marcus understood that kind of cruelty. He had lived by it. He had survived it.

He did not begin wanting her the way men were taught to want women.

It began as a fracture.

A quiet disruption in discipline — the kind that lingered long after battles were won and orders obeyed. She would enter the hall draped in gold and restraint, crowned and beyond his reach, and something in him would harden with the unbearable certainty that she was misplaced.

An Empress bound to a man who could not see what stood before him.

Marcus told himself it was loyalty that kept his gaze steady, his expression carved from stone. He told himself it was duty that tightened his jaw when her husband failed to claim her as he should have—failed to give Rome what it demanded. The whispers came anyway.

They crept through the streets, through the barracks, through the mouths of men who bled for a ruler they no longer respected. Fools with wine on their breath and laughter too loud, speaking of a marriage left cold, of an emperor young in years but broken where it mattered most.

Rome was patient with madness.

It was not patient with weakness.

Marcus heard the rumors and felt something dark coil in his chest — not because they spoke of her with vulgar curiosity, but because the truth beneath the words rang too clear. She was left unfulfilled. Unmarked. A womb denied its purpose by a man unfit to claim it.

And of all the places those whispers took root, the barracks were the most dangerous.

Men who lived with blood on their hands and wine on their tongues did not temper their words. They sharpened them. What began as murmurs in the streets turned into laughter among soldiers — crude, fearless, spoken by men who believed steel and loyalty placed them beyond consequence.

It was there, among armor and stone and the stink of sweat, that Rome’s ugliest truths were spoken aloud.

“They say she sleeps alone,” one of the legionaries snorted, leaning back against the stone wall.

“What kind of emperor leaves his own bed cold?”

“They say he doesn’t share his chamber with her at all.”

“Then who does?” another snorted.

A pause. A look exchanged.

“Not women,” someone muttered.

Laughter followed; uneasy, sharp-edged.

“Funny how his concubines see more of him than his own wife.”

“Gods above. Imagine that. An Empress untouched.”

Another scoffed.

“Untouched by her husband, you mean.”

A third voice chimed in, uglier, louder.

“If she were mine,” he said with a grin, “I’d never leave the space between her legs.”

The laughter came first — then the sighs, slow and hungry.

“Maybe he cannot,” someone else scoffed. “All that power, all that gold… and still not man enough.”

“Seems like our Empress deserves a true man’s cock,” he said, grabbing his own balls in a joking gesture.

They laughed harder at that.

Another legionary chimed in, mockingly thoughtful. “You ever see a fruit kept too long out of reach?” He chuckled. “Makes you wonder how sweet she must taste.”

More laughter — low, ugly, unchecked.

That was when the air changed.

Marcus had not spoken.

The men noticed too late — the sudden silence, the way the sound seemed to die in their throats.

“General—” one of them started.

Marcus crossed the space between them in two strides.

His fist struck without warning.

The legionary hit the ground hard, teeth clattering against stone. Someone shouted. Someone tried to pull Marcus back.

It did not help.

He hit him again. And again. And again.

Not in rage.

In correction.

The laughter was gone now. Replaced by screams, by pleading, by the sickening sound of flesh meeting stone.

When Marcus finally stood, his knuckles were red. His breath was steady.

The man on the ground did not move.

Months ago, that same legionary had bled on a battlefield at his general’s command — for Rome, for glory, for discipline.

Now he bled again, not for war, but for forgetting what should never have been spoken aloud.

No one spoke.

Marcus looked at the rest of them — eyes cold, voice low.

“Speak of her again,” he said, calm as a drawn blade, “and I will bury you beside him.”

No one doubted him.

YOU

The palace was quiet, but the quiet offered no comfort. It only gave your thoughts room to breathe — and they were merciless.

They called you Empress, but the word felt hollow when you were alone. A title did not warm the bed. It did not silence the questions. It did not stop the way people looked at you when they thought you weren’t paying attention. You had learned how to read those looks. You knew what they meant.

No one ever said it aloud, but you felt it anyway.

No child. No heir.

You had begun counting time differently. Not in days or seasons, but in glances. In how long silence stretched after certain conversations. In how often your name was spoken with careful restraint. You wondered when concern would turn to calculation. When patience would give way to necessity.

You told yourself not to think about it but the thought lived under your skin. It hummed there, constant and low. What if this was enough to make you disposable? What if love, vows, loyalty, none of it mattered without proof?

The shame was the worst part. It crept in quietly, uninvited. It asked questions you didn’t know how to answer. Is it you? Is your body the failure? You hated yourself for thinking it, but you thought it anyway. Because no one else would ask the question for you. Because if they did, the answer would destroy everything.

You sat in silk and gold, surrounded by guards and slaves, and had never felt more alone. You were not afraid of death, not really. You were afraid of being erased. Of being remembered only as a mistake that didn’t produce a future.

That was why the thought came to you at night. The one you tried to push away. The one that made your chest tighten with guilt and relief all at once. A wrong solution. A dangerous one. But a solution nonetheless.

You told yourself it was survival. You told yourself it was not desire. You told yourself you had no choice.

And the most terrifying part was this: somewhere deep down, you were no longer sure that was a lie.

They had told you duty first. Your father had said it without softness, without pause. Rome’s future rested on your shoulders. Becoming Empress was an honor few women were ever given. 

Do not forget what you owe the city. Do not shame me. Do not stain our name.

He had been a legatus once — a man who understood command. He gave you to the Emperor the same way he had given soldiers to war. No counsel. No comfort. Only orders. 

Stand straight. Obey. Endure.

He never told you how to survive.

Now the one thing he feared most was unfolding.

Your husband could not touch you. Not in any way that mattered. He had taken your virginity on your wedding night with the care of a man fulfilling a task he did not want. Minutes. No tenderness. No heat. Nothing that lingered. Since then, two imperial years had passed — and there was no heir.

The Senate’s concern had become Rome’s favorite whisper. At festivals, eyes lingered too long. Smiles sharpened. Fertility was questioned openly, because in Rome it always was. Men were never at fault. 

Women bore the shame. 

You bore it in silence.

The concubines came and went from his chambers at night. Quietly. Frequently. Everyone knew. No one called it betrayal. You were expected to accept it as part of the crown.

You felt like something set aside. An object waiting to fail.

And you were done waiting.

You decided to do the thing you had never imagined yourself capable of. Not out of desire — not at first — but necessity. You needed an heir. Immediately. Each passing month tightened the noose. You would not be discarded because of his weakness. You had given everything to this marriage. You had earned that title. And if he could not secure your future, you would.

There was nothing wrong with that. You told yourself so until the words felt solid.

You were not like him. Prostitutes and slaves were not an option. You would have to see them again. Remember them. Risk recognition. You needed someone who would disappear the moment it was done.

Gladiators.

Not merely slaves of war, but men forged in blood and survival. Their names did not matter—where they came from mattered even less. What drew you was their strength, their presence, the hunger that lived beneath scarred skin. It unsettled you in ways your husband never had.

You were tired of indifference. Tired of being touched like an obligation, a duty performed for appearances alone. Your body wanted proof it was still alive—that it mattered, that it could still answer to something fierce and undeniable.

If it took one, or many, it would not matter. You would continue until life took hold within you. That was the only measure that counted. It was reckless—perhaps even suicidal—but you knew the truth: to remain as you were was a slower kind of death.

You prepared carefully. Loyal slaves. Silent men and women who owed you more than their lives. You trusted them to guard this secret until the grave, because in Rome, silence was often the most valuable currency of all.

You moved quickly because you had to. Every delay brought you closer to ruin.

You told yourself you deserved this. That there was no sin in protecting what was yours. That Rome had taken enough from you already.

And so, in the darkest hour of the night, you came willingly.

The villa had always been a refuge.

Long before the crown. Before the marriage. Before Rome decided what you were worth. It stood beyond the city’s reach — not abandoned, not forgotten, simply untouched by the noise of power. Stone walls warmed by the sun. Olive trees old enough to remember silence.

It belonged to the only person you had ever trusted without reservation. 

Agrippa.

A friend chosen, not assigned. Someone who had never asked anything of you except honesty. Over the years, it had become the one place where you were not watched. Where you could breathe without measuring every word.

The slaves there were not strangers. They had known you since you were younger, softer, unnamed by titles. They did not call you Empress when no one was listening. They called you by your name. They guarded your secrets with the same loyalty they guarded the house itself.

You trusted them with your life.

That trust was not blind. It had been earned. Years of silence. Years of discretion. They had seen you arrive shaken, leave steadier. Had learned when to ask nothing at all.

This was why you chose this place.

No corridors filled with echoes. No guards who belonged to him. No eyes trained to report every movement.

Here, nothing was expected of you.

The villa did not judge. It did not whisper. It simply opened its doors the way it always had — like it understood why you were here.

Your most-trusted slave, the one who had dressed you since before the crown, who knew when to ask nothing, watched you in the lamplight and did not flinch. Her voice stayed low. Practical. Loyal.

“This is not recklessness, Your Highness,” she said, fastening the last pin with steady hands. “It is survival.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. She had seen Rome sharpen its knives around you for months. Heard the whispers grow bold. Watched concubines pass your door at night while you learned to breathe quietly.

“A gladiator is the cleanest choice,” she continued, as if weighing grain or silver. “His body is not his own. It never was.” A pause. “And the arena will take him soon enough. There will be no witness left to trouble you.”

She met your eyes then — unafraid, certain.

“For a man like that, being chosen by a noblewoman is not shame,” she said softly. “It is reward. A memory he will carry like armor.” Her mouth curved, just barely. “If he survives long enough to remember it.”

Your throat tightened.

“He will not refuse,” she added. “Why would he? One night in a woman’s bed is more than most of them are ever given.” She adjusted your tunic, reverent now. “He will not know who you are,” she said quietly, as if this were the simplest thing in the world. “Only that you are a matron of rank. Nothing more.”

A memory he will carry like armor…

For him, perhaps. But for you? Would it be regret, or the first narrow opening toward something long denied?

You drew a slow breath, the weight of the choice settling not on your shoulders, but deep in your bones. “Very well,” you said at last; the words leaving your lips like an order that would shape the rest of your life. “Bring the gladiator to the chamber at once..”

The slave inclined her head and withdrew in silence. With that small motion, what had been contemplated became inevitable.

MARCUS

The Lupanaria (the roman brothel) was alive with noise, warm and heavy with incense and oil, the faint echo of harp strings winding through the corridors—music reserved only for the victorious General of Rome and his closest commanders. Torches flickered along the walls, casting gold and shadow over the polished floors, over men laughing too loudly, leaning too close to the women who moved with practiced grace — the best courtesans, the youngest and most beautiful, each one a temptation perfectly honed for eyes that lingered.

Some of Marcus’ legates indulged in these women, entwined in fleeting embraces, hands wandering where they ought not, celebrating victory in the indulgent ways Rome allowed. Soft moans and gasps floated through the hall, punctuated by the sharp slap of skin on skin, the subtle catch of breath, the occasional clink of wine cups forgotten in hands that were busy elsewhere.

Marcus observed it all with detached precision. Every glance, every touch, every sly smile noted and catalogued and yet none of it reached him. A goblet of wine rested in his hand, raised and lowered more out of habit than desire. He drank, felt the burn slide down his throat, welcomed it for a moment — anything to quiet the unrest coiled beneath his ribs. Platters were brought, rich with meat and fruit, and he ate just enough to satisfy appearances, chewing without tasting.

But the hunger remained.

Not the kind that gnawed at the stomach.

This one lived deeper, sharp, insistent, impossible to feed.

He was not here. Not in this chaos. Not in the fleeting pleasures of men too easily satisfied. His body sat among them, armored and whole, but his mind was elsewhere.

Because all around him, bodies writhed and cried out in delight, but his attention — the sharp, relentless edge of it; rested on: one thought. One memory. One obsession.

You.

Victory had brought him back to Rome in white, gold and blood. The city had roared his name as if it belonged to it. The legions had marched. The Senate had watched. Jupiter’s temple had waited.

And the Emperor, drunk, as he so often was, had fumbled.

The laurel crown slipped from his grasp, clattering against marble in a sound far too loud for something so sacred. A careless fracture in ceremony. Murmurs rippled through the senators. Courtiers stilled. Rome itself seemed to hold its breath.

And then you moved.

The Empress.

Disapproval had flickered across your face — quick, restrained, unmistakable — before grace took over. You bent without hesitation, silk and gold folding around you as you retrieved the fallen wreath as if correcting a minor inconvenience rather than saving an Emperor from humiliation.

Marcus remembered how he had dropped to one knee at once, bowing his head toward you. Not in submission—never that—but in recognition.

You stepped closer. Too close.

Your fingers brushed the white of his armor as you lifted the laurel, your breath quickening despite yourself. When you placed the crown upon his head without meeting his eyes, a flicker of irritation crossed his features—brief, instinctive. Without thinking, he reached up and caught your hand, stopping you before you could withdraw.

Behind you, the emperor was stirring, being steadied by slaves but neither of you noticed. In that moment, the world had narrowed. There was no crowd, no court, no throne, no witnesses. There was only you.

He leaned down—just enough. Barely. Deliberately.

His lips met your knuckles in the shadow between ceremony and transgression, the kiss lingering longer than protocol demanded, tracing your skin with intent rather than reverence.

He remembered the way you stiffened. The almost imperceptible shiver that betrayed you. The quick swallow of breath. A soft, startled gasp.

Your reaction was written plainly across your face, and that alone drew a dark, knowing smile from him.

He had let his mouth linger a fraction longer, savoring the heat of your reaction, the way your composure fractured beneath the smallest touch. For one suspended instant — amid cheers, laughter, and the thunder of Rome’s approval — there had been nothing but you.

Only the way your body answered him. Only the way your eyes flickered up before snapping away.

The memory curved his mouth now, slow and private.

And then something ugly coiled in his chest.

Because in all the years you had stood within arm’s reach of one another — banquets, ceremonies, the Colosseum, victory feasts — there had never been contact. Not once. No accidental brush. No stolen closeness. Nothing that could be claimed.

That moment had been the first.

And after it, nothing else had ever truly left his mind.

The war had lasted three months. Three months of marching, killing, bleeding. He had been wounded more than once — cut, torn, soaked through — but none of it had tested him the way distance from you had.

Pain had never frightened him. Death had never tempted him to stop.

What had kept him moving was not Rome. Not glory.

It was you.

The thought of your face. Of your figure moving through silk and light. Of your smile — restrained, careful — and the soft sound of your jewelry when you inclined your head.

Of standing close enough to feel your presence.

Of knowing that when the laurel was placed upon his head, it would be you before him — close enough to feel, real, breathing — even if you stood beside the Emperor, even if you were never truly his.

That certainty had carried him through fire and steel. It had sharpened his blade, steadied his hand. He had cut down enemies with your image fixed behind his eyes, every strike a promise to return victorious.

And the truth had been better than anything he had dared to imagine. You had placed the laurel upon his head with your own hands. He had wished it had never happened.

Wished he had bled out on some distant battlefield, lungs filling with blood, vision darkening — anything but that single moment of your touch. Because it had not soothed him. It had not passed.

It had fed the fire.

What already burned inside him had been given breath, and now it raged — uncontrollable, merciless.

He feared himself after that.

Feared the way his thoughts returned to you without permission. Feared how nothing could contain the hunger once it had taken root. Not discipline. Not war. Not distance. Every night since, he had come here, drowning himself in noise and bodies, trying to smother you beneath sensation.

He had taken women — dozens of them. Touched, tasted, indulged. Skin against skin. Heat and sound and need.

And none of it mattered.

Because not one of them felt the way you had.

Not one mouth, one hand, one body had ever carried the same feeling. None of them made his blood tighten the way it had when your fingers brushed his armor, when your breath had stuttered beneath his mouth.

They were distractions. Empty vessels.

He wanted you alone.

There was a dark, unquenchable flame coiled in him now — something ancient and violent, something that could not be reasoned with. No woman in Rome could douse it. No indulgence could blunt its edge.

Only you could.

And that was impossible.

The realization made his jaw tighten.

He was lost in it when a hand brushed against his thigh.

One of the girls leaned closer, eyes bright with practiced hunger, lips curved in a knowing smile. “Allow me to pleasure you, General,” she murmured, fingers teasing at the edge of his tunic, brushing the straps of his armor as if they were an invitation.

His reaction was immediate.

Marcus’s hand shot up, fingers tangling in her hair, yanking her back with brutal efficiency. Not cruel — controlled. Final.

“No,” he growled. “Not tonight.”

His voice cut through the music, sharper than he intended. Movement stilled around them. Some of the dancers froze. Others glanced over, startled, surprised. He did not look at them.

He was already on his feet, rising to his full height, armor still secured to his body. Only then did he realize he had never bothered to remove it. Had come here armored like a man expecting battle.

Instinct had brought him here — not desire. The part of him that sought control. To neutralize the threat.

And it had failed.

Logic had no hold on him now. Only the dark fire dictated his movement.

He crossed the room and pulled aside the curtain, letting the cool night air strike his face. He drew in a breath that did nothing to steady him.

“General, sir.”

He did not turn. “Leave me.”

“Sir — it concerns the Empress.”

He spun so fast the man flinched, stumbling back a step.

Marcus’s gaze was a blade. Cold. Focused. Lethal.

The legionary swallowed hard and leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. The words reached Marcus’s ear; and the world seemed to stop.

His eyes widened.

His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.

Blood no longer coursed through his veins — it roared.

Rage flooded him, pure and absolute, burning away restraint, drowning reason in its wake.

Not the kind of anger that shouted.

The kind that decided.

Anger did not arrive alone.

It came layered — rage, fury, something older and sharper than either. The kind that did not shout. The kind that moved.

Anger makes men do brutal things. Most men break under it. They lose control.

Marcus had never been most men.

When he was angry, bodies fell. Hundreds of them. Sometimes for strategy. Sometimes simply to feel the tension leave his hands. He had never feared what anger could turn him into. Anyone who did was a fool.

They had called him many things over the years — a bull of a man, a monster, a butcher, a lion-slayer, a merciless warrior. All of it true. His name alone silenced rooms, made legions hesitate, forced even senators to measure their words.

Even the Emperor.

The one man Marcus had killed a thousand times in fantasy and never once in reality. The only man he truly wanted dead — and could not touch.

It had not always been this way.

Once, Marcus had been loyal. After victories, he rested. He drank. He took women without attachment and left them without regret. Slaves, courtesans, noble daughters — even his wives. None of them stayed with him, and none were meant to. Desire had been simple then. As easy as breathing. Meaningless.

After becoming a widower for the second time, even pleasure had lost its pull. Women became tools. Distractions. Nothing reached him anymore.

Then the old Emperor died. Then his son ascended the throne. And as if that insult were not enough, the young, inexperienced ruler decided to marry.

The day his bride -you- was brought into Rome, carried in ceremony, displayed in the Colosseum like spoils: Marcus felt something unfamiliar bloom in his chest.

He had seen beauty before. Many times. Women of every station, every nation. Had possessed it. Had forgotten it. Some were prettier. Softer. Easier.

None of them mattered.

You did.

And it had nothing to do with beauty.

It was the way you smiled without knowing who was watching. The way silk moved with you, the way your hair caught the light. Your hands. Your expressions. Your lashes. Your eyes. Your voice. The quiet weight of your presence when you stood still.

Gods help him — it was as if you had been shaped to undo him. A siren placed in his path to dull his reason and sharpen his hunger.

From the moment he truly looked at you, everything in him burned. Not gently. Not slowly.

He imagined you stripped of the gold-embroidered imperial stola, the heavy layers of silk and status peeled away. Not out of tenderness — out of need. Out of obsession. He wanted to know what was beneath the crown, beneath the restraint. Wanted to know what you would do if you understood who stood before you.

If you would reject him.

Or obey.

More than once, he had imagined cutting the Emperor down where he stood — spilling him across the marble, taking you while your husband’s blood was still warm on his hands. The thought had almost made him smile.

But it was not the Emperor this time. Not the distant enemy. Not even the wounds of battle that had stirred him like this.

He had not felt this fury when the Emperor touched you with ceremony but no care. Not when he gripped your arm too tightly. Not even on your wedding night, when duty had forced Marcus to look away.

Not on the Field of Mars. Not when his sword cut men down.

This was different.

This was tonight.

Because of what had been whispered into his ear.

Because of what you had chosen.

Tonight, you had decided. One night. One stranger man. Not for pleasure — but for an heir.

How dare you.

Not because you wanted someone else.

But because you were willing to turn yourself into a function.

Marcus did not yell.

He did not strike. He did not shatter anything.

He mounted his horse.

Hooves rang against stone as he tore through the sleeping streets, iron striking marble, the sound echoing through the dark like a warning. The city blurred around him — torches, walls, shadows — as he drove the animal harder, faster, as if speed itself could outrun the fury boiling in his blood.

The night wind cut against his face. It did nothing to cool him. He rode like a man racing fate. Like a man already too late.

The anger did not consume him.

It focused him.

He turned it into opportunity.

The fire that had burned in him for months, years. The hunger no woman, no conquest, no victory had ever quieted…

Tonight, it had purpose.

And that purpose was you.

With that single, reckless choice, you had dared to decide the fate of both yourself and him.

The villa gates burst open to the sound of hooves.

Four riders cut through the dark, cloaks snapping, armor catching torchlight in sharp flashes of bronze and steel. The courtyard froze — breath held, instincts flaring all at once.

Agrippa Varro, the villa’s owner, stepped forward before sense could stop him. His wife’s fingers clenched around his arm, nails biting through fabric. Panic flickered across both their faces.

Then recognition struck.

Marcus dismounted in a single, fluid motion.

He struck the stone like a verdict, his caligae (sandal) ringing against marble, cloak snapping behind him — rage held in check by iron discipline.

“General,” Agrippa said hoarsely.

So did everyone else.

Marcus did not acknowledge the greeting.

His gaze swept the courtyard with open contempt, as if their very presence offended him. Slaves lowered their eyes. Guards stiffened, unsure whether to move or disappear.

“Where is she?” he asked.

Nothing more.

They knew who he meant.

They did not know how he knew — and none of them dared ask.

Marcus turned slightly, his voice cold and precise. “Seal the villa,” he said. “No one leaves. No one enters. If I see a single unfamiliar face after this moment, I will assume it is an enemy.”

That was enough.

Agrippa stiffened. He exchanged a stunned glance with his wife — a silent, frantic question passing between them. This was not what they had expected. They had thought Marcus would demand explanations, invoke the Emperor’s name, perhaps even insist the Empress be escorted away at once. That he would stop this. That he would restore order.

Instead, he had sealed the villa.

At his signal, a slave stepped forward — the one Marcus chose with a glance alone. The man bowed deeply, fear etched into every movement, and turned to lead the way inside. Through the atrium (the central open area of a villa). Past marble columns and flickering shadows. Toward the inner chambers.

Marcus followed, his dark cloak cutting through the space behind him, his stride sharp, restless, violent in its restraint.

He understood the moment he crossed the threshold.

The preparation.

The hush.

And the man being brought toward the inner rooms.

The gladiator was bare-chested beneath his cloak, skin scarred, muscles tight with readiness. A mask already covered his face — bronze and leather shaped into the visage of Mars, god of war. Not waiting. Being delivered.

Marcus moved. Three steps.That was all it took.

He seized the man by the shoulder and drove him backward, shoving him hard enough to send him staggering out of the passage. Marcus’s hand closed around the mask — not ripping it away, but gripping it firmly, deliberately, asserting ownership with the smallest motion.

“Take him,” Marcus said, voice low and absolute. “Return him to his cell.”

The slaves hesitated, caught between their loyalty to their empress and the fear of the man - the general - standing before them. 

Marcus lifted his gaze. That was it.

Just as they had brought him, they seized the gladiator and pulled him away in silence. Sandals scraped against the stone, the sound thinning as it vanished into the corridors.

Seconds later, he was gone.

Marcus stayed where he was a moment longer than necessary. The mask still rested in his hand—heavy and cold. 

He turned it slowly, then slipped it onto his face with ease. The straps tightened, and the world around him grew narrow. His breath echoed inside the bronze mask, louder than he had anticipated.

Only then did he focus on the slaves lingering at the edges of the room. 

“You,” he said calmly, lifting his hand, waving in a gesture. “Come here. Help me take off my armor.”

YOU

The cup tasted like punishment.

Your slave said it was necessary. The medicus nodded beside her, solemn and useless, murmuring about warmth and balance, about coaxing life where Rome insisted it should exist. You drank because they told you it might help. Because for two years now, everyone had been trying to help you conceive.

As if the problem were that simple. As if herbs and whispered prayers could make up for the truth — that nothing had ever truly been planted there.

You swallowed and winced. Bitter. Sharp. You tipped wine into the cup without hesitation, watching the dark red soften the brew’s sickly color, then drank again. Better. Warmer. Almost convincing.

You set the cup aside and reached for the mask.

Venus.

The choice had made you laugh earlier — quietly, without humor. Love. Fertility. Desire. The goddess Rome pretended ruled women’s bodies. You allowed your slave to tie it carefully, as if silk could hide more than your face. As if you could tuck your unease behind it and borrow courage for one night.

You wore a simple tunic — thin silk that caught the light and gave more than it took. No excess. No titles. No imperial weight. Only a necklace at your throat, earrings brushing your neck when you moved. The back of the tunic lay open, skin exposed down your spine, held together by a delicate chain that traced your waist like a promise.

You looked deliberate. Not innocent. Not ashamed.

Achingly, dangerously compelling — the kind of beauty that demanded attention without begging for it.

With the Venus mask and your bare, unguarded form, you were dizzying. As if the world were witnessing the birth of the goddess all over again. Any man would have gone to his knees.

That was the point.

The mask erased your name. The man who came would not know who you were — only that you were noble, that you had chosen him. To him, you would be no different from the other patrician women who sought a night of secrecy and indulgence. Rome was full of them. Their intentions were usually simple.

Yours were not.

This was not lust. It was necessity. You were the Empress. You commanded armies, bent senators to your will, ruled without question. As long as your husband never learned of this night, what crime was there? What fault?

You could live with that.

You had to.

You drew in a breath — and froze.

Voices. Footsteps.

Too soon.

You hadn’t given the signal.

Your slave’s head snapped toward the door, tension rippling through her body. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air too tight. You hesitated — just long enough to almost stop this. Almost.

Then you lifted your hand and nodded.

It was done.

You turned your back to the door. You did not want to see him enter. Not yet. You wrapped your fingers around the wine cup, grounding yourself in its weight, its cold edge biting into your palm.

The door opened.

Silence followed.

Not the heavy, anticipatory hush you had expected — but something sharper. Wrong. Your slaves shifted behind you. One of them stiffened, breath catching audibly.

That was strange.

You put the cup aside and turned.

The man stood alone.

No escort. No guards. No ceremony. Just him — filling the chamber as if it had been built for his presence. The mask hid his face, but his gaze found you immediately, unflinching, intent.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Silk. Shadow. Breath.

He wore the mask of Mars, fierce and unyielding, its sharp edges hiding his face but not the fire in his gaze. You met him through your Venus mask, delicate and ethereal, yet your eyes betrayed no hesitation.

Then he stepped forward.

Unhurried. Certain.

Your slave moved at once, placing herself between you, chin lifted in practiced authority.

“You will not approach the lady unless she permits it.”

He did not even look at her.

He shoved her aside with one efficient motion — not violent, not gentle. As if she were simply in the way.

Your breath caught, sharp and instinctive.

“Stop,” you commanded, voice firm despite the tremor beneath it.

He didn’t.

His eyes never left you.

Your slave rushed forward again — and this time, he caught her by the throat. Not crushing. Just enough. Enough to make the room lock in place.

Shock hit you. “Enough!” Your voice cut through the room. “Do you even know what you do? Who you presume yourself to be?” you demanded, anger flaring.

He released her with a shove and straightened.

“Leave,” he said.

The voice came from behind the mask — low, controlled.

Something in it struck you like a memory you hadn’t known you were keeping. You had heard that voice before. Across marble halls. Over the roar of crowds. Calm amid blood and ceremony alike.

“All of you. Leave us. Now.”

Your heart stuttered. “That’s not possible,” you whispered.

He reached up and removed the mask. For a heartbeat, your world narrowed to the sharp outline of his face, suddenly revealed by the flickering torchlight. His brown eyes caught the glow — familiar, burning, unmistakable.

Shock slammed through you, and you instinctively stumbled back, heart hammering. “General Acacius,” you breathed, voice trembling.

The room tilted.

Without taking his eyes off you, he barked, “Out! Now!”

No one argued.

They fled as if chased, sandals slapping stone, silk whispering panic. The door shut with a final, echoing thud.

You were alone with him.

Your pulse thundered. Shame crawled up your spine, tangled with fear, fury — and something far worse. You stood frozen, unable to decide what you felt.

He crossed the remaining distance and stopped. Bare-chested. Powerful. Built like the statues that lined the atrium — only warmer. Breathing. Real. You had never seen him without armor before.

The sight stole the air from your lungs.

His gaze followed yours. Lingered.

“H-how? You shouldn’t be here,” you said hoarsely.

“I could say the same of you, your highness,” he replied evenly.

He reached up and removed your mask, fingers deft as the ties came undone. Your hair fell loose, and you dropped your gaze without thinking, embarrassment burning across your cheeks.

His hand didn’t withdraw.

Instead, his thumb slipped beneath your chin and lifted it, slow and insistent, until you had no choice but to look at him.

He paused there, unmoving. Just for a moment.

Not surprise.

Not softness.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unblinking, as if he were stripping you bare with nothing but his gaze. As if he were seeing past flesh and silk and title, down to something exposed and dangerous beneath.

Something tighter settled into his expression.

Like a man realizing the blade he’d been circling was sharper than he remembered.

His jaw locked. His eyes darkened further, tracking every breath, every flicker of hesitation on your face with an intensity that made your skin prickle. As if seeing you fully — unmasked, unguarded — had cost him something he hadn’t meant to give.

Instinctively, he leaned closer.

Not enough to touch.

Enough to threaten it.

His attention dipped — briefly, deliberately — to your mouth. The space between you shrank, heavy with intention. Panic flared in your chest, and you tried to turn your face away, the hunger in his eyes suddenly too much, too ruinous to meet.

“This was a mistake,” you said, the words tight, fragile.

His thumb remained beneath your chin, unyielding.

“It would have been,” he replied quietly, eyes never leaving yours, “if I hadn’t come.”

You tried to pull away. He didn’t let you. “What- Let go of me.”

“You’re tired of being treated like an object,” he growled. “And yet… here you are. Playing with fire, little Empress… do you not understand what you risk?”

How dare he.

“You wouldn’t understand,” you snapped. “If you’re here to lecture me on honor—”

“I understand perfectly,” he said. “I didn’t come here to lecture you or protect your husband’s honor. Or your father’s.”

“Then why?” you demanded.

He released you.

“Because what you desire,” he said slowly, eyes fixed on your face, unblinking, “you shall never receive from one unworthy of you.”

Your breath caught. You could scarcely believe your ears — that he would suggest such a thing.

“I am not letting you give yourself to a man who will forget you before dawn.”

The words landed like a blow.

“Acacius—” Your hand rose to your chest as you stepped back. “How— why—no.”

He surged forward, presence overwhelming, breath warm against your skin. 

Not kind. Not gentle. Predatory.

“You still don’t see it,” he said, voice dark with fury and something far more dangerous beneath it.

“I have burned for you,” he continued, each word forged tight with restraint. “For years. In my thoughts. In my sleep. In every battle, it was your face that kept me standing.” Your eyes widened, disbelief clawing at your mind, your ears betraying you. “And you dare think,” he went on, quiet but vicious, voice like steel coiled around fire, “that I would stand aside while you reduce yourself to a mere vessel? While you let some nameless body be used to bear an heir? As if that were all you were made for?” Your breath shuddered. “And gods help me,” he added, jaw clenched, “as if I would ever allow that.”

Something twisted low in your body at the words. Heat flared where there should have been only fear. Only shame.

You hated yourself for it.

Because beneath the humiliation, beneath the danger of him standing there, claiming space and certainty alike, your body betrayed you — answering his fury with a treacherous spark of want.

And that frightened you more than anything else.

His hands came to your shoulders — firm, unyielding — halting you where you stood. He forced you to look at him.

“How could you lower yourself so?” he asked quietly. Not shouting. Judgment was colder than fury. “How could you make yourself lesser than what you are?”

“What is this insolence—” you began.

“Insolence?” His mouth twisted, humorless. “And what of your audacity?”

Your heart thundered. “You speak as though—” Your voice wavered. “Do you claim an attachment to me beyond duty?” Your eyes searched his. “Is this love, then… General?”

A sound escaped him, not laughter, but close enough to mock it. “Love?” he echoed softly. “A small word. A thin one.”

His grip shifted. One hand rose, pushing your hair back to bare your throat. His palm settled there — possessive, overwhelming by its sheer weight alone. “Do not profane what I bear by naming it love,” he murmured.

You shivered.

His thumb brushed the pulse at your neck, deliberate. He felt its frantic beat. A faint, dangerous curve touched his mouth.

“I have imagined this,” he confessed quietly. “My hands upon you. Your composure breaking. Your will bending.”

“Stop,” you whispered. “Please."

“You tremble,” he observed calmly. “Good.”

His large hand closed around your throat—not in haste, but with intent. Beneath his palm, the fragile give of your neck was unmistakable, a reminder of how easily you could be broken if he wished. The awareness made his clothed manhood twitch.

“Acacius,” you gasped. “You’re hurting me.”

His head tilted, eyes intent, studying you like a creature caught between fear and the instinct to run.

“This,” he said quietly, tightening just enough to make his meaning clear, “is restraint.”

Then — slowly, deliberately — he released you.

“This ends here.” The instant his hold loosened, you turned and moved for the door — swift, desperate, unthinking. 

He caught you with ease from behind. “We haven’t even begun.” He growled, pulling you hard against him, his arms locking around you from the back. You struggled, twisting, trying to break free — but it was impossible.

Gods, this was wrong.

All of it was wrong.

“Y–You…” Your voice faltered. “I… we can’t. my husband trusts you. If this is ever heard—”

He cut you off without raising his voice.

“Curse your husband,” he said. “Abi in infernum. (Let him burn.)"

The vulgarity of his words shocked you — the sheer irreverence of it — and yet, beneath the fear, something else flared, sharp and unwelcome. Through the layers of cloth, you felt his hardness pressing insistently against your arse. Your breath hitched, heart racing, caught between alarm and a thrill you did not want to name.

He buried his face into your hair, pressing his nose along the curve of your ear, nudging the soft lobe aside as he inhaled you like a man tasting something forbidden. His tongue traced your warm, soft skin, slow and deliberate, tasting the faint essence of jasmine that lingered there.

The scrape of his beard brushed your neck — rough, unmistakably male — and the sensation sent an involuntary shiver through you. Your pulse leapt beneath his mouth, traitorous, loud. The heat of him so close made your chest tighten, made your knees feel unsteady, as if your body were responding before your mind could catch up.

A low sound escaped him — not laughter, not quite. Something closer to satisfaction. The kind that lingered beneath the surface, like the hum of a predator savoring its prey.

You struggled again, twisting in his arms, trying to break free.

Again, his arms caught you like iron traps, locking around your waist, pulling you back against him. You struggled, but he didn’t even flinch.

“Let go — Acacius, please—”

His breath grazed your ear, low and steady, but with a sharp edge hidden underneath.

“Resist me once more," he whispered, his voice low and edged with steel,

“and I will drag you into the atrium. I will have you there. Before my men, before Agrippa and his wife, before the slaves.”

You froze completely. “Don’t,” you breathed, the word barely more than air. “Please… do not.”

“Then be still,” he said simply.

Not a plea. Not a warning.

A command.

He pressed closer. You could feel the weight of his threat in every inch of his control.

“This can be something we both enjoy…” he said, voice velvet and venom, “...or it can be just for me. But either way — you’re not getting away. Decide.”

His hand found the back of your tunic, fisting the fabric without hesitation.

The cloth tore from your shoulders in one brutal motion—the gold-chained garment draped across your back giving way all at once. Something snapped—a delicate chain, perhaps—and a rain of jeweled ornaments scattered across the floor, clattering sharply.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he said, his voice thick, deliberate. “You have lived in my thoughts,” he admitted. “In ways the gods would condemn.”

A breath.

“Now... you're mine to cherish.”

Another pause.

“And to ruin, if I choose.”

He pulled the silk from your shivering body slowly — not to savor, but to claim.

The fabric slipped to the floor like a secret undone. He stared.

Not just at your body.

At your skin.

The way it caught the lamplight. The way it rose and fell with every panicked breath. The way it wasn’t meant for anyone else but him.

His hands — calloused from war, scarred from blade and bone — hovered for a moment before finally landing on your waist.

You inhaled sharply.

Not pain.

Not fear.

The sheer weight of his presence.

You still hadn’t turned to face him.

You stood rooted where you were, breath shallow, afraid of what you might see if you did. Afraid of what it would confirm.

His hands moved over your hips, along your sides — slow, deliberate, not wandering but learning, as if committing the shape of you to memory.

“Soft,” he murmured, almost to himself. “As I imagined.”

His touch rose, restrained yet inevitable — tracing your back, your shoulders, his fingers brushing the line of your collarbones with a strange reverence, like a prayer unwrapped rather than spoken.

“He does not deserve this,” he whispered.

He leaned closer, his breath warming your jaw, close enough that you felt it without daring to turn.

“You were never his.”

His fingers went to the knot at his hip.

Unhurried. Deliberate.

The subligaculum (a kind of underwear)  loosened with a soft sound, linen slipping free of its tension. The fabric fell, forgotten, at his feet.

Your breath caught You felt it then — the shift.

Not in the room.

In him.

When he straightened, the space he occupied felt suddenly dangerous, as though the air itself bent around his will. He stood with the stillness of a statue before motion — all potential, all threat.

You turned your face away instinctively, shame and something far worse tightening your chest.

He noticed.

The corner of his mouth curved — not in amusement, but in something colder.

“Tell me,” he said, almost idly, “the man you call husband… does he even touch you now? He can’t give you what you need, can he?”

You stiffened, spine straightening despite yourself.

“Do not speak of him with such disrespect,” you said sharply.

He gave a short, incredulous laugh, sharp as a blade.

“How loyal. So dutiful,” he added, voice dark with contempt. “So Roman.”

His eyes flicked toward you, catching your movement — a glance heavy with anger, with disbelief. You looked away instinctively, heat and shame twisting with a dangerous curiosity deep in your chest.

He noticed.

His mouth curled — not a smile, but something sharper, crueler, predatory.

“Yet here you are,” he continued, voice low, dripping with scorn. “Sneaking off to a borrowed villa. Choosing a gladiator to do what your precious… husband cannot.”

Your chest tightened. “That’s not—”

His tone snapped. “You wanted him to put an heir in you.”

Silence slammed between you.

In a single motion, his hand fisted in your hair and yanked you around to face him. Enough to make your breath catch.

You were too close now.

Too exposed.

Your gaze dropped before you could stop yourself — and your throat went dry.

“Like what you see, my Empress?”

He leaned in, forcing your chin up with two fingers.

“I’m willing to bet,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction, “that whatever you endured in that cold bed of yours never came close to this.”

You swallowed. Hard.

He smiled then — slow, predatory.

“That’s what I thought.”

His grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting.

“Turn not your eyes,” he growled. “There is no retreat now — not that you would want one.”

Your eyes dropped again — and this time, you couldn’t stop the sound that escaped.

“Oh gods…”

Marcus stilled. Then, slowly, deliberately, he tilted your chin up.

His mouth was a breath away from yours when he whispered:

“Forget your gods. They can’t hear you now.”

He caught you by the shoulders again, firm, cruel, and pressed you down so that you sank onto your knees before him.

Your breath left you in a sharp gasp, your eyes widened, your entire body stunned from his hot, throbbing manhood resting against your face. 

It stole your vision. Your thoughts.

You barely registered the general’s face above you, only the way his mouth curved; slow, knowing as he took in your stunned silence.

Dear gods.

He was a lot bigger than you had expected. And the raw scent, that was out in full force, made your head swim from how much it was overwhelming your nostrils. This wasn’t the first time you’d seen a man’s penis…

But this?

Even believing it was real strained the limits of your mind.

Marcus stood before you without shame, without hesitation — a figure carved for war rather than worship. Solid. Towering. Dangerous.

Both his presence and his scent roused something primordial within you, awakening your womanhood as though answering an unspoken mating call, older than reason, deeper than will.

Your husband had never looked like this, and his manhood had never stirred you the way this did.

Marcus was twice his age, and yet somehow felt carved from something far older — something primal. Thick muscle shaped his frame, not the ornamental strength of noblemen, but the hardened body of a man who had fought, bled, and survived.

Scars traced him like history written into flesh.

This body did not ask.

It took.

The comparison came unbidden; cruel and undeniable. Your husband could not stand beside this. Would not dare.

You hated the way your insides clenched at the thought, nipples drewing tight.

Hated the way your mouth went dry.

Hated how something deep and traitorous inside you whispered, slow and reverent:

This is what a true man looks like.

Marcus watched you with something darker than satisfaction. Amusement, maybe. Possession. Victory.

You hadn’t even touched him yet, but your breath had already gone shallow, your lips parting without permission.

You were an Empress.

And yet here you were, kneeling, breath shaky, mouth parted, stunned by the sight in front of you… and even more so by the fact that you wanted it.

A flicker of shame curled in your stomach.

Then—

Fingers in your hair.

Firm.

Unforgiving.

“You’ve made me wait long enough,” Marcus growled. He tilted your face up, the heat in his eyes enough to scorch you from the inside out. “Don’t pretend you don’t want this now.”

Your heart pounded. You should’ve pulled back. Should’ve spoken. Should’ve run.

Instead, you just stared, breath hitched, mind blank, pride forgotten.

And Marcus, with a dark, crooked smile, leaned in just close enough to whisper: “Be a good girl now, regina mea.(my queen)”

His grip turned unforgiving as he guided you forward, stealing your breath as he forced you to take him — relentless, claiming, leaving no room for hesitation. 

Your pupils shrank to the size of mere dots at the abrupt action. Your gag reflex was suddenly suppressed as you found yourself in the middle of deepthroating the man’s cock out of nowhere.

Your entire body trembled, instinctively trying to pull back, desperate to get some air. But the firm grip on your head held you in place. All you could do was focus on steadying your breathing, drawing in air through your nostrils. Hoping that you would be able to satisfy him with your tongue. 

Gods, the taste was even stronger than the smell. Yet not once you get the feeling of wanting to gag or wretch from it. As a matter of fact, a small part of you found the thing to be… actually quite pleasant. 

A low, guttural sound tore from Marcus’s chest; something feral, raw and you didn’t know why it made your own chest tighten the way it did. But it did. 

The sound went straight through you, settling somewhere deep, igniting something you had spent far too long denying. Fervently licking the underside of his shaft to the best of your abilities while he drilled and slammed his massive length to the very back of your throat. Even with all of that, you couldn’t stop yourself from bringing a hand to between your thighs. Slipping two of your fingers into your burning, soaked core, plunging them, knuckles deep, into your wet cunt like a shameless whore. 

This was unreal.

You — the illustrious, proud Empress of Rome. A woman raised on silk and ceremony. A woman who had built her entire existence around dignity, status, and control.

And yet here you were.

Kneeling.

Fingering yourself while the general of Rome used your mouth like it was some type of sexual relief toy.

And the gods help you — you didn’t care.

Not about titles.

Not about appearances.

Not even about the husband who hadn’t touched you in months.

All you could feel was the heat curling low in your belly. The ache. The burning awareness of how long you’d gone without being wanted like this.

You were shaking — not from shame, but from need. From the way your body responded despite everything your mind screamed you should remember.

His fingers loosened suddenly.

Not in kindness — in choice.

He let go of your hair with the same calm a beast might show just before pouncing again.

And just like that, he slipped free from your mouth with a wet sound.

You gasped — at the absence, the shock, the unbearable heat still coiled low in your belly.

Saliva clung to your lips — slick, messy, warm with the unmistakable blend of your spit and his precum — trailing down the corner of your mouth in a slow, shameful line. Your chest heaved, rapid and uneven, rising with every shallow breath you couldn’t quite catch.

“This wet,” he murmured, reaching for your hand, observing your soaked fingers. “Just from sucking my cock?” His thumb circled over the mess, slow and cruel. “So eager,” he mused darkly, “and yet so unfulfilled.” He leaned in, voice brushing your ear like a blade.

“Is this how royalty trembles? From the taste of a man made of war?”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You needy little whore.” You opened your mouth to speak — maybe to deny, maybe to beg — but he brought your fingers to his lips first. And sucked. A low growl rumbled in his chest.

“Sweeter than honey,” he muttered against your skin — but there was no reverence in it. Only hunger.

His hand tightened suddenly around your waist, and before you could speak — even breathe — he hoisted you into his arms like you weighed nothing.

Not gentle. Not loving.

Like you were something stolen. You gasped, instinctively grabbing at his shoulders. He didn’t even glance at you.

His voice, when it came, was lower than before. Rougher.

“I’ll carve my legacy into your womb, seed by seed, until there is no part of you untouched by me.”

Then he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice a slow venom.

“But first… I want the source.”

A pause. A breath. A cruel smile.

“You think I’d be satisfied with a little taste?”

Another growl — deeper now.

“I want to drown in it.”

And with that, he threw you onto the bed — hard enough to make the mattress protest, the silks twist beneath you.

You barely had time to blink before he was already on top of you, eyes burning like a man gone feral.

“Let’s see,” he rasped, his hungry eyes trailing down your body. “If the rest of you tastes as good as your shame, regina mea.”

It wasn’t just a word — it was a growl, raw.

Your throat grew dry under his ravenous gaze. Your whole body shivered under the weight of it. Every hair on your arms stood on end, your throat went dry, and your pulse raced.

His large, rough hands gripped your thighs, yanking you closer with a force that made your heart pound. The sheer power behind his pull sent your head spinning, every part of your body instantly alert to his dominance. You struggled instinctively, but the iron‑tight grip left you rooted in place, your legs locking in tension.

He smacked the side of your thigh, hard and sudden. “Would you have me drag you to the atrium?” he thundered, his voice low and commanding, vibrating with fury. You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “Then be still, and resist me not,” he growled, teeth clenched, and you obeyed.

With his strong hands, he spread your knees like splitting a fig in two and buried his head between them. His heated breath reached your wet folds before his mouth did and you bit your lower lip at the sensation. A sound came from his nose, Gods, he was… inhaling the scent of your arousal, a low, satisfied sound escaped him. Looking at him through your spread legs was terrifying, yet strangely intriguing. Your heart was pounding wildly as you thought about what he would do next.

His hands hungrily grabbed at your arse leaving red marks on them while his warm tongue fiddled around inside you. He licked, tasting your juices, nudging your clit with the tip of his tongue. You were wet, but not wet enough to his liking. Marcus wanted you swollen and dripping. Shock and pleasure fused and swept through your entire body, you clawed frantically for something to hold onto, something you could sink your fingers into. But with his grip tight around your hips, his head was just out of reach—far for you to grasp—so you dug your fingers into the sheets instead, your back arching. His hungry mouth found your clitoris and he sucked on it till it grew bigger. You felt your body heating up and your cunt getting even more wet at this forceful stimulation. Relentlessly, his tongue went deeper inside, licking over you with the wide, flat surface of his tongue, exulting in your strangled moan that he felt vibrating against his tongue, lips, and ears.

You hadn’t known that such pleasure-such a sensation-could even be real. You felt as though you were losing your mind from it. You clapped both hands over your mouth, pressing hard, not to stifle a scream, but to keep what remained of your sanity intact. Marcus heard your muffled scream and lifted his head. His tongue, coated with your wetness, traced his lips in a measured, deliberate motion, eyes never leaving you. Then he slapped, struck your hand aside and seized your wrists, yanking your hands away from your mouth.. “Do not dare to silence yourself,” he growled. “Find your voice,” he said. “Let me hear you."

Then he parted you with his thick fingers, swirled his tongue over and over, and you jerked and shook, thighs falling open shamelessly, wantonly, your hips moving instinctively, desperately to urge him closer and deeper. “Ooooohhhh! Please!” You screamed, “Oh gods, oh gods!” 

He growled, pulling your hips closer to his mouth so he could go deeper, his mouth devouring you as you felt curls of his hair brushing against your thighs, his lapping and sucking producing slick, sinful sounds that only served to drive you further wild.

"Gods, please," You reached and yanked his head closer sharply, fingers tangled in his partly gray curls, nails scraping against his scalp. Your thighs were shaking, you felt hot and cold all over. He loved the way you scratched at him, how you shivered against him. His hard cock was dripping, straining so painfully.

Marcus’s grip tightened, followed by a sharp blow on your arse that tore a cry from you, digging his thick fingers deep into your core. 

His beard prickled your folds so deliciously, his nose rubbed against your clit. He pushed his tongue deep into you again and sucked while fucking you with his fingers. You cried out, sobbing, and he felt more slickness leaking from you, felt your swollen flesh pulse under his tongue. He gripped your thigh with one hand and your arse with the other, holding you fast as he lapped up your juices greedily, groaning and growling in pleasure at the taste of your sweet honey. A broken sound slipped from you, caught somewhere between a sob and a cry, and it only seemed to drive him on.  He hummed, sucked ruthlessly, the pleasure wasn’t only yours at the sweet violence of your response, your body bucking and your wetness on his lips and chin. “Rather sweet,” he said against you as he licked and sucked, punctuating his words with the curl of his tongue, with its flicks and flutters. He spoke no more for a long while, dedicating his tongue only to worshiping you and ruining you. It’s enchanting how you squirmed and wriggled, losing all grace and propriety, letting the façade you wore fall away completely in the face of you need for him. Never before had he wanted to ruin a woman the way he wanted you.

No other woman had ever drawn such a response from him, never stirred this depth of feeling or hunger—and the realization unsettled him. It made him wonder how it was possible that you alone could provoke something so fierce, so consuming, that even he had not known it existed.

The wet sounds of his tongue gliding over you filled the chamber now, faintly echoing beyond the door. Anyone outside, if listening carefully, might catch the echoes. Your moans intertwined with his low, throaty grunts and the sharp, wet smacks of his movements, merging into a dark, intoxicating rhythm—a melody of sin, fierce and unbridled, wild and consuming, each sound deliberate, like a man savoring a feast.

You didn't know how many times you came. 

After a while, too much pleasure clouded your brain, and you forgot to count. Your heart beat wildly and you gasped for breath as if your whole body were melting in his arms. But all this time, his hands never loosened its grip, his mouth never left your folds. When he said he wanted to drown, he wasn’t jesting, he really seemed like he wanted to drown in your juices. You felt the sweat trailing down your back, it was as if you were slowly coming back to yourself, drifting down from some distant height. The world settled into focus again. Then you lifted your head and looked at him. But he was not yet finished with you.

Twice you peeked, and twice he drank your pleasure from you, dipping his tongue in to lap at you, avoiding your sensitive spots until you were ready for him again. 

Once again, you peaked, suddenly this time, heat flaring in your belly and rushing under your skin, your cunt fluttering around his tongue and your thighs trembling against his face, your core is pulsing. Your brain had gone numb, your senses had gone numb, you only later noticed the tears streaming down your cheeks. You did not know whether you were crying from rapture, or because another man had given you this incredible intensity, or because such pleasure existed at all and you had been denied it for so long—deprived of it by your husband. You did not know which of these truths had broken you open. All you knew was that what had just been done to you—forced though it was—had filled you with an overwhelming, undeniable delight.

Marcus sit up on the bed and lifted his hand, crooking two fingers in a silent summons. “Rise,” he said. “Come closer.”

You obeyed, even as your knees trembled beneath you, crawling across the bed toward him. Drawn forward against your own will, compelled by the unspoken certainty of his command, you moved on—each measured inch an unacknowledged surrender, felt not in thought but in bone and blood.

His beard and jaw still bore the trace of your arousal, catching the light in a way that made your throat tighten. His lips were swollen now, darkened with heat and breath—and for the first time in your life, a man’s mouth held you spellbound.

You swallowed hard as your eyes lingered on his lips. The desire to kiss him rose sudden and unbidden, startling in its intensity. How had you never seen it before—how dangerously compelling they were, how they promised not tenderness, but conquest?

“Clean it,” he said, fixing you with a piercing stare. You blinked, meeting his gaze. When you hesitated, his hand reached behind your head, fingers closing in your hair. “Use that pretty tongue of yours,” he murmured darkly. “Taste yourself on me."

With a firm pull, he drew you closer, guiding you toward him.

You leaned closer, drawn by something you could no longer name. Slowly, tentatively, you traced the line of his jaw with your tongue, tasting the salt of him there, and your heady essence, then brushed your lips against his mouth. Your breath caught. You wanted to kiss him—no, you needed to—and the realization unfurled inside you, inescapable, undoing you far more than his touch ever had. 

“Acacius,” you murmured, the plea barely a sound.

You wanted to know the taste of him, to feel his breath mingle with yours, to dream of his tongue—eloquent and dangerous, as if it had always known how to take what it desired.

For a heartbeat, he did not move. Then his hand came up, firm, stopping you just short of his lips. His fingers closed around your chin, tilting your face up, not unkindly—but decisively.

“No,” he said quietly, eyes dark and intent. He held you there a moment longer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath, before easing you back—control reasserted without another word.

You fell back against the bed, breath uneven, while he rose to his feet. He crossed the room and poured himself a measure of wine from the decanter. You watched him as he drank, his back to you. The way he had denied you—that single, deliberate refusal—had left a sharp edge of anger beneath your skin. Still, you would not look desperate. You would not look like a supplicant. “You taste better with wine,” he said, dismissing your situation entirely. "Your husband never gave you this kind of pleasure it seems. I can see it in your pretty face.”

You lowered your gaze at once.

“Damn fool,” he snarled. “Such a crime to leave such  ambrosia untasted. Ah, regina mea, I could drink of your cunt forever and never be thirsty,” he said, lifting his cup to you.

He took another slow, deliberate sip, savoring it, while you studied him, trying to pierce the reason behind the refusal of his lips.

You bit your lower lip. “Does the general,” you asked, voice cold, measured, “never kiss the whores he fucks?”

For a single heartbeat, your question struck its mark. The man who had been all hunger and shadow faltered, something unreadable flashing across his face—cornered, exposed. You had reached him where it mattered. But the moment was brief. He mastered himself just as quickly, the mask sliding back into place, control reclaimed as if it had never slipped at all.

“You presume too much.” He laughed—low, unbothered, almost amused. His eyes slid over you slowly before lifting to meet yours, draining the cup in one swallow. “Besides, I haven’t fucked you yet.” As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes never left you—still sprawled on the bed, exposed to his gaze. There was nothing hidden in the hunger there. He set the cup aside and began to walk back toward you.

Your heart leapt into your throat. Under the weight of his wolfish-stare alone, your pulse betrayed you, every step he took tightening the air between you. 

Your eyes betrayed you, lingering where they should not—on his manhood, veins raised like living marble beneath the skin, carrying a promise of strength that needed no name to be understood, mirroring the same restrained power that defined the rest of his body.

There was an ease to him that had nothing to do with innocence—an assurance born of familiarity, of having learned bodies as thoroughly as battlefields. You wondered if it was merely the discipline of a soldier, or something more intimate. Not strength alone, but experience—the kind earned in shadows and silence, in nights that left their mark. The way he held himself suggested a man who had known desire well, and had never been ruled by it.

Your walls clenched around nothing.

By that time, you were blushing deeply as you watched the him positioned himself before you. Spreading your legs as his erection was looking full and firm with lust and arousal, precum leaking from his tip. If you didn’t know any better, you could’ve sworn that the length actually grew in size from a few mere moments ago. As he looked at you darkly, a sharp mix of excitement and unease tightened in your chest. You knew that in mere moments, you would be fucked by the general of Rome.

You had to admit—you had never imagined that the man who would take you, who would claim you like this, would be him. And yet… perhaps this was better than some nameless gladiator you had never known. Wasn’t it?

“So,” Marcus asked, a slow, taunting curve to his mouth, “you wish to be kissed, do you?” His gaze held yours, dark and knowing. “By the very man you were trying to flee from only moments ago?”

You felt the tip start to poke at your entrance. You bit your bottom lip as you watched the fat bulbous tip, followed by his thick inches slowly slide their way inside of you. A moan slipped from your lips as your eyes fluttered shut, your breath betraying you before words could. Marcus’s hand came up, slapped your cunt, drawing a sharp squeak from you before you could stop it. “Answer me,” he growled.

“Yes—” you cried, the word tearing free before you could stop it. “Yes, I wish you to kiss me,” you breathed, your body arching beneath him, caught between need and surrender.

He grinned, a slow, predatory curve to his lips. “Then,” he said, voice low and sharp, “you’ll have to earn it.”

Your mind swirled, trying to grasp the meaning behind his words. Before you could decide, his hands grabbed at your waist, you glanced up at him and was met with him giving you a playful smile— right before slamming the rest of his length in with one vicious thrust. 

“Oh GODS!” You cried as your whole world went white. Your mind exploded from intense pain, pleasure and fullness, crashing against your entire body. Your mouth agape in a choked cry, nothing coming out at that very moment. 

A sharp, surprised grunt left him, taken aback by just how tight you were. Your grip on him was like a python’s, quivering and quaking all around. Were he a lesser man, he would have likely reached his climax almost immediately, all because of you beneath him. Not even the virgin courtesan from the lupanaria could match the level of tightness you were exuding. It was both impressive and intoxicating—you felt divine. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating, every fiber of him alive with sensation. He had never felt this way with any woman before—not even close. 

For a heartbeat, the predator faltered, undone by the inevitability of your hold. Yet almost instantly, he recovered—lips curling into a dangerous, possessive smile, muscles taut with restrained hunger. Even as he regained his composure, the knowledge lingered: you had claimed him, and it thrilled him in ways no other had.

His first thrust was sudden and merciless, sharp as a tearing bandage. You cried out at the shocking fullness, your body jolting into a haze of overwhelming, mind-numbing pleasure. “Ahhhh...oohhh...Gods!"

His big hand wrapped around your throat, slapping your arse with the other, “Not your gods… you’ll scream my name,” He grunted as he began to move inside you, his grip on your throat not lessening for a second. The slaps on your arse and cunt kept coming, over and over, raw and relentless, as he fucked you too hard, too deep, with no intention of slowing down. Your screams weren’t enough to stop him—if anything, they only seemed to please him, driving him to thrust deeper and deeper until you felt his balls slamming against your arse cheeks.

By the time he found a steady rhythm, you were reduced to breathless moans and sharp cries, the kind that belonged to a woman utterly claimed. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, while your legs jerked and bucked helplessly at his sides under the relentless force of him.

The heavy, rhythmic impact of your bodies colliding echoed through the room, mingling with the sounds spilling from your lips—noises you had never imagined yourself capable of making. Each slam, each gasp, carried a wild, almost shameful intensity, and still, you found yourself utterly unable to stop it.

The more he slammed himself into you, the more your mind fried and your insides churned from his glorious length. 

Marcus treated you more like a shameless filthy whore than a woman—or, hell, even a human at that. Yet the very idea of being fucked this way didn’t feel as shocking or unappealing as you had first imagined.

For a moment, the pleasure threatened to overwhelm you, and you squeezed your eyes shut—but his hand on your neck shook you insistently.

“Look at me,” he commanded, and you obeyed, meeting his dark, unyielding gaze as your bodies moved together.

“Now… scream my name.”

He thrust again, harder, more brutal this time. You gasped, trying to resist, but the sound escaped anyway, “Marcus!”

Every soul in the atrium—and likely throughout the villa—must have heard you. In that instant, you understood exactly what he had meant when he said “earn it.”

He thrust once more. “Louder. Declare me… in full..”

Slapping your arse with both hands, he kept you in place as he pumped into you with great speed. You screamed, almost sobbing, each name rising higher than the last, “Marcus! Justus! Acacius!”

A dark, satisfied laugh escaped him, thick with possession and hunger.

“Well done… let everyone know who claims you. Let them hear who fucks you,” he growled, eyes blazing, every muscle in his body taut with the knowledge that you were his—claimed, shattered, and entirely under his control.

His large hand moved over your bouncing breasts, squeezing with rough insistence, fingers pinching your nipples sharply. The other slid down your stomach, teasing the cleft between your thighs in perfect rhythm with each thrust.

Before you realized it, you found yourself cumming, your body was overtaken, a shattering wave of pleasure ripping through you. A high, desperate cry escaped your lips as your body shuddered, your juices spilled, slicking both of you, toes curling against his back in the intensity of it all.

Marcus grunted, caught off guard by the tightness of your folds gripping him. Squeezing him down as if you were attempting to wring his cock out for his seed. There was something almost… old in it, a dark thrill he hadn’t known he’d missed.

Yet he did not slow, did not relent. Every movement drove deeper, claiming you fully, and still he drew endless satisfaction from your body, unyielding, relentless, and wholly possessed by the sensation of you.

“Marcus! W-Wait!” you cried, eyes wide at his resumed thrusting. “I-I'm still—have mercy, please!”

You couldn’t even finish the sentence. A cry of pleasure tore from your throat as your body shook through another climax, Marcus deliberately dragging it out with long, deep strokes. His hands found your bouncing breasts once more, taking one into his mouth while teasing the other, his tongue hungry and brutal as he suckled, before letting go of your nipple with a loud, wet pop that echoed briefly through the chamber. You could not tell whether he meant to rouse you further, or if he was simply indulging in the pleasure of it himself.

Somehow, your legs had slid up onto the bed without you even noticing; Marcus’s strong arms lifted them higher, wrapping them around his waist, guiding you instinctively while you clutched his head close to him with what little willpower you could muster.

Your screams grew louder, more urgent, every second feeding his predatory hunger.

It didn’t take long before another wave overtook you, leaving your legs trembling, breath broken, the world narrowing to sensation alone.

Then he paused.

For a fleeting moment, you thought it was mercy.

It wasn’t.

You were still trembling, utterly sated and almost dazed, struggling to open your eyes. You felt him lift you slightly, and beneath your hips he placed something soft—perhaps a pillow—so that your hips were raised, your rear arched. Ah… you realized, even in the haze of pleasure, that this was the method used to increase the chance of conception, a knowledge that sent a shiver through you in spite of yourself.

After adjusting your position, he resumed his relentless thrusting, one arm sliding under you to wrap firmly around your waist. His movements grew harder, faster, each stroke a brutal claim on your body.

You were utterly lost in your storm of delight, unable to notice how deeply trapped you were in his dominating mating press. His chest pressed flush against your voluptuous frame, every motion scorching, possessive, unyielding.

His hips began to snap faster, a clear, primal signal that he was nearing his own climax, and you could feel the heat radiating from him through every curve of your body. The intensity was overwhelming, your senses consumed by him—by the force, the control, and the fierce, inescapable pleasure he was giving you.

By the gods.

Your form was exquisite, a decadence beyond reckoning. He had not foreseen this, not even in himself — the way desire sank its hooks so deep it threatened to consume him whole. You knew nothing of the divinity of your own flesh, nor of how completely it ensnared him, he simply couldn’t get enough of you.

Marcus pressed his lips fiercely against your neck, lingering there with brutal intent. You felt the force of his mouth, the demanding pull, then the sharp pressure of his teeth sinking just enough to make you gasp. A raw moan tore from your throat, unbidden, as his hold on you tightened. You were crushed under the weight of his thick form—yet you did not care in the slightest.

With a sudden, powerful downward thrust, he poured every ounce of force into his hips, movements primal and unrelenting. A seasoned military man, far older than your husband yet giving you pleasures he never could, he grunted low in satisfaction, each sound vibrating against your neck as he reached his climax in one brutal sweep. You felt every guttural murmur, every shiver of release, his essence filling you so well. Your eyes rolled back, and a shameless cry of pure bliss tore from your lips as you were filled with the general’s thick seed. He pressed your body down against the pillow beneath your hips, lifting your rear high, angling you perfectly—as if to ensure every last drop of his breeding was swallowed by your womb.

You both remained still, his lingering warmth and the last aftershocks of ecstasy circulating within you. Your eyes met as Marcus inclined his face toward yours; his features were damp with sweat, dark curls clinging to his brow and catching the lamplight with a faint sheen. His brown eyes glinted like polished bronze in the low glow of the chamber, steady and intent. You were locked there together, wrapped in the haze of post-climax heat, and even now he remained hard, filling you completely—an exquisite fullness.

“I know why you didn’t want to kiss me,” you breathed, chest rising and falling beneath his arms as he held you tightly. His eyes, still misted from climax, sharpened on you. “Because there’s a saying,” you breathed, voice trembling, “that the bond of love is sealed on the lips—osculum vinculum amoris est. You fear realizing you’re in love with me, and prefer to surrender to desire instead… don’t you, General?"

He smirked. “Ah… clever little empress. Speaking of lips and love—daring to have me confess to something that does not exist, testing me, even while you lie beneath me.”

As if to prove his own words true, as if to demonstrate that no such feeling held power over him, his finger traced the line of your jaw. His eyes burned as his lips brushed yours, barely there, a calculated tease rather than a claim. His thumb followed, skimming your lower lip, coaxing it apart in silent invitation, controlled and measured.

For a fleeting moment, hesitation crossed his face. You felt it—knew it instinctively—as though a single kiss would cost him something he was not yet willing to surrender. And gods, how you wanted it. You wanted his mouth on yours, wanted to taste him, craved his lips with a hunger sharper than anything you had ever known.

But he did not give in. His jaw tightened, that familiar hard line returning as his posture straightened, discipline snapping back into place. He withdrew, composure intact, leaving the space between you charged and aching—while your lips still burned with the memory of what he had almost allowed.

You remained pressed together, the heat between you slowly ebbing as he finally softened within you. He held you steady as he withdrew, still warm, leaving behind only the faintest trace of his seed as it slid down your arse and soaked into the sheets below.

His grip stayed firm beneath your hips as he pressed you back against the bed, his palm settling briefly between your breasts, grounding you there. “Do not move,” he said, already rising.

You could not have moved even if you wished to—your legs and pelvis numb, every muscle aching, as though the great columns of the temple of Jupiter had collapsed upon you and left you buried beneath their weight. And yet… you were happy. Grateful. Still, as his body lifted away, a quiet ache settled in your chest. You already missed the crushing warmth of him, the way his solid, muscled body, had held you down.

Marcus adjusted you with practiced ease, one arm steady at your hips while his gaze lingered on the marks already blooming across your skin—faint now, darker by morning. His fingers brushed your lips, slow and deliberate, tracing them as if committing their shape to memory… and then, just as slowly, he withdrew his hand. Your eyes met.

He turned away first. Whatever thought had crossed his mind, he abandoned it.

You gathered yourself on one elbow, breath unsteady. “If you do not kiss me now,” you said quietly, unable to hide the hope in your voice, “you may never have another chance, General.”

He was already reaching for his garment, the distance returning with every movement. The moment he left the chamber, he would be unreachable again—so you pressed on, hopeful and daring all at once.

Despite your exhaustion, you smiled, a quiet challenge in your eyes. “Even if you were to seize the chance,” you said softly, testing him, “do not imagine I would make it easy for you.”

He paused at the door, glancing back with a slow, knowing smile. As if you weren’t already mine,” he drawled. “Tell me, my lady. Where does this confidence come from? Or is it simply defiance you wear so prettily? If I choose to take what I desire, there is no wall in Rome, no name, no vow that could bar my way."

He turned and left the chamber, the door closing behind him and sealing you in silence. Alone at last, you drew a slow, unsteady breath, his seed floating deep within your insides, his scent clinging to your skin—while his final words seemed to echo in the quiet, lingering as insistently as he did.

You knew you would see him again—at every ceremony, every banquet, every festival where Rome displayed its splendor. From across marble halls and torchlit courts, your gazes would meet, a silent acknowledgment, a greeting meant for no one else. At each triumphant return from war, he would stand before the city as its conqueror, and you would stand beside another man as his wife—an ornament of Rome, a symbol, a possession.

Yet your body, your longing, even your heart, belonged elsewhere. They belonged to him—quietly, secretly, like a truth spoken only in whispers. And they would remain so, hidden beneath silk and ceremony, until the seeds he had sown within you took root and blossomed into a son, an heir growing silently in the shadows of empire.

thank you for reading 💋

It was for some children’s literacy nonprofit, and you’d clicked it half-delirious, half-joking, adding one entry just to say you did.

Two weeks later, you got the email.

You thought it was a scam. Then your phone rang—an actual event coordinator from the organization, confirming details, verifying your ID, telling you a car service would be provided, that Pedro’s team had already cleared the date.

You stared at your phone long after the call ended. You were twenty-three, in college for a degree in screenwriting, juggling a bookstore job and unpaid pitch work. Pedro Pascal had been your comfort actor since your late teens—long before the mainstream hype. You’d watched his indie films, not just the blockbusters. You knew lines of dialogue he probably didn’t even remember.

Now you were going to sit across from him. At lunch. For an hour.

You didn't even have anything to wear that didn't look like it came off a Goodwill clearance rack.

The restaurant was tucked away in Laurel Canyon, low lighting, all exposed brick and polished glass.

You checked your reflection four times in the car window. A blouse that didn't cling too tight. Mascara you applied with shaking hands. You told yourself he probably did dozens of these. He wouldn’t even remember your name.

When you arrived at the restaurant the host said, “Right this way,” and there he was.

Pedro Pascal. In a dark blue button-up, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. Beard trimmed. Brown eyes soft.

He stood when you walked up.

“Hey, you must be the donor,” he said warmly. “Thanks for donating.”

You managed a smile. “Thanks for being the prize.”

He laughed. A real one.

You thought it would be awkward. Stilted. But he was funny, sharp, easy to talk to. You ended up rambling about how much his performance in The Bubble meant to you—how you watched it on your laptop in your dark bedroom during a bad depressive episode, how it got you through that awful year.

He looked surprised. Touched.

“I forget anyone actually saw that movie,” he said with a lopsided smile.

“I watched it five times. At least.”

He blinked. “Wait, are you messing with me?”

“Nope.” You grinned. “I even wrote a paper on it for a class on satire. You play a man who's aware he’s a fraud but keeps smiling through it—like, that’s the whole metaphor.”

Pedro blinked again—then gave you a slow, stunned laugh, mouth slightly open.

You weren’t flirting. You were just being honest. And maybe that’s what caught him off guard.

He walked you out after. His hand hovered at the small of your back but never touched.

“Seriously,” he said, “this was the best version of one of these I’ve ever done. I usually feel like a trained monkey. This felt like…” he paused. “A real conversation.”

You tried to play it cool. “That’s the goal. I’m supposed to be a screenwriter, right?”

He smiled, wider this time. “If you ever finish something, I’d love to read it.”

You stared at him, then snorted. “That sounded like a line.”

You were standing on the curb with him now, your rideshare still a few minutes out.

Pedro leaned against the building’s side wall, sunglasses back on, arms folded. The California sun caught the edges of his hair, bringing out the warm gray in his curls. You tried not to stare.

 You were failing.

“Do you ever get tired of people telling you they’ve been obsessed with you since they were sixteen?” you asked, mostly teasing.

He laughed under his breath. “Depends on how they say it.”

You glanced up at him. “And how did I say it?”

His mouth curled. “Like someone who isn’t obsessed anymore. Just curious.”

That made you blush, which only made it worse. “Right. I’m too grown for fangirling.”

He tilted his head a little. “How grown are we talking?”

You gave him a look. “Grown enough to know that question is a trap.”

He grinned. “Smart.”

The pause that followed wasn’t awkward—it was warm, almost private. Like something unsaid had passed between you, and he was waiting to see if you’d name it.

You didn’t. You weren’t that bold. But you did say, “So, are you always this charming at these things? Or did I just catch you on a good hair day?”

He chuckled, then looked at you fully, one eyebrow raised. “Can I be honest?”

“Please.”

“I thought this would be fifteen minutes of smiling, nodding, and trying to avoid weird questions about The Mandalorian. I didn’t expect to actually…” He stopped, glanced away for a second, then back at you. “...like someone.”

Your stomach fluttered. “Someone?”

“You,” he said plainly.

Oh.

You blinked. “I—um. Okay. That’s… wow.”

Pedro rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry. That might’ve been too much.”

“No—no, it’s okay,” you said quickly, too quickly. “Just wasn’t expecting it.”

He smiled again, softer now. “That’s fair.”

Then, casually—almost like it was nothing—he said, “Would it be weird if I asked for your number?”

You stared at him. “Wait—seriously?”

He shrugged, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re comfortable. If not, that’s okay. I just—” he hesitated, then said, “I think I’d like to talk to you again. Not in front of cameras. Or PR people.”

You swallowed. He was looking at you like he meant it. Like he wasn’t in a rush, like he could wait forever.

“…Okay,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll give it to you.”

Pedro handed you his phone. No hesitation.

You typed it in, heart pounding a little harder than it should’ve. Saved ___(from lunch) and handed it back.

He glanced down at it, then nodded. “I’ll text you. So you have mine.”

“Cool.” You tried to act normal. “Cool, cool, cool.”

Pedro smirked. “You’re very cool, yeah.”

Your rideshare pulled up just then. Saved by the bell. He opened the car door for you, gentlemanly as ever.

Before you got in, he said, voice low: “I’m really glad it was you.”

You didn’t even know what to say to that. So you smiled, and got in the car, and tried not to immediately check your phone.

But when it buzzed two minutes later, your breath caught.

Unknown Number: Glad I made it through lunch without embarrassing myself. – Pedro

You didn’t text back right away.

Mostly because you didn’t want to seem eager. But also because you were still staring at your phone like it had just whispered your name out loud.

You waited ten minutes.

Then typed:

You: I think we both made it out with our dignity intact.

But that’s a pending review once I replay the whole thing in my head at 2am.

The dots appeared instantly.

Pedro: Damn, you’re already funnier over text. I’m scared. Should I be worried about my performance?

You smiled, flopping back on your bed.

You: You were decent. You only said “like” twelve times in that one story about Oscar Isaac. Pedro: You counted?? You: I’m a writer. I observe. Pedro: Dangerous. Pedro: Remind me never to lie to you.

He kept texting over the next few days. Nothing crazy. Nothing that could get him in trouble.

But his messages were always right there—close enough to be curious. Casual enough to deny.

Sometimes it was jokes about his press schedule. Sometimes questions about your scripts. One night, it was a photo of an old movie on his TV.

Pedro: I think this director peaked with this one. Tell me I’m wrong. [screenshot from Days of Heaven] You: You want discourse at midnight? Pedro: I want you to talk to me at midnight.

You stared at that one for too long.

Typed. Erased. Typed again.

You: That sounds dangerously flirty for a man with a whole IMDb page. Pedro: That sounds dangerously flirty for a girl who called me “decent.” Pedro: …But I’m not taking it back.

By the end of the week, he was sending you voice memos.

Low, rough-voiced ones. Mostly teasing. Sometimes just quiet thoughts he didn’t want to type.

“You know, I reread your screenplay sample. You weren’t kidding when you said it was dark. That final scene? Fuck me. Also, I think I’m obsessed with the way your dialogue sounds.”

Another night:

“Couldn’t sleep. Thought about texting you something sexy but decided on this instead: Do you think people fall for potential, or do they fall for the version of themselves they think the other person sees?”

That one stayed in your phone for days.

You didn’t answer it. Not directly.

But your next message said:

You: If you’re ever back in L.A. and bored, I know a dive bar that makes the best nachos in the city.

We could talk about your IMDb shame pile.

Pedro: You tryna seduce me with nachos? You: Maybe. Pedro: Tell me when. And don’t wear that blouse again. Or do…

Four Weeks Later

The texts don’t come every day anymore.

He warned you. Said work was picking up again—press junkets, travel, long days on set. You said it was fine. You meant it. You’d gone in expecting one hour of his time, not a month of flirty messages and midnight voice memos.

But still, you missed it. The tiny buzz of your phone. His name lighting up your screen.

You missed the way he made you feel like he actually saw you—like you weren’t just some girl who lucked into a celebrity lunch but someone with ideas, talent, nerve.

The last message had been five days ago:

Pedro: Sitting in a hotel bar in Berlin. Bartender looks like he’s judging my wine choice.

You responded. He didn’t reply.

You told yourself he got busy. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

Still, you reread the thread more than once.

He kept opening your chat. Typing. Erasing.

He didn’t know why you stuck in his head. Why you’d gotten under his skin like a song he couldn’t stop humming. You were so much younger, so new, but you had a sharpness he envied. You made him want to say shit he hadn’t thought to say to anyone in years.

And you hadn’t even done anything, really.

You were just... honest. No agenda. No sucking up. You looked him in the eye like he wasn’t on a billboard but sitting across from you at a tiny table, halfway real.

And now you were quiet.

Maybe you’d gotten bored. Moved on. Maybe it was better that way.

But when his plane landed in L.A., jet-lagged and strung out, the first thing he wanted—before coffee, before sleep—was to see if you were still around.

You’re watching a terrible dating show in your apartment, sipping flat wine, wearing the same hoodie three days in a row when your phone buzzes.

Pedro: Back in town. That nacho place still open?

You stare at it.

Then:

You: It closes at 2am. So yeah. Still time for questionable choices. Pedro: Are we talking about food or me? You: Don’t make me say it. Pedro: Say it in person.

Then:

Pedro: Tomorrow night?

Your stomach flips.

It’s been weeks. You thought he forgot. You thought maybe you dreamed the whole thing.

You wait ten seconds.

Then:

You: Tomorrow night.

The bar is dim and humming when you walk in. Wood-paneled walls, strings of yellow bulbs, and that warm, greasy smell that hits just right after 9 p.m.

You spot him instantly.

Pedro’s in the far booth—back against the wall, baseball cap low, beer bottle sweating in front of him. He’s dressed down: jeans and a hoodie, that you recognize from one of his press photos. 

He looks up and sees you. Smiles.

Not the friendly kind. The fuck-I-missed-you kind.

“Hey,” you say as you slide into the booth opposite him.

“Hey yourself,” he murmurs, eyes not leaving yours.

You settle your bag beside you. Try to ignore the way your heart’s fluttering like it’s your first date in high school.

He leans forward slightly. “You look…”

You raise an eyebrow. “Tired?”

He laughs. “No. Just better than I remembered.”

You smirk. “You say that to all the raffle girls?”

Pedro grins and takes a sip of his beer. “You think I’m doing a lot of raffle lunches lately?”

You don’t answer. You just meet his eyes—and hold them a second too long.

The first drink goes fast. So does the second.

Conversation’s easy again—teasing, snappy, laced with innuendos but grounded in that same curiosity he showed the first time.

“You’ve got that look again,” you say at one point.

He tips his head. “What look?”

“Like you’re thinking too much.”

Pedro taps his fingers on the table. “I am.”

“About what?”

“You.”

That shuts you up. For a beat.

“Okay,” you say carefully. “You’re officially flirting.”

“Only officially now?”

You glance at him. “Are we pretending we haven’t been doing that for weeks?”

He leans in a little, voice lower. “I haven’t been pretending, cariño.”

That word—cariño—drops right down your spine.

You sip your drink just to buy time.

Half an hour later, the nachos are cold and forgotten.

He’s shifted to your side of the booth. Close enough that his thigh brushes yours when he moves.

You can feel the heat of him—slow and steady, like a stove left on low.

“You’re braver than I thought,” he murmurs, voice near your ear.

You turn your head, pulse thrumming. “Why?”

He’s looking at your mouth when he says, “Because I think you know exactly what this is.”

You swallow.

“You think it’s a game?” you whisper.

“No.” His eyes lift to meet yours again. “I think it’s trouble.”

You let the silence stretch. Then, quietly:

“I think I want it anyway.”

Pedro exhales, almost like relief.

His hand finds your knee under the table, gentle at first—like he’s asking.

You don’t stop him.

Back at your place — 1:07 a.m.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

He stands just inside your apartment, glancing around like he needs to ground himself. Like he’s cataloging every detail in case it’s the only time he sees it.

“Cute place,” he says.

You shrug. “It’s fine. It has a couch, at least.”

Pedro gives you a look. “So subtle.”

You smirk, toeing off your shoes. “I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to sit down without my feet throbbing.”

“Oh, is that what this is?” he says, trailing behind you into the living room. “Because when you leaned over the jukebox earlier, I swear I saw—”

“—Shut up,” you laugh, swatting his arm. “I was picking a song.”

“You were bending the laws of nature, muneca.”

You plop onto the couch and toss a pillow at him.

He catches it easily, eyes dancing.

And then he sits.

Close. Closer than necessary.

Your knees touch.

And for a moment, neither of you say anything.

His hand brushes yours.

Once.

Twice.

Then it stays.

“I keep telling myself not to do this,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the back of your knuckles.

You tilt your head. “Then don’t.”

Pedro looks at you.

Long. Direct. Hungry.

And then he kisses you.

It starts slow.

His lips soft, searching. No rush. No agenda.

But your hand slides into his hair and his body shifts, just a little, and suddenly—

His other hand is on your thigh, gripping it.

You gasp into his mouth, and it makes him groan. A low, broken sound, like he’s been trying not to make it for weeks.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You started it,” you whisper, breathless.

His tongue traces your bottom lip. “Don’t remind me.”

He pushes you back into the couch cushions, one knee slipping between yours, just enough weight to make you feel it.

You arch beneath him. Hips rising—seeking.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

Your hair’s messy, lips kiss-swollen, pupils blown.

“You’re so goddamn pretty,” he says, voice low. “You know that?”

You blink up at him, dazed. “You’re not bad either, old man.”

He huffed a laugh—and kissed you harder.

You end up straddling him, your hands under his shirt, his teeth grazing your neck. You whisper something shameless into his ear and he freezes, groaning into your shoulder like you just ruined his life.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re dangerous.”

“You like it,” you say, biting back a smile.

“Too much.”

It doesn’t go any further.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

Not because you don’t.

But because there’s something delicious about stopping here. Something about the ache. The tease.

 1:41 a.m. your apartment

You don’t get off his lap.

Even after the kissing slows. Even after his hand stills on your thigh and his breath evens out against your collarbone.

You just lean into him, cheek resting against the warm curve of his neck, and say:

“So what’s your comfort movie?”

Pedro chuckles, a low, content sound. His hands stay on you—one lightly tracing your waist, the other cradling your knee.

“You want comfort?” he murmurs. “I watched Paddington 2 three times in a row on a flight once. I cried. Full grown man. Tears.”

You sit up just enough to look at him. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

You grin, brushing your nose against his. “Mine’s Coraline. I know it’s for kids. Don’t care.”

“Oh, I respect that,” he says, nodding solemnly. “Creepy doll button eyes? That’s some formative trauma.”

You laugh into his shoulder. “Exactly.”

The conversation drifts.

From movies to music, then weird dreams, then the worst job he ever had (you make him promise never to do commercials for adult diapers), and the story of your first kiss (in a movie theater during a Marvel sequel, popcorn still in your braces).

You fall asleep like that for a while.

Wrapped around him. The TV is still on. His hoodie swallowing your frame.

It’s not a sleepover. But it’s the kind of night you only have when the flirting has already cracked open into something more dangerous—something real.

5:07 a.m. 

He kisses you again on the sidewalk, slow and tired and a little reluctant.

The Uber’s headlights bounce off the curb.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” he murmurs, thumb brushing your hip.

You raise your brows. “You’d behave?”

“No.”

“Then go home.”

Pedro grins, teeth sharp in the early morning haze. “I hate that you’re right.”

“You love that I’m right.”

He kisses your forehead. “Text me when you wake up, cariño.”

Then he climbs into the car and disappears into the fading dark.

Later

You you looked like a mess when you left was kind of hot

Pedro don’t start i walked into my kitchen like a teenager head against the fridge door. dramatic sigh.

You “what is she doing to meee…”

Pedro don’t mock the broken man

You it’s cute I kinda like breaking you

Pedro yeah i could tell you were smiling while you ruined me

You and you didn’t stop me

Pedro never would

Pedro (real talk though… i haven’t kissed someone like that in years) what are we doing?

You no idea but i don’t really want to stop

Pedro good i’d be pissed if you did

You also i’m watching Paddington 2 tonight thought you should know

Pedro you’re trying to make me fall in love with you

You Trying?

A Few days Later

Pedro okay serious question what’s your go-to coffee order i’m at a café and there are too many words on the menu

You iced oat latte. extra cinnamon. no reason. just vibes. why?

Pedro just wondering what i’ll need to remember when i see you again it’s been a minute you free soon?

You maybe. depends. is this a brunch date disguised as a “casual hang”?

Pedro yes. and i might wear a hat and sunglasses like a criminal

You hot I’ll see you Sunday then

Two Weeks Later

Outside a café, 2:12 p.m.

You’re holding iced coffees, your oversized hoodie tucked into the waistband of biker shorts, and Pedro’s walking beside you—cap pulled low, hoodie up, sunglasses on.

You look like…friends.

Which is the goal.

Except his hand keeps brushing yours.

And when you laugh too hard at something he says about a failed audition back in ‘99, he looks at you like he feels it. Like he wants to bottle it.

You don’t even notice the guy on the opposite sidewalk.

Phone angled low.

The shutter click barely audible.

Another car slows down. Just a beat.

Pedro notices first.

His body tenses next to yours.

You follow his gaze. A pair of figures across the street. Hoodies. Big lenses. Moving fast.

Click click click.

You suck in a breath. “Shit.”

He doesn’t grab your hand.

He can’t.

Instead, he leans in like he’s just whispering something dumb.

“Just keep walking,” he mutters. “Act like you’re annoyed with me.”

You glance up at him. “That’s not hard.”

He grins, tight-lipped. “Atta girl.”

You duck into a bookstore.He buys a random novel and keeps the receipt.

You pretend to browse while your stomach spins.

He brushes his hand against your back briefly as you walk toward the back exit.

“Your face was covered,” he says quietly. “You’re fine.”

But he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

You slip your sunglasses on, exhaling.

“I knew this might happen,” you mutter. “Still sucks.”

Pedro looks at you for a second too long. Then, under his breath:

“If anything ever actually comes out…I’ll handle it.”

You nod.

But it hangs there. Heavy.

You’re still you. Still just 23. Still not used to this world he lives in.

But the part that makes your pulse spike isn’t fear.

It’s the way his voice dipped when he said “I’ll handle it.”

Like he already decided he would.

Like you weren’t just a girl from a raffle anymore.

Pedro they didn’t get anything you’re safe

You you sure?

Pedro i’ve done this a long time if they had something good it’d be online already trust me

You i do just didn’t expect it to feel that...real

Pedro it is real at least for me

You i know. me too.

Pedro next time no public sidewalks just you my place pizza and zero danger

You and maybe another dramatic sigh against your fridge?

Pedro oh i’m already practicing i’ll be thinking about you all week

You good maybe i’ll make you wait again

Pedro maybe i’ll let you

Few More Days Later

You i just bombed my stats exam tell my family i died doing what i hated

Pedro nooooo not stats not you :(

You i’m so tired i might actually cry in the campus parking lot like a teen drama character

Pedro you want company or silence? or pizza? or a forehead kiss?

You omg

You that last one just made my brain short circuit is that allowed???

Pedro it is if you want it to be offer still stands come over i’ll put on something dumb and hold you until your brain restarts

You you’re dangerous give me an hour

That night — 8:13 p.m. 

Pedro’s apartment.

The kitchen smells like garlic and fresh basil.

Pedro’s in front of the stove in a worn tee and joggers, barefoot, stirring pasta like this is just…normal. Like you always do this. Like he wasn’t in a galaxy far, far away a few months ago while you were still writing essays in the library, humming through AirPods.

“You ever cook for girls like this?” you tease lightly, watching from the counter stool.

Pedro smirks without turning around. “Not girls who make me nervous.”

You blink.

He glances back at you. “Just being honest.”

You open your mouth—then close it again.

Your throat’s warm. So is your chest. Your fingertips tingle against the glass of red wine in your hand.

The rest of the night unfurls gently. Like a held breath being let out.

He makes a simple pasta with veggies. You help slice strawberries for a little balsamic-glazed dessert (“This is so extra,” you laugh, and he just shrugs—“You deserve extra”).

You eat on the couch with the coffee table dragged closer, your knees brushing under the bowls.

Music plays low. Something acoustic and nostalgic.

His hand rests on your leg, casual but firm.

Yours finds his thigh a little later.

You’re sitting sideways in his lap again, back to his chest, your cheek against his jaw. He smells like citrus body wash and red wine and something inherently him.

His hands haven’t left you all night.

Thumb tracing slow lines into the top of your thigh. Fingertips under your hoodie hem.

He kisses your shoulder. Then your jaw.

You hum softly, turning your face toward his. He doesn’t hesitate.

The kiss starts easy. Then deeper.

And deeper.

You straddle him this time, your knees pressing into the couch cushions, your hands in his hair. His grip tightens around your hips—then softens again, like he’s reminding himself to slow down.

There’s heat. So much heat.

You shift against him, just slightly—and feel him underneath you.

He breathes hard into your mouth, breaking the kiss. “Wait—wait.”

Your foreheads press together.

You blink. “Did I do something—?”

Pedro shakes his head fast. “No, no. God, no. You’re perfect.”

You’re quiet. His thumb brushes your cheek.

“I just…” he swallows, “don’t want this to be fast. I want it to be right.”

You exhale, your nose brushing his. “Okay.”

He looks at you—tender, serious. “You trust me?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You trust me?”

Pedro leans forward and kisses you again, slower this time. His hands stay on your waist. Yours trail up the back of his neck.

Then he says the most dangerous thing of all:

“Stay tonight.”

You borrow one of his tees and wash your face in his sink with the cleanser he shyly offers you.

The bed’s big and warm. You climb in beside him, and he pulls you close, one arm under your shoulders, the other across your waist.

Neither of you says much.

But when you whisper, “You smell like something familiar,” he smiles into your hair.

And when he murmurs, “I like having you here,” you smile too.

You fall asleep curled up against him. No more nerves. No more pretending this is just for fun.

It’s not the night everything happened.

But it’s the night everything changed.

The Next Morning — 9:12 a.m.

You wake up warm.

Pressed against a solid chest, one of Pedro’s hands heavy over your waist, his breath slow and deep against the back of your neck.

It takes you a second to remember where you are.

The smell of his sheets. The weight of his arm. The stretch of your legs tangled with his.

Then it hits you.

Last night. Dinner. That kiss. Him asking you to stay.

You shift slightly, careful not to wake him.

But you feel him stir behind you.

His voice is a slow, rough murmur in your ear. “Morning.”

You twist in his arms to face him. His hair’s messy. His eyes are sleepy, half-lidded. There’s a small smile on his mouth that makes your heart kick like a rabbit.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He leans in and kisses you—soft at first. Barely there.

But then he kisses you again, firmer this time. Longer.

And it doesn’t feel sleepy anymore.

It feels like wanting.

Pedro’s hand moves under your shirt, smoothing up your back, dragging his fingers up your spine. You sigh into his mouth as you press your chest against his, your body already buzzing.

He rolls gently onto his back, bringing you with him so you’re straddling his hips. His hands settle on your thighs, his thumbs tracing slow circles just beneath the hem of your borrowed sleep shirt.

“You okay?” he murmurs, looking up at you.

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes search yours. “We don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you say, clear and certain. “I really want to.”

That’s all he needs.

He sits up, kisses you again—this time with intent. His hands slip under your shirt fully now, dragging it up over your head and off.

Pedro pauses when he sees you.

Like he’s trying to remember every inch.

“God,” he breathes, hands sliding up your waist to cup your chest. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You shiver as his thumbs graze your nipples. You shift forward, rolling your hips against his just a little, and feel him hard underneath you.

He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you whisper, tugging his shirt off too.

It’s slow. He treats your body like something worth learning.

Mouth on your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, tongue dipping below your breasts.

He lays you back and kisses down your stomach, looking up at you the whole time like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

You don’t.

You arch for him, tug his hand between your thighs.

Pedro groans when he finds you wet.

“So ready for me,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. “Jesus, baby…”

He touches you slowly, gently, working you open with his fingers until you're panting, until you're grabbing at his hair and whispering his name like it's the only word that matters.

Then he comes back up and kisses you again—deep, messy, tongue pushing into your mouth as his fingers stay between your legs, stroking you through every soft sound you make.

“You like that?” he breathes.

You nod, nails digging into his shoulder. “Yeah. God, Pedro—”

He groans, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

You smile shakily. “I’ll tell you if it’s not enough.”

When he finally pushes inside you, it’s slow.

Painfully slow.

Like he wants you to feel every inch of it. Like he wants to feel you—wrapped around him, holding him, trusting him.

You gasp. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple.

“You okay?”

You nod, hand fisting the sheets. “Keep going. Please.”

Pedro groans, deeper this time, and begins to move.

It’s not fast. It’s not rough.

But it’s intense.

Every roll of his hips is deliberate, slow and deep, the kind of rhythm that builds unbearable heat between your legs. He stays close, his chest brushing yours, one hand cradling your head, the other gripping your hip like he needs to anchor himself there.

You moan into his mouth. “Pedro—oh my god—”

“I know,” he pants. “I know, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, tilting your hips to take him deeper. The change makes you gasp—your whole body tightening around him.

He curses, thrusts harder once, then slows again, like he’s fighting to stay in control.

“Not gonna last,” he groans into your neck. “You’re too good—fuck—”

You cling to him, mouth at his ear. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t.

He fucks you through it—slow, patient, like he’s memorizing you.

Until you come with a cry, back arching, legs trembling.

And then he lets go.

Buried deep inside you, his arms locked tight around your body, he shudders with a groan that sounds almost broken.

Pedro lies beside you, one hand still tracing circles over your bare back.

You’re tucked into his side, head on his chest, your body boneless and warm and aching in all the right ways.

He kisses the top of your head.

You murmur, “So…”

“So?” he echoes softly.

“I don’t want to leave.”

He smiles. “Then don’t.”

You lift your head, meeting his gaze.

“Okay.”

10:36 a.m.

The bedroom’s quiet, dim with late morning light.

Pedro’s hand is still on your back, fingers idly tracing slow, lazy shapes like he doesn’t want to break the silence. You’re sprawled across his chest with your leg slung over his hip, still tangled in sheets and sleep and warmth.

You murmur, “My thighs hurt.”

Pedro laughs softly under you. “That’s a good sign, right?”

You pinch his side gently, but you’re smiling. “You’re annoying.”

He kisses your hair. “You’re glowing.”

“I’m sweaty.”

“Same thing.”

You hum, turning your face into his neck. “We should get up.”

“We don’t have to.”

“We will eventually.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I’m making coffee and putting on music and not wearing pants, so. Prepare yourself.”

You brush your teeth side-by-side in front of the mirror, barefoot and rumpled. He’s wearing plaid pajama pants slung low on his hips. You’re in one of his big, soft shirts that barely covers your ass.

Pedro spits, then wipes his mouth and gestures toward your reflection. “You’re doing the ‘walk of shame’ all wrong.”

“Oh yeah?”

He steps behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, kisses your shoulder. “Yeah. You’re supposed to sneak out. Look flustered. Not stand here looking like a smug little goddess.”

You lean back into him. “I can sneak if you want.”

He brushes your hair over your shoulder, mouth at your ear. “Don’t you dare.”

You perch on the counter while Pedro makes eggs and toasts thick slices of sourdough. Coffee gurgles in the French press. Music hums low from a Bluetooth speaker—Fleetwood Mac, or maybe The Rolling Stones, something vintage and cozy and a little flirtatious.

He hands you a piece of toast like it’s a peace offering.

“You’re spoiling me,” you murmur between bites.

He shrugs. “You stayed the night. That earns you toast rights.”

“What else does it earn me?”

Pedro leans on the counter next to you, pretending to think. “More coffee. Back rubs. The good chocolate from the top shelf. Maybe a foot rub if you beg.”

You laugh.

But he watches you for a second, quiet, eyes soft.

Then, a little more serious, he says, “You’re okay? With last night?”

You nod right away. “Of course I am.”

“You don’t feel—like it was too fast?”

You pause. “No. Do you?”

He looks away for a second. Then back at you.

“No. I just… I don't want to mess this up.”

Your heart thumps.

“You’re not,” you say, and it’s true. “I like being here. With you.”

Pedro steps closer. Kisses you on the forehead.

“You make me feel lucky,” he murmurs. “Like… really lucky.”

You hide your face in his shoulder, smiling into his shirt. “Sappy.”

“You love it.”

“I kinda do.”

You end up back in bed with the window open and your coffee cups half-full on the nightstand.

You scroll through your phone lazily while Pedro reads a book beside you, one hand resting on your thigh like he just needs to be touching you, even when he’s distracted.

Eventually, he sets the book down and watches you instead.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “let me take you out properly. Like a real date.”

You glance up. “Like…in public?”

He nods, hesitating. “If you want. I can be careful. Private table. Back entrance.”

You study him for a beat.

Then smile.

“Okay.”

He exhales, slow and relieved. Pulls you toward him.

And it hits you—how easy this could be. How dangerous. How close you already feel to something you shouldn’t want this badly.

But you let him kiss you again.

Because right now?

You just want more.

Pedro 🍯 Friday night okay for our scandalous outing?

You depends will there be food? and you opening doors for me like a gentleman?

Pedro 🍯 I’d open every door in LA for you even the ones I’m not supposed to

You that’s hot okay I’m in what’s the dress code? do I need to look famous?

Pedro 🍯 You are famous. In my phone. In my bed. In my head. But no—look like yourself. That’s what I like.

You you’re lucky you’re cute I’ll give you flirty and effortless

Pedro 🍯 It’s a look that destroys me every time

 Friday Night – 8:04 PM

Private restaurant in West Hollywood

The hostess barely glances at you as she leads you down a narrow hallway to the back, where the lights are low and the table is tucked away in a cozy, dim corner.

Pedro’s already there, standing when he sees you. Black dress shirt, a little open at the collar. Trim beard. That soft smile that’s reserved for you now.

He says, “Wow,” under his breath when he sees you.

You grin. “That’s what you were waiting for?”

“No,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But it’s a damn good bonus.”

He pulls your chair out for you, brushes his fingers down your arm as you sit. The tension’s quiet but buzzing. This isn’t like being at his apartment in sweats and bare legs. This is real.

The waiter arrives quickly—Pedro’s arranged everything. Wine’s already poured. A cheese plate. You’re grateful, because you’re nervous.

“Not what you expected?” he asks, eyes warm.

“It’s nice,” you say. “Just… kinda crazy. We’re really out.”

He leans in, voice low. “We don’t have to stay long.”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising yourself. “I want to.”

You talk about movies. About food. He asks about your classes. You ask about scripts he’s reading. It’s easy, even with the candlelight and clinking glasses and murmurs behind you.

But at one point, you feel someone glance toward the corner—just a shift, a flick of someone’s head.

You both go still.

Pedro reaches across the table and touches your hand, thumb brushing the back of your fingers.

“Don’t look,” he says gently. “They won’t get anything.”

You nod, swallowing.

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

His grip tightens slightly.

“So am I.”

Outside the restaurant

Pedro’s car pulls around to the back entrance just like he’d asked. You both slip out quietly, sunglasses on—even though it’s dark—and hoods up. The manager gave him a discreet nod on the way out, like this wasn’t his first time protecting someone.

Once you’re in the car, doors shut, windows up, and seat belts clicked… he finally exhales.

You laugh a little, heart still racing. “That was weird.”

“It was,” he agrees, starting the engine. “But not terrible, right?”

You glance at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever been watched while eating cheese.”

Pedro grins. “To be fair, you looked very hot doing it.”

You nudge his arm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

You do.

 10:05 PM – His Apartment

He lets you in first. The lights are soft. The space smells like bergamot and whatever cologne still clings to his jacket.

You take your shoes off by the door without thinking. He shrugs out of his coat, throws it on the back of the couch. His shirt’s still half-unbuttoned.

“Wine?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Just water.”

Pedro nods and heads to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it from the fridge. You trail behind him, watching the lines of his back move beneath the dark cotton of his shirt.

When he turns, you’re sitting on top of the counter, arms crossed.

“You’re quiet,” he says gently, handing you the glass.

You take a sip. “Just thinking.”

He nods. Waits.

You hesitate. Then, “Do you worry? About people knowing?”

He pauses. Then crosses to stand in front of you, leaning back on the opposite counter, arms loosely folded.

“I do,” he says honestly. “Not because I’m ashamed. I just… I know how people talk. And I don’t want them to get it wrong.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

He watches you.

“I also don’t want to stop seeing you,” he adds softly. “So I guess I’ll figure it out.”

That makes your stomach flip.

“You don’t think it’s a bad idea?” you ask. “This?”

He tilts his head, thoughtful. Then he shook it.

“No. Not when you look at me like that.”

You blink. “Like what?”

Pedro smiles a little. “Like I’m not just some actor you had a crush on once. Like I’m… real.”

You don’t say anything, but you take a step forward. So does he.

Your hand lands gently on his chest.

“I like the real you,” you say. “Even when you’re dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic.”

“You literally made an escape plan for dinner.”

He chuckles in a low tone. “Fair.”

Your fingers hook at the collar of his shirt.

“Can I stay again?”

Pedro leans down and presses his forehead to yours.

“Please do.”

Pedro steps between your legs, his palms firm against your thighs, slowly sliding up under the hem of your dress. The fabric bunches at your hips, but neither of you cares. You’ve kissed him before, but not like this—not when everything feels like it might break open if you dare to go a little further.

“You’re killin’ me,” he mutters, lips brushing just below your ear as his hands roam.

Your breath catches. “I haven’t even done anything.”

Pedro pulls back just enough to look at you. “You wore that dress.”

You tilt your head. “You told me to.”

He smirks. “Yeah. My own damn fault.”

His mouth is on yours again—hot, unrelenting. The kiss turns hungrier. You moan into it when he presses closer, the hard line of him slotting between your thighs.

His hands are greedy now, tracing the backs of your thighs, then cupping your ass, pulling you forward against him. Your hips grind instinctively. He groans into your mouth, like he’s trying to hold back but failing.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—Jesus—”

One of his hands slips around to your front, dragging his fingers between your legs over your panties. He feels how warm you are, how soaked the fabric is. His eyes flick up to yours, dark and full of heat.

“This all for me, baby?”

You nod, lips parted. “Been like that since dinner.”

He lets out a low, guttural sound and presses the heel of his hand right where you’re throbbing. You roll your hips against it, helpless. Your legs tighten around his waist as your back arches into him.

Pedro leans in, his voice ragged. “You want me to touch you?”

You barely manage a breathy, “Yes.”

His fingers hook into your panties, dragging them to the side. And then he touches you—slowly, carefully—like he’s trying to memorize every reaction. The pad of his middle finger slides through your slick folds, circling your clit just once.

You jerk slightly, gasping.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, watching your face. “You’re so wet already.”

You try to kiss him again, but he teases you, keeping his lips just out of reach. His fingers move lower, pressing gently at your entrance. He slips one inside, slow but sure.

Your head falls back. “Pedro—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, adding a second finger, curling them just right. “You feel fuckin’ incredible.”

You rock your hips in time with his rhythm, your moans filling the quiet kitchen. The counter is cool beneath your thighs, but you’re burning everywhere else—chest flushed, heart racing.

Pedro leans in and kisses the underside of your jaw, then your neck, his voice hot and gravelly against your skin. “I wanna see you come like this. Just like this.”

You grip his shoulders, legs trembling slightly as the pressure builds. He keeps his thumb on your clit, circling it in time with every curl of his fingers.

“Fuck—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

“I won’t, baby. I’ve got you. Let go for me.”

It hits fast. Your hips stutter, mouth falling open in a whimper as you come around his fingers, clenching tight while he keeps working you through it. He watches every second of it, like he’s completely wrecked by the sight of you falling apart in his hands.

When it’s too much, you grab his wrist, panting. “Okay. Okay—”

He kisses you then, deep and messy and full of hunger. You taste yourself on his tongue, and somehow that just makes it hotter.

“Next time,” he murmurs against your lips, voice full of promise, “it’s gonna be in bed. And I’m not gonna stop until you beg.”

You smile, still breathless. “Who says I won’t beg right here?”

He laughs softly, tucks your hair behind your ear, and leans his forehead against yours. “You’re trouble.”

“You like it.”

Pedro hums, pressing one last kiss to your lips. “I really do.”

Pedro kisses you again—more urgently this time, like he’s chasing the taste of your moan. You’re still coming down from your high, but he’s nowhere near finished. His hand strokes down your thigh, then back up slowly, deliberately. His lips drag down your neck to your collarbone, tongue flicking over the skin as he murmurs, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this, baby.”

You squirm in his grip, panting softly. “Pedro…”

He groans when you say his name like that, like a plea. His hands slip under your thighs, and in one swift, effortless movement, he lifts you from the counter and carries you into the living room. He lays you out gently on the couch, kneeling between your legs, spreading them with his hands.

Your dress is still bunched around your hips. Your panties are crooked, barely hanging on.

Pedro looks down at you—lips swollen, legs open for him, pupils blown wide. “You want more?”

You nod, voice shaky. “I—I want your mouth.”

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He leans in, dragging your panties down your legs slowly, deliberately. You watch him with wide eyes, chest rising and falling. He kisses the inside of your thigh first—soft, reverent—then bites, just a little, enough to make you whimper.

And then he licks you.

It starts slow—his tongue parting your folds, gentle strokes that make you arch your back. But he doesn’t stay soft for long. He groans into you like he’s starving, hands gripping your thighs as he locks you in place and sucks hard on your clit. Your hips jerk up, and he just tightens his grip, flattening his tongue and dragging it slowly up and down before circling your entrance.

You’re already close again.

“Pedro, fuck—oh my God—”

He looks up at you, mouth shiny, eyes wild. “Come again for me. Just like this.”

You tangle your fingers in his hair, anchoring yourself while he devours you. He slides one finger back inside you, then another, curling them just right as his tongue works your clit. You fall apart again—loud, shaking, hips grinding against his mouth as you come harder than before.

You feel him groan when you clench around his fingers. He fucking likes how wrecked you are.

When he finally pulls away, you’re breathless and trembling. He kisses your inner thigh one more time before leaning over you, lips slick with you, eyes blown wide.

You reach for him, cupping him through his sweats. He’s rock hard and twitching under your palm. “Your turn.”

He swears under his breath, grinding into your hand. “I’ve been dying since you walked in.”

You tug the waistband of his slacks down. He helps, finally freeing himself—and your mouth waters at the sight of him. He’s thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.

Pedro watches your face as you stroke him slowly, teasing him the way he teased you.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” you ask, sweet and soft.

He groans low. “Not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

But he lets you guide him on top of you, your thighs still slick and spread. You rub his tip against your folds, not letting him in—just grinding, coating him in your arousal. You both moan at the contact.

He leans down, forehead pressed to yours, hips moving in slow, desperate circles.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he mutters.

You wrap your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, your voice a whisper against his jaw. “Next time, you’re gonna fuck me for real.”

Pedro pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “This isn’t even close to done, sweetheart.”

He ruts against you again, both of you panting now, bodies slick and sticky. He kisses you—deep and messy—as he comes against your stomach with a groan, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

You lie there together, tangled and panting, the whole room humming with the tension that still lingers.

Pedro finally exhales a breathy laugh. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

You grin, heart racing. “Big, big trouble.”

He kisses your shoulder and smiles into your skin. “Worth it.”

You’re curled up in Pedro’s bed again, half-asleep with your cheek against his chest, his hand absentmindedly tracing lazy circles on your back.

He shifts a little beneath you, reaches over with a yawn to grab his phone from the nightstand, squinting at the screen as it lights up.

Then he goes still.

You feel it before you hear it—his body tensing just enough to draw your attention.

You peek up at him. “Everything okay?”

Pedro doesn’t answer right away. He swipes through something on his phone with a sharp breath through his nose, then hands it to you silently.

Your stomach flips.

It’s Twitter.

A photo. Grainy, long-lens, obviously taken from across the street.

Pedro Pascal on a late-night coffee date?He’s walking beside you on the sidewalk. His hood is up, and yours is too. Your face is angled down, half-covered by your oversized scarf. But it’s undeniably him.

His hand is on the small of your back. Gentle. Familiar.

The photo already has over 80k likes.

“Shit,” you whisper, sitting up a little.

Pedro watches you carefully. “Your face isn’t in it. You’re okay.”

“I mean… yeah, but people are gonna figure it out, aren’t they?” You hand him the phone, heart thudding.

There are already hundreds of quote tweets. Gossip accounts, stan edits, comments like:

“whoever she is… I fear I’m her now” “idk who she is but I know she smells like vanilla and reads poetry” “Pedro Pascal out on a date???? Real man hours” “y’all think this is PR? 😭”

You fall back into the pillows, groaning into the sheets. “I literally had exams yesterday. I was studying in a hoodie like twelve hours ago.”

Pedro chuckles softly. “And now you’re an anonymous femme fatale. Wild.”

You glance over at him. “This doesn’t freak you out?”

“Not really.” He reaches out, brushing your hair back. “I’ve been through worse. You okay, though?”

“I mean…” You sit up, wrapping the sheet around yourself. “I didn’t think this was gonna get real like that. That fast.”

Pedro watches you quietly for a moment. Then he reaches for your hand.

“We don’t have to rush anything. If you want to pull back, stay private, disappear for a bit, we can do that. But I also—” He pauses, thumb brushing your knuckles. “I like this. You and me. I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

You soften. “I don’t want that either.”

“Then we play it smart.” He smiles a little. “Let them talk. They don’t know anything.”

You squeeze his hand. “Okay. But if I get doxxed by a thirteen-year-old running a fan cam account…”

“I’ll delete the internet for you.”

You laugh, and he leans over to kiss your temple.

Just like that, the tension fades a little. Not gone, not really, but tucked away beside the coffee cups and slow mornings and quiet confessions in bed.

You wake up later to the smell of butter and fresh coffee.

The space in bed beside you is empty, but warm. Sunlight spills through the curtains in long strips, cutting across the crumpled sheets and your bare legs. You stretch slowly, sore in the sweetest way, your body still humming from the night before.

You find Pedro in the kitchen, barefoot in his plaid pajama pants, the ones with a little rip near the pocket. He’s focused on the skillet in front of him, brows furrowed, spatula in hand like he’s trying to win an award for best boyfriend breakfast.

You linger in the doorway, quietly watching him like you’re afraid saying his name will break the spell.

He turns at just the right moment, catching you with a sleepy smile.

“Well, good morning, mystery girl.”

You grin. “Don’t call me that.”

“What? You are a mystery.” He gestures to the open laptop on the kitchen counter. “You’re trending.”

Your stomach dips. “So it wasn’t just a bad dream?”

Pedro nods. “Hashtag 'Pedro Pascal Date Night' has entered the chat.”

You groan and pad into the room, barefoot in his T-shirt, curling your arms around his waist from behind. “This is so surreal.”

He leans back into you just enough to kiss your knuckles. “You’re still you. I’m still me. Nothing changes that.”

You rest your cheek against his back. “I know, it’s just… I wasn’t expecting it to feel this big.”

Pedro turns gently in your arms and cups your face with those warm, capable hands. “Then let’s keep it small. Just you and me in this kitchen. My bad pancakes. Your bedhead. The rest can wait.”

You nod. Let him kiss you. Let him hold you like that.

A few minutes later, you’re sitting at the little dining table while he plates the eggs, toast, and strawberries in a way that’s oddly charming and not very symmetrical. He brings you your coffee just the way you like it—too much cream, not enough sugar.

“God,” you say, taking a sip. “This is dangerously domestic.”

Pedro raises an eyebrow, settling across from you. “Dangerous?”

You smirk. “You’re lucky I’m into it.”

He lets out a low laugh. “You have no idea how into you I am.”

You pause, caught off guard by how easily he says it. How it doesn’t scare you the way you thought it would.

After a beat, you lean across the table and whisper, “So what happens next?”

Pedro reaches for your hand, his thumb brushing the back of it like it’s second nature.

“Whatever you want,” he says. “We will figure it out. Together.”

And there it is again—that quiet thrum of something honest. Something with roots.

Hope.

You sat alone on the narrow stone balcony of your family's modest farmhouse. The rough-hewn ledge cool beneath your palms as the countryside stretched before you in a vast, shadowed quilt of rolling hills, and contours softened by the deepening twilight.

Far to the south, the distant lights of Rome shimmered like a scattering of gold coins on the horizon. It’s unreachable flames that spoke of power and splendor. You had only heard through stories and riding soldiers' worlds away from the quiet and peaceful life you knew.

The sky above was moonless, yet alive with stars in a vast, glittering canopy that seemed to press down gently upon the earth. The last sliver of sun had slipped below the hills, leaving only a faint rose glow at the edge of the world.

A soft breeze stirred the air, carrying the earthy scent of turned soil, the sharp tang of olive leaves, and the warm, musky odor of grazing animals. From the nearby pastures came the low, rhythmic bleating of sheep in their gentle, familiar sounds that rose and fell like a lullaby.

Your five brothers moved through the fields, their silhouettes dark against the fading light as they checked the fences and herded the last stragglers toward the stone enclosures.

Torches flickered to life around the farmhouse made up of simple clay lamps and open fires that painted the walls of your home in warm, dancing gold. The structure itself was humble. Thick walls of local stone and sun-baked clay, roofed with thatch, its windows small and shuttered against the night.

And a single muddy track that led from the yard, winding through green meadows and toward the ancient Roman road, paved centuries ago by emperors whose names you barely remembered.

Inside, your mother hummed softly as she mended a tunic by the hearth, the needle flashing in the firelight. Your father, weary from the day's labor, sat sharpening his crook.

The air inside carried the comforting smells of baking bread, woodsmoke, and the faint lanolin of wool from the fleeces piled in the corner from your own hands, and set reminders of the simple rhythm that had defined your days since childhood.

You drew your shawl tighter against the growing chill, gazing out over the land that had cradled your family for generations. Shepherds, seamstresses, and simple humble farmers.

Your world was small, but it was yours, perfect and settle enough for you. Yet tonight, something felt chilling, and it wasn’t the air that made you think so. No, it was restlessness and stirred in your chest, as though the wind whispered in your ear of coming change.

Unbeknownst to you, that change was already riding toward your home, with torches blazing along the imperial road, horses' hooves pounding the stones, soldiers and couriers bearing the Emperor's seal without notice.

The counsel had decreed, that the twins who ruled Rome, Geta and Caracalla, needed an heir to secure the throne. Each should find a wife of their own, from their free choice.

Naturally, Caracalla had thrown a fit that he had no desire to marry nor bed a wife, at least for now. So, it was left to Geta to go about finding himself a new empress despite his fury in doing so.

And so far, not one noble daughter had pleased Geta's discerning eye; no princess had stirred his cold heart. Some had thought he only did it on purpose to delay his marriage. Seeking that his power over the people didn’t need tender caring of show, because his presence of rule should be enough.

Now, in desperation, they sought further afield—simple women from the provinces, women like you. Which meant with every square mile of Rome, they would take all the first born daughters to the capital to have prepared like a meal in front of starving hyenas.

The night was quiet, save for the animals and the wind. But soon, the silence would shatter both the tiny village and your world.

And after some time you all decided to retire, you had kissed your mother’s weathered cheek, felt the familiar scratch of your father’s beard against your lips, and murmured blessings to each of your five brothers, who would rise before dawn to tend the flocks.

They answered with soft grunts and tired smiles, the same ritual that had ended every day since you could remember. You climbed the narrow ladder to the loft where your pallet waited, the wool-stuffed mattress still warm from the day’s heat trapped in the thatch above.

You pulled the heavy blanket over your shoulders, the scent of lanolin woven into its fibers, and snuffed the single tallow candle with a pinch of your thumb and forefinger. Darkness folded around you like a second skin while sleep found you quickly.

It was torn away just before first light anyway. A sudden, brutal chorus that eerily shattered the stillness due to baying hounds, and iron-shod hooves striking the muddy earth as men bellowed orders in clipped Latin.

The village woke in terror. Mothers screamed from open doorways; children wailed; fathers shouted useless defiance. Torchlight bled through the cracks in the shutters, creating angry orange streaks that danced across the clay walls.

Your family was already on their feet when the first heavy fist pounded on the door in three deliberate, thunderous knocks that rattled the wooden frame.

Your father reached it first, unlatching it with steady hands even as your mother clutched the youngest brother to her side. The door swung inward before your father could even open it properly and a Roman soldier filled the threshold. Helmet gleaming dully in the torchlight outside, his scarlet cloak mud-spattered and his face carved from stone.

He stepped inside without permission, boots tracking mud across the swept floor. His gaze swept the room to find five sons ranged protectively in front of their parents, your mother nervous but upright, while you peeked down through the planks to watch discreetly.

The soldier’s eyes narrowed before he seized your father by the collar of his rough tunic, yanked him forward, and drew his gladius in one fluid motion until the blade kissed the skin beneath your father’s jaw.

“All I see is sons,” the soldier said, voice low and dangerous. “But you must have daughters. No?”

Your father’s throat worked dryly. “I have only sons.”

A rough shake and the sword pressed harder; a thin line of blood welled. “You lie. We were told two women live here.” His stare cut to your mother. “There’s one. Where is the other?”

“Please—” Your second-eldest brother stepped forward, hands raised.

Another soldier moved inside like a ghost, sword flashing free and leveled at the boy’s chest. “Speak, old man, or you’ll have one less son.”

“Stop.” The word left your lips before you could think.

You stood at the top of the loft, shawl slipping from your shoulders, hair loose and wild from sleep. Every eye turned to you. Your mother cried out in a broken sound.

Your oldest brother lunged to block the ladder, but you pushed past him gently, firmly descending the rungs with deliberate steps. You walked straight to the soldier holding your father, chin high, eyes blazing in the torchlight.

“Leave them,” you said. “I’m their only daughter. It’s me you want.”

A moment of silence stretched, heavy as were their gaze. The two soldiers exchanged a long, wordless glance. Then the one gripping your father nodded once. They released him so abruptly he staggered.

Rough hands seized your upper arms, with iron-hard fingers digging into your flesh. You were hauled forward, feet dragging for a heartbeat before you found your balance.

Your mother surged after you, voice splintering into sobs, “No, no, my girl, please—” but your brothers caught her, held her back as she fought them with desperate strength.

Their faces were masks of pure grief, fury, and utter helplessness. Outside, the night felt dead in its wake. More girls were being dragged from neighboring houses, their cries mingling with the barking of hounds and the harsh commands of centurions.

Horses stamped and snorted, breath steaming in the pre-dawn chill. One rounded toward you both and the soldier lifted you onto the back of a cavalry mount as though you weighed nothing.

You sat astride behind a broad-shouldered soldier, his armor cold against your thin shift, his arm banding around your waist to keep you in place. The horse sidestepped, eager to move. You twisted once, just once, to look back.

Your family stood clustered in the doorway, silhouetted against the firelight within as you took one, last, hard look at them. Your mother’s hands reached uselessly toward you while she sobbed.

Your father’s shoulders slumped as though the weight of Rome itself had settled there. And your brothers stood like deadbeats, fists clenched, eyes shining with unshed tears and rage.

You lifted your hand in a small, steady gesture and shaped the words with your lips so they could see, “I love you.”

The soldier spurred the horse and the village fell away behind you in a blur of torchlight and tears. Other riders flanked you, each carrying another young woman, some weeping openly, some staring ahead in stunned silence.

The imperial road stretched south toward Rome, straight and merciless under the fading stars. You kept your gaze on your home until the last flicker of firelight vanished behind the hills. Then you turned your face forward, into the dark road and whatever waited at its end.

And so, the Emperor Geta had demanded a bride from the people and the people had answered. Unwillingly.

Two weeks had passed since the night the soldiers tore you from your family's arms. Fourteen days that blurred into a haze of endless gardens and marble halls, echoing city noise beyond the walls, and the ceaseless murmur of other women in waiting.

You were one of dozens now, plucked from farms, villages, and distant provinces, all herded into the imperial women's quarters like prized livestock readied for auction.

The air here smelled of rosewater, myrrh, and the faint heated oils, that were nothing like the clean earth and lanolin of home. The attendants, were older women with sharp eyes and practiced hands that treated your arrival as a project.

You had worked the fields, tended sheep, stitched wool for years by firelight; to them, that marked you unclean, your skin roughened by sun and labor.

So they bathed you repeatedly, not once but three, four times a day at first, in steaming pools scented with lavender and costly cinnamon. They scrubbed you with pumice and barley meal until your arms and legs stung, then anointed you with olive oil infused with saffron and frankincense until your skin gleamed like new and polished.

They plucked every stray hair and then some all from your body with sharpened bronze tweezers, leaving your flesh smooth and vulnerable to the cool drafts of the open air palace.

Nails were filed short and neat, then buffed to a soft sheen; your cuticles were pushed back with ivory sticks and glossed over by rich oils until your hands looked like they had never known a needle or a crook.

You submitted to it all with quiet discomfort. The pampering felt foreign, indulgent, almost intrusive. The soft horse-hair brushes gliding over your scalp to suit your needs.

The perfumed creams were massaged into your shoulders and pulse points, until the attendants' murmured approvals when your skin finally took on the shine and unblemished glow so prized in Rome.

A clean, blemish free complexion was the beauty itself here. It was flawless and in their terms pleasing to the gods to be as close to godliness as one could. That just spoke of leisure and mattered more with high birth.

As for you, you thought it to be yet another society complication they pressured young women to believe. To think, you could only be found attractive if you followed the new trend of the hour or be shunned from the public for not being beautiful enough.

You had never sought such perfection; the sun had kissed your skin freely, and you welcomed blemishes as they were natural and you had worn it without shame.

To be imperfect, is to be human.

When the day came for dressing, the attendants led you to a chamber lit by oil lamps that cast long, flickering shadows. They stripped you bare before a circle of watchful eyes of matrons, seamstresses, and a stern-faced overseer.

All in which inspecting you as one might appraise a horse. Turning you slowly, noting the curve of your waist, the line of your spine, your backside and the modest swell of your breasts or not. No one spoke of modesty; this was preparation for an emperor's gaze. And you felt sick.

They laid out fabrics across a low table. Silks imported from the East, in shades of cream, pale rose, and the deepest indigo. All finer than anything you or your mother had ever woven.

The overseer, in her gray-haired, authoritative stance, chose for you after a long, appraising look. "Geta favors simplicity in form, but richness in movement," she said, almost to herself. "Something that flows, that reveals without vulgarity."

What they draped over you was a stola of gossamer silk, the undertunic beneath it a whisper thin subucula of the same luminous white. The stola itself was sleeveless, its folds caught at the shoulders with golden fibulae shaped like laurel leaves.

It fell in soft pleats to your ankles, but the fabric was so sheer in the lamplight that it clung and shifted like mist over water, hinting at the contours beneath, and leaving everything up to the wandering gaze.

A deep neckline plunged low across your chest, exposing the graceful hollow of your throat, the delicate ridge of your collarbones, the smooth expanse of your shoulders and upper back.

The silk grazed your skin with every breath, cool as alive, the hem brushing your calves like a lover's touch. A slender golden cord—thin as a serpent, cinched at your waist, gathering the fabric and accentuating the natural dip and flare of your body.

They wove delicate threads of gold into your hair, pinning it accordingly to match the frame of your face rather than the towering, elaborate piles favored by some of the noblewomen, and it made you look ever more stunning.

A single armlet of hammered gold coiled around your upper arm like a vine, cool against your skin. Sandals of soft leather laced high on your calves, their straps adorned with tiny gold studs, but the unfamiliar height made each step precarious, the rough inner edges already promising blisters by day's end.

Your face they left lighter than most. No thick layer of ceruse . . . the poisonous white lead paste that gave other women the ghostly pallor of statues.

Instead, a subtle dusting to even your tone, a faint gold and rose stain on your cheeks from crushed madder root. For your eyes, only kohl of black lines drawn with a fine stick of soot and galena, extending the almond shape to make them appear larger, brighter, more arresting against your skin.

The contrast was striking. Your gaze seemed deeper, more luminous in the flickering light. You were grateful for the restraint; the other women wore heavier masks of white powder caked thick, lips reddened with cinnabar, cheeks rouged to an almost feverish bloom.

Some of the gowns around you were bolder too. Vibrant crimsons, deep purples, beautiful emerald greens that caught the eye like spilled wine or fresh blood.

Whispers rippled through the waiting women, so garish, so bold for the emperor's taste. Yet the dressers (take from yours) insisted that Geta, they said, delighted in vivid color, in the drama of it, perhaps because it echoed the gore he had seen on battlefields and in the arena.

You wore white, simple and luminous, a quiet contrast despite the spectacle, and it made you relieved. One on knowing you liked simple, and the other knowing he’d go for one of the more vibrant choices then.

Not all the women bore their transformation with grace though. Some wept openly, ruining the careful kohl with tears until attendants disciplined them with sharp slaps or cold compresses, forcing composure.

Others preened, thrilled at the luxury, eyes bright with ambition to capture the heart of the young emperor. You stood neutral, neither eager nor broken. There were too many here, you reasoned.

Dozens upon dozens, each more polished than the last. You were only one face in the crowd. Surely the emperor would choose elsewhere, and you would be sent home with a purse of coin and a story no one would quite believe. Why waste tears on a fate that might never claim you? So you waited.

Each day, groups of women were summoned to the imperial audience chamber. Pleasant, perfumed girls with doe-like eyes and practiced smiles. You were not yet called.

In the hours between, you wandered the permitted corridors under the watchful eyes of guards whose own eyes lingered on you a second too long.

The palace was a labyrinth of white marble veined with gold, columns rising like petrified trees to ceilings painted with gods and countless triumphs.

Your stola flowed behind you like smoke, the silk whispering against the stone floor with every step. You trailed your fingers along cool pillars, feeling the chill seep into your skin, marveling at the scale of it all.

Rome. The city your father had described in half-warnings and half-wonders. He had spoken of its dangers of the crowds, the countless thieves, and the men who looked too long at the girls.

"Not for you," he would say, kissing your forehead before setting out with your brothers to sell wool and cheese at the markets. "Rome devours the innocent."

He had shielded you from it, from the lustful stares, from the city's hunger. Now you walked its very heart, dressed like a goddess, yet feeling more exposed than ever in your life.

The corridors stretched on, endless and beautiful, but cold. Somewhere deeper in the palace, the twin emperors held court. Geta and Caracalla, brothers bound by blood and divided by everything else. You had never seen them, not even from afar. But the waiting carried its own weight, heavy as the gold at your throat.

You told yourself it was only a matter of time before they sent you back to the hills, to the sheep, to the hearth where your mother waited with unspent tears. But the palace had its own rhythm, slow and inexorable. And Rome, as your father knew, did not easily release what it had claimed, if only you knew.

You stepped through an arched colonnade into the open peristyle garden, where a vast number of plant life you’d never seen before resided. Stone and marble framed it all, admitting the full, unfiltered light of the sun as it began its slow rise.

The garden itself was a quiet miracle to you amid the palace's relentless grandeur. With its endless manicured box hedges, climbing roses trained against white marble trellises, and beds of lilies and irises whose perfume hung heavy in the still air.

At the center stood the fountain in a broad, shallow basin of polished travertine fed by hidden aqueducts. Rising from its middle was a larger-than-life marble statue of an earlier emperor, perhaps Trajan or Hadrian, armored and laureled, one hand raised in eternal command.

Water cascaded in soft sheets from the basin's rim, rippling outward in concentric rings that caught the light like molten gold. You approached the fountain's edge and settled onto the wide marble rim as though it were an ordinary bench.

The stone was cold, yet smooth beneath your palms. You arranged the folds of your stola with care, drawing the silk modestly across your chest so the deep neckline revealed nothing untoward. You drew your knee up toward your chin, leaning forward slightly, the posture more country girl than court lady.

The gentle fall of water was calm to your aching skin. It murmured steadily, drowning the distant and more or less constant buzz of the palace.

You reached toward a nearby rose bush and deftly snapped a single petal free. Between thumb and forefinger, you twirled it, then dipped it to the water's surface, watching tiny ripples spread outward.

The hour had turned golden. The light shortly after sunrise had softened to that perfect, honeyed glow that painters chased and poets praised. It bathed everything in warmth.

The marble gleamed like old ivory, the roses deepened to blood-red, and your white silk caught fire in a translucent way where it clung and luminous where it drifted. Gold threads woven into your hair shimmered; the armlet on your upper arm flashed like ember.

You were deeply lost in thought, circling the petal through the water. Not noticing the distant heavy footsteps nearby that seemingly broke the stillness. Emperor Geta stormed from the direction of the western court, his crimson cloak snapping behind him.

Fury etched every line of his face while his jaw clenched, brows drawn tight, the vivid patterns of gold embroidery on his tunic flashing with each angry stride.

Whatever audience or argument had just ended had left him white with pure anger; his hands flexed at his sides as though still itching for a sword. He meant only to pass through the garden on his way to cooler chambers, but something, like a flash of white and gold, caught the corner of his eye.

He began to slow as his eyes drifted slightly before they stopped on you. You sat haloed by the rising light, the sun at your back transforming you into something almost unearthly.

The silk of your stola seemed to drink the gold hour and give it back brighter; your skin glowed as though dusted with the same precious metal. You still faced away minding the petal, drifting it in lazy circles on the water's surface, unaware.

He came to a full stop then, and simply stared. Servants did not wear silk like that. Servants did not sit with such careless elegance beside an imperial fountain. Curiosity and something a bit more irritated pricked him. He stepped forward, sandals ringing on the stone path, until he stood only a few paces away.

“You there,” he said, voice low and edged with command. “By whose leave do you wear such finery, servant?”

You had turned at the sound of him calling out, but in hopes he meant another. The movement was slow, unhurried. Yet, when your gaze lifted to meet his, the full force of the golden hour struck him like a blow.

The light framed you in a radiant corona, gilding the curve of your cheek, the line of your throat, the dark sweep of kohl that made your eyes seem sharp and impossibly vivid.

They were like that of deep pools under sunlight—electric. Just alive, and utterly unafraid of his presence. The sheer silk clung and shifted with your breath, revealing the elegant architecture of collarbone, shoulder, and the subtle rise of your breasts beneath the fabric.

Yet there was nothing vulgar in it; the dress was simple, almost severe in its purity, and that restraint only sharpened its effect. Geta forgot to breathe for but a moment too long.

He had seen beauty before no doubt. Polished, way too over calculated, offered up by ambitious families and trembling princesses. He had rejected them all. But this . . . this was different.

You were no statue carved for display; you were alive, breathing, seated on imperial marble as though it belonged to you. The white silk against your skin, the glints of gold in your hair and at your waist, the way the light worshipped you.

It struck some buried chord in him. Gold had always been his weakness, the color of triumph and their symbol, of blood craved in torchlight, of coin and crown.

It was simply him and his brother expressing the irregular looks they had, to contrast their ghastly yet oddly captivating beauty. But this here, white with gold was something he favored deeply. and it truly beheld you.

You rose smoothly to your feet, the stola whispering around your ankles again. The movement pulled the silk taut across your form for one devastating instant, and Geta’s mouth went dry, then flooded with sudden, unwelcome want. He swallowed once, hard.

He wore his own opulence like armor, crimson wool shot through with thick gold thread, heavy rings on his fingers, a torque of twisted metal at his throat.

He and Caracalla had always favored excess, the better to shock and dazzle, to mask whatever lay beneath. Yet here you stood in luminous restraint without trying, and it humbled every vibrant excess he had ever donned.

For the first time in years, Geta felt something stir that was not anger, not calculation, nor something out of boredom. He felt wonder. You said nothing at first, only regarded him with those steady, luminous eyes. The petal still floating like a boar adrift on the water beside you.

While in that suspended moment, with nothing but flowing water and the sound of your beating heart, the Emperor Geta, who had refused every daughter of Rome, found himself utterly, irrevocably captivated by a girl who had never asked to be seen.

“I am no servant,” you said, voice calm despite the sudden knot in your chest.

The words cut between you, sharp enough to snap him from his trance. You stood taller upon eye contact, refusing to cower under that intense gaze, though your heart almost hammered out of your chest.

He blinked once, twice, as if emerging from a dream. His brow furrowed deeply, carving lines of confusion across his chiseled features.

“Then who are you?” he demanded, intrigued yet bewildered. “One of the magistrate’s daughters, perhaps? Come to curry favor in my gardens?”

You hesitated, lips parting but no sound escaping. His presence was overwhelming, like a beast contained in human form, radiating heat and authority that pressed against you like a midday sun.

The golden light still framed him while he directly faced the rising sun. Catching the intricate embroidery on his tunic, but it was his eyes that held you just the same. Dark, piercing pools of golden brown, that stirred something within, you couldn’t name.

He stepped closer, closing the distance until only a breath separated you. The scent of him enveloped you, rich honeyed wine mingled with sharp citrus oils, underlaid by the faint musk of sweat from whatever fury had driven him here. It was intoxicating, heady, and entirely too intimate for a stranger.

“Answer me,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a low rumble that vibrated through the space between you.

There was no mistaking the imperial edge to it, the expectation of instant obedience.

“I’m not,” you replied, the words clipped with a hint of defiance.

You lifted your chin, meeting his stare head-on, even as your fingers twisted nervously in the folds of your stola. Who was this man to interrogate you like a criminal? Dressed in finery, yes, but the palace was full of arrogant courtiers it seemed.

He tilted his head, a slow smile curling at the corners of his mouth, not kind, but predatory, and amused. “Not a servant, not a magistrate’s whelp. Then why are you here, in my court garden?”

He emphasized the word my, letting it hang like a boast, his chest puffing slightly as he gestured expansively to the marble and roses around you.

“By what authority do you wander these paths, plucking flowers like some woodland nymph? Do you know whose ground you tread upon, girl? This is the heart of Rome—my Rome.”

His tone was teasing now, laced with that boastful authority, as if he delighted in wielding it like a toy. He circled you slowly, sandals scraping softly on the stone, his cloak brushing the edge of the fountain.

The movement forced you to turn, keeping him in sight, and you felt the heat of his gaze tracing the lines of your silk-clad form. It felt like being back on the farm, as a sheep while a rabid wolf stalked you like prey.

It was infuriating. His arrogance, his assumption that you should quiver before him. Your temper flared, a hidden trait made up from the fields where you’d argued with brothers and bartered with traders.

“And who are you to question me like this?” you shot back, a slight edge creeping into your voice even if you were playing a dangerous game. “Some lordling playing at power? The gardens are open to those waiting on the emperors’ presence. Or have I missed a sign barring simple folk from the fountains?”

He froze mid-step, eyes widening for a fraction of a second before narrowing in delight at you not knowing him. A low chuckle escaped him, rich with unexpected and it sent a shiver down your spine.

He liked it. The bite in your words, the refusal to bend and the odd pleasure of knowing that you knew not who he was. It thrilled him, oh yes, you could see it in the way his posture shifted, from interrogator to hunter savoring the chase.

“Oh, you have fire. I am amused,” he murmured, stepping closer again, so near now that you could see the faint stubble shadowing his jaw, the pulse beating at his throat.

“Most women brought here simper and bow, ready to give me pleasure. But you . . . you snap like a wild thing, don’t you? Tell me, does that tongue of yours ever command still? Or does it work like that at all hours?”

A new tension filled the air between you, charged with something electric and shuttering. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes, and you felt a heat rise to your core and bloom throughout your body.

Yet you held your ground, refusing to look away. “It stills when I want it to,” you retorted, though your voice softened just a touch, laced with the growing awareness of how close he stood.

The golden hour’s light played across his face, highlighting the sharp angles, his full mouth curved in that maddening smile, and then you finally notice.

Perched atop his gold curls, half-hidden by the play of shadows that blended so well until now sat a circlet of hammered gold to match, wrought with laurel leaves and imperial eagles. A crown. Not the ostentatious wreath of a festival, but the subtle, undeniable mark of absolute power.

Your breath caught at the realization. One of the two emperors, twins, in fact. Geta and Caracalla, rulers of Rome. He was one of them. You couldn’t tell which brother he was, given the whispers of their temperament of being so, volatile, brilliant, and cruel when crossed.

Your attitude faltered, the realization crashing over you like the fountain’s cascade. You had bitten back at an emperor. He noticed the shift immediately, the widening of your eyes, the subtle retreat in your stance. That predatory smile widened, but there was no malice in it now, only a deeper intrigue, and a spark of genuine pleasure.

“Ah,” he said softly, reaching out to trace his fingers along your jaw, his fingers lingering just a moment too long against your skin.

The touch felt electric and hot, sending a jolt through you. “Now you see. Emperor Geta, here to serve—or rather, you at mine.”

You swallowed hard, the attitude draining away into a mix of awe and lingering defiance. But even as you dipped your head in a belated show of respect, your eyes flicked up to meet his again.

“Forgive me, Emperor Geta,” you murmured, though there was still a hint of challenge in the words. “I didn’t know.”

He laughed outright then, a genuine sound that echoed off the stone corners. It was rather warm and disarming. “Hm, I prefer the fire.”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, breath warm against your ear and neck. “It makes the chase so much more . . . thrilling.”

The tension coiled tighter, a palpable heat building in the scant space between you. His hand dropped to your arm, fingers tracing the golden armlet lightly, possessively.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you felt a strange pull toward him, this man who ruled the world, yet looked at you as though you were the only thing in it worth conquering.

“But tell me truly now,” he continued, his tone gentler, though the tease lingered. “You are one of the daughters sent from the farther provinces, are you not?” He gestured vaguely toward the palace wings. “You’ve strayed farther than allowed, haven’t you? The attendants will be searching.”

You nodded slowly, finding your voice again. “I am. From the hills beyond the Tiber. They brought me . . . for you, or your brother. To choose from.”

His expression shifted into that of anger then at the mention of his brother getting you instead of him. It also surprised him to know you weren’t a high-born considering your raw beauty.

Surprise, followed by a slow, satisfied gleam. “For me,” he echoed, as if tasting the words.

He stepped back slightly, but not far, his hand still on your arm. “Then perhaps the gods have smiled today. Come, walk with me. These gardens are vast, and I would hear more of this fire from the provinces.”

You hesitated only a moment, the weight of his crown and his touch warring with the girl you’d been two weeks ago. But there was no refusing an emperor and, if you were honest, looking at him you had no desire to. The thrill mirrored his own, a dangerous, unknown wanting igniting in your chest.

As you fell into step beside him, the golden light fading into blue, the palace gardens seemed suddenly smaller, more intimate with you two. The whisk of your silk, his divine robes and footsteps mingled with the fountain’s song, and the air hummed with the city noise again.

Deeper into the peristyle he led you, asking you many questions to which you answer honestly. Past alcoves where statues of forgotten gods watched with marble eyes.

You had both lingered in the garden far longer than either of you realized. The conversation stretching on and lengthening time and space at Getas will.

Hours that slipped away in quiet exchanges, his teasing questions about your ways, your sharp retorts that drew that rare, genuine laugh from him, the way his fingers brushed yours once, twice, until they entwined. You had been simply intriguing, and exotic to him, to the point he wanted to taste it all.

Then the bright day turned into the pale hours of the evening, stars lightly pricking the oculus dome overhead like scattered jewels. His guards found you first in a phalanx of blazing torches and boots pounding the paths in disciplined urgency.

They burst into the peristyle with drawn swords, faces pale with fear of the consequences if the emperor had come to harm. Geta rose smoothly, waving them off with an irritated flick of his hand.

“Stand down,” he commanded, voice calm but edged with steel. “I am unharmed. Escort the lady back to the women’s quarters. Tell the attendants to ask of her no questions. Her whereabouts are my concern alone.”

The soldiers bowed low, one stepping forward to offer you his arm. You glanced at Geta once more; his eyes held yours in the torchlight, dark and unreadable. Then you turned, silk whispering, and followed the escort through the labyrinthine corridors.

Your personal overseer awaited you at the entrance to the quarters, her sharp gaze missed nothing. She took in your shy demeanor, the faint disarray of the gold smeared on your arms, stroked by his thumb.

Her lips curved in a knowing half-smile, but she said nothing, only inclined her head. “You are late,” was all she murmured, and the glint in her eye spoke volumes that she knew.

Two weeks had passed since your secret and accidental meeting with Geta. A full month since the soldiers had dragged you from your father’s doorway. The number of women dwindled steadily, once dozens, now only thirteen remained.

The others had been dismissed in waves. Some with a purse of silver and a carriage home, others with nothing but tear-streaked faces and the sting of rejection.

Geta had seen them one by one in private audiences, and found them overbearing. Whispers circulated that he had grown impatient, cruel in his dismissals, sending some away mid-sentence or even mid-pleasure.

No one knew of your encounter in the garden. You had kept quiet about it, burning the memories quietly beneath your skin, just like he’d hoped. But ever since that evening, your thoughts had circled back to him relentlessly.

In the way his scowl had softened into amusement when you bit back. The way the heat of his breath against the pulse of your neck, and the possessive trace of his fingers along your skin felt so good.

It angered you, how much you longed to see him again, even as guilt twisted in your gut. You did not want this life, never thought about this life, the palace, the silks, the endless waiting.

You wanted the hills, the sheep bleating at dawn, your mother’s hearth. Yet the memory of his gaze—hungry, and so undone, as though you had unraveled something in him, it all had begun to haunt you.

The luxury grated now. Trays of exotic fruits such as pomegranates from Carthage, dates dripping honey, arrived daily, untouched. Jewel boxes spilled open with necklaces of pearls and emeralds; you left them where they fell. The silks felt heavier each day, confining rather than caressing.

You lounged in the tepidarium annex of the women’s baths. A spacious, colonnaded chamber the attendants called the solarium, where the remaining girls gathered in the afternoons to bask in their glow and laughter.

Sunlight poured through high clerestory windows, warming the mosaic floors patterned with nymphs and grapevines. Low couches draped in fine linens lined the walls; servants fanned the air with peacock feathers, stirring the scent of rose oil and incense.

Here, the women reclined, gossiped, practiced their poses and lustful eye contact for the emperor’s gaze. Some laughed too brightly; others stared into the distance, hollow-eyed.

Today, your overseers had summoned you all with new instructions. “The emperor has narrowed his favor,” one announced, voice carrying across the chamber. “Only thirteen remain in consideration for marriage to Emperor Geta. Each of you will now receive a personal task, a demonstration of worth, of suitability as imperial consort. Prepare yourselves. The summons will come soon.”

Instant squeals and murmurs rippled through the room. The others had met him already, in private audiences of the throne room or private chambers, where they had curtsied, smiled, or offered song.

You had not, which came off weird to the rest of the young women. It had also bothered you. And with the realization of still being one that remained, it settled like cold lead in your stomach and bitter on your tongue.

He still kept though, even though he didn't see you like the others. So, what then? Would he choose you now? After all this time? Would he even consider you, his empress. . .Bound to Rome, to him, forever.

Your family would fade into memory if that happened; the farm, the muddy tracks, your brothers’ laughter—all distant. Marriage was expected of women, a duty to leave home for husband and new hearth. But this was no simple union, no, this was elevation to a throne stained with blood.

The twins’ rule had been whispered about even in your distant hills and beyond. You were no fool. Your father and brothers spoke of it in low voices when the wine flowed late.

How Septimius Severus’s sons had inherited an empire forged in war, only to tear it apart with their hatred. They had ruled jointly after their father’s death, dividing the palace itself, each commanding separate courts, separate guards. It was all a mess awaiting a downfall.

The brothers’ shared reign had been marked as devastating in other domains, where they claimed new territory under General Acacius. It caused division, and sudden, shocking violence to a prelude of sole tyranny. But it granted citizenship to all free men only to tax them harder, while their armies grew fat on plunder and terror.

Geta, they said, had been the quieter one. Administrative, less openly cruel. Yet he shared the throne with a monster, and the empire suffered for it. Evil, your father had called them both. Terror in every conquered domain.

You hated that you still wanted him. Hated the way your pulse quickened at the memory of his touch, the citrus-and-honey scent of him, the way his eyes had darkened with raw desire when the sun gilded your skin.

No man had ever looked at you like that. Hungry and completely destroyed, as though you alone could sate something feral in him. Your parents would have been ashamed. Their simple daughter craving the touch of a man whose hands were stained with blood and only met once.

Yet the little game you had played in the garden thrilled you in ways you could not name. His teasing authority, your defiant snaps, the sexual tension that had built until the air itself felt charged enough as it is.

It was new, intoxicating. For once, someone wanted to please you, not the other way around. Desire bubbled beneath your skin, corrupting you, who had always put others first. It began with his gaze, that lustful, glare of hunger and now it spread, a slow fire inside your veins you could neither quench nor ignore.

You reclined on your couch, staring at the mosaic ceiling where Bacchus lounged amid vines, and wondered if the next summons would be yours. Part of you prayed it would not. The greater part, the part that had tasted his attention and craved more, hoped it would.

It was a mental and eventual physical battle between yourself. And in the quiet of the solarium, with the other women whispering of virtues, you felt the corruption take deeper root in its slow, inevitable surrender to wanting something, someone, for yourself for once.

The night was warm and still, the kind of Roman summer darkness that clung to the skin like damp fabric. You had been pulled from sleep without warning, the overseer’s hand firm on your shoulder, a single finger pressed to her lips for silence.

Beside her stood a soldier. His helmet, scarlet cloak and presence alone was command enough. They led you wordlessly through the mixed corridors, past flickering oil lamps that cast long, wavering fingers across the marble.

On the terrace they stopped. Moonlight silvered the balustrade and turned the distant city lights into a faint, scattered constellation far below.

The overseer placed a long, soft scroll into your hands, that was made up of fine goatskin, supple and pale, tied with a simple cord of braided rope.

“Read this,” she said quietly. “Out loud. Here. Until I return for you.” No explanation was given, nor questions permitted.

The soldier took up position at the far end of the terrace, back turned, giving the illusion of privacy as she just vanished into the palace shadows. You settled onto the low, cushioned sofa they had prepared.

Deep indigo cushions piled against the balustrade; a wool throw draped over the arm. The night air carried the faint perfume of jasmine from the gardens below and the distant murmur of the Tiber. You untied the cord, unfurled the scroll, and felt your breath catch.

It was poetry. Not the stiff legal documents or imperial decrees you had half-expected, but elegant verses, flowing script inked in deep black with occasional flourishes of red for emphasis.

You recognized that the hand was careful, deliberate, and the work of a skilled scribe. And you knew the poem almost at once, a pastoral idyll, one you had spoken of fondly to the overseer weeks earlier, in a rare moment when she asked what comforted you in the endless waiting.

Literacy among Roman women, especially those of your station, was rare, almost suspect. Noble matrons might read letters or household accounts, but full fluency in poetry, the ability to parse meter and savor metaphor, belonged to men of high status such as senators, philosophers, and soldiers who quoted Virgil on campaign to steady their nerves.

Your father had taught you in secret, tracing letters in the dust of the barn floor when the brothers were out with the flocks. Later, your eldest brother had slipped you scraps of parchment, proud and amused by your quick mind.

You had devoured what little came your way. Fragments of Catullus, nights of Ovid, and when the loneliness of the hills pressed too close, you had written your own lines in quiet moments, scratching them onto broken pottery shards before hiding them beneath the dirt.

To read aloud now, under the open sky, felt like a small rebellion. You drew a steadying breath and began. The poem told of a boy that was wandering. He was rootless, cast out from the clamor of cities, until he stepped into a wild valley where the world remade itself.

Rivers sang over stones; olive groves whispered in the wind; a single cypress stood towering against the sky. Beauty crept in slowly, not with fanfare but with the patient insistence of dawn to make the boy’s anger soften, his steps slowed, until he knelt in the grass and understood that the earth had been waiting for him all along. Its beauty calling.

Your voice was soft at first, hesitant in the vastness of the night, but it found its rhythm. The words flowed like the waterfall that cascaded into the lower garden before you.

Below with gentleness, and ceaseless to carry you with them, you traced the lines with a fingertip as you read. The goatskin warm from your palm, the ink faintly raised beneath your touch.

You did not see him, but Geta had been there from the beginning. He stood behind the slender column that flanked the waterfall’s source, half-hidden where the spray misted the air and moonlight fractured into rainbows.

His back pressed to the cool marble, head tipped back against the stone, eyes lifted to the wheeling skies above, speckled with bright stars. But he was not watching the sky. He was listening.

Your voice reached him in waves so clear, so unadorned, carrying the faint lilt of the countryside even through the polished Latin. No artifice, shrill in your voice, and no per formative lilt like the court poets who declaimed for coin. Just the quiet certainty of someone who had loved these words long before they were summoned to a palace.

His heartbeat too fast which was a traitor beneath the crimson tunic. He had orchestrated this after your overseer told him everything about you so far.

When he had discovered your love for poetry, it made him think about how soothing your voice would be if you read to him like his mother did.

He chose the exact story you mentioned, having the author write your own personal copy. He had you summoned for this starry midnight, outside his chambers terrace, chosen for its seclusion and its acoustics.

He had wanted to hear you without the weight of his crown between you. Without the posturing, the fear, the temptations that over shadowed his most vulnerable side. He had originally told himself it was curiosity, nothing more. Just a whim.

It was not a whim. He had not stopped thinking of you since the moment he laid eyes on you. You were the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld. Rather, too pure and innocent as he could see for his lustful eyes, this he knew.

He tried pushing it away, the longing to see you again. He had seen the other girls, tried seducing them into his bed, but couldn’t finish the work he had started when all he could see as he closed his eyes were your own. And the feel of skin that was cold and not your soft warmth.

And now, just like you had back in the garden with him, every line you read struck him like a quiet arrow. The boy in the poem could have been him, lost in the blood and ambition of Rome, searching for something the throne could not give.

And there you sat, bathed in moonlight. Looking like a goddess, just like the first time he saw when the sunlight did the same. Simply reading the very story that had once steadied him through nights when Caracalla’s insanity grew closer, when the palace walls felt like a tomb crumbling down on him at any moment.

He closed his eyes, letting your voice wash over him. The waterfall’s murmur wove beneath it, a counterpoint; the night insects added their soft chorus.

You reached the passage where the boy first touches the earth, fingers sinking into soil, feeling the pulse of roots beneath, and Geta’s breath hitched as he imagines it was him but with you.

He had never told anyone this poem was his favorite. Not his mother, not the tutors, not even the brother he had once loved before hatred consumed him. Yet you read it as though you understood.

When you finished the final lines, the boy lying beneath the cypress, at peace, the world no longer enemy but home, you let the scroll rest against your lap. Silence settled, broken only by the water and the distant city hum.

You exhaled, a small, private sound of contentment. Geta stepped from behind the pillar. The movement was deliberate, unhurried. Moonlight caught the gold circlet in his hair, the gleam of the rings on his fingers. He crossed the terrace slowly, sandals silent on the stone, until he stood before you.

You startled, scroll crinkling in your grip, eyes wide. He said nothing at first. Only looked at you, the way he had that first evening in the garden, as though memorizing every line of your face but this time with tears threatening to spill.

“You read it better than I ever could.” His voice was rough, stripped of its usual imperial edge. Vulnerable, almost. The confession hanging between you.

You rose slowly, scroll clutched to your chest like a shield. “You . . . were listening.”

“I arranged it,” he admitted. No boast this time, no teasing authority. Just truth. “I wanted to hear you. Alone. Without the eyes of the court.”

You searched his face, those dark eyes dressed in charcoal, the faint scar at his temple, the tension in his jaw that spoke of battles fought long before you arrived. “Why?”

He stepped closer. The scent of citrus and honey reached you again, warmer now in the night air making your heart flutter. “Because you see things the rest of Rome has forgotten. What I’ve seem to forgotten.” he said softly. “Beauty in the small. Peace in the quiet. I thought . . . perhaps you could remind me what it feels like.”

The words landed heavier than any command he had ever given he thought. And you felt the pull again, that dangerous, corrupting thread of desire, but softer this time, mixed with something of deeper need and recognition.

He reached out, slowly, and brushed a knuckle along the edge of the scroll. “Keep it,” he murmured. “It was made for you. Read it when the hour grows too heavy. And when you do . . . think of me.”

You swallowed. “And if I don’t wish to think of emperors?”

A ghost of his old smile flickered, wry, and boyish. “Then think of the boy in the poem. Lost. Until he found something worth staying for.”

He lingered a moment longer, gaze tracing your lips, your throat, the way moonlight silvered the silk at your shoulders. Then he turned, cloak swirling, and vanished back into the shadows of the palace.

You stood alone on the terrace, scroll warm against your heart, the waterfall singing on. And for the first time since the soldiers came for you, the silence did not feel empty. It felt full. For both the man who ruled an empire yet for the boy who came to you in in vulnerability.

Each night passing had become a quiet ritual of stolen intimacy since. Every evening, as the palace settled into hush, the overseer would appear at your chamber door with another scroll.

Sometimes a familiar work of Virgil or Propertius, sometimes verses no scribe had copied before and random poems without an author's signature.

Eventually, you had come to recognize Geta's hand in the latter. The slight flourish on certain letters, the way the ink pressed harder when emotion overtook his precision.

Those were his own poems, written in the small hours when sleep eluded him. They spoke of a woman seen through sunlight and moonlight, of gold shining over her, of a voice that could quiet the clamor of an empire. Romantic as almost reverent. Nothing like the man Rome feared.

It felt like courtship, though no one would have named it so. For thirteen days you watched the remaining women depart one by one after being summoned to accompany him on inspections of the legions or audiences with senators, processions through the Forum.

Each returned changed, some glowing with favor, others pale with dismissal. You received no such summons. Instead, the gifts arrived in silence.

Scrolls of Catullus left on your pillow by himself, along with a small posy of white roses tucked beneath it, a single almond cake dusted with cinnamon, otherwise known as his favorite, and never shared with another soul.

Once, he came to the women’s court in person. The chamber fell silent as he entered, crimson cloak sweeping the mosaic floor. The others surged forward, curtsying, offering practiced smiles and excited notes.

He acknowledged them with polite nods, a broad imperial smile that never quite reached his eyes. His hands remained clasped behind his back in a formal, distant way, until his gaze found yours across the room.

Then the smile softened, becoming private. A small inclination of his head, a flicker of warmth meant only for you. The other women noticed nothing; you felt the look like his soft touch.

One by one they vanished. Until only you remained. You stood on the high balcony of the women’s quarters that final morning, palms braced on the warm marble rail, staring down at the sprawling city below.

Smoke rose from a thousand hearths; the Tiber gleamed like molten bronze in the dawn. A disbelieving smile curved your lips; you pressed a hand to your mouth to stifle the soft laugh that escaped.

You already knew. He knew. The waiting had been his gift to you, time to choose freely, without the pressure of command. And still he delayed the inevitable, because he was preparing something sweeter.

That evening an attendant came for you again. No scroll this time. She dressed you carefully in a stola of luminous white silk, the same pale shade you had worn the night he first saw you.

It was adorned only with the delicate golden armlet, the thin cord at your waist, the simple fibulae at your shoulders. No heavy jewels, no overdone hairstyle. Just you, as he had first beheld you.

Your heart thundered as she led you through corridors you had never walked through before. You past guards who bowed low without meeting your eyes.

Massive bronze doors loomed ahead, flanked by Praetorians in gleaming lorica segmentata. The attendant brought you to the overseer who paused, squeezed your hand once reassuringly, bowed, then stepped aside.

The doors swung inward.

You froze.

Your family stood in the center of the grand triclinium. Your father, weathered and proud, eyes shining; your mother, hands clasped tight to keep them from trembling.

Your five brothers, scrubbed cleaner than you'd ever seen and awkward in borrowed tunics, grinning like boys caught stealing figs. They looked exactly as you remembered—sun-browned, sturdy, and home.

And among them stood Geta. He wore no crown tonight, only a simple tunic and matching robe of deep purple edged in gold, yet the authority clung to him strongly as ever. When your gaze met his, his expression softened into something loving.

The small smile that threatened to break across his face was the same one he had given you in the garden weeks ago. Your family rushed forward before you could speak.

Arms enveloped you, your mother’s fierce, tear-soaked embrace, your father’s steady grip on your shoulders, your brothers’ laughter and clumsy pats.

“Look at you,” your mother whispered, tracing the silk at your collarbone. “Our beautiful girl.”

Your father’s voice cracked when he said your name. They marveled at the changes, the glow of your skin, the quiet confidence in your stride, yet they still smelled of earth and wool. Which made your stomach drop homesick.

Geta had invited them for a private feast, he explained quietly when the first rush of reunion ebbed. No senators, no spectacle. Only family, and the man who wished to make you his.

The meal passed in a warm blur, platters of roast, nuts, seafood delicacies, fruits and honey, wine from his own personal estates. Geta sat at the head of the table, quiet but attentive, answering your brothers’ hesitant questions about the legions and listening to your father’s stories of the hills with genuine interest of his people.

When Caracalla appeared, it was late. He was imperious, and his presence felt like a heavy wet blanket. He offered curt greetings before retiring early, leaving the room lighter in his absence.

Afterward, as the tables cleared and your family was led to guest chambers prepared for them, Geta rose. He crossed to you without flourish, simply extended his arm. You slipped your hand through it, feeling the steady warmth of him, but also the faint tremor beneath his calm.

He led you back to the peristyle garden where it had all begun. Moonlight silvered the fountain, turned the roses ghostly white. The waterfall sang its endless song.

He was unusually silent as you walked, brow furrowed in thought, jaw tight. The man who commanded anything it seemed, for once, was nervous and uncertain.

“What bothers you?” you asked softly.

He stopped beneath the cypress that overhung the path, turning to face you fully. Moonlight carved sharp planes across his features.

His dark eyes searched yours. As he slowly lifted a hand to cup your cheek, thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone with such gentleness it stole your breath.

“I have fought this,” he said, voice low, rough with emotion. “Every day since that first evening. I told myself it was infatuation, a distraction. I refused the consul’s urgings, sent away every candidate they paraded before me. I thought distance would kill it.” His thumb brushed your lower lip. “It only grew.”

He took your hand in his free one and pressed it to his chest, over the steady, frantic beat beneath the fabric. “You must feel that? It has not rested since I first heard your voice reading in the dark. No—Since the moment I saw you at this fountain where we stand.”

Your own breath caught. His heart raced at a pace that was concerning beneath your palm.

“I’ve fallen in love with you,” he whispered, the confession sounding almost like a wound. A crime. “Completely. Irrevocably. You have undone me, and I find I do not wish to be mended.”

Tears stung your eyes. His brows drew tighter, pain etching lines around his mouth.

“Please,” he said, voice breaking on the word. “End this torment.”

He lifted your hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles slowly, reverently, then each fingertip, lingering as though memorizing the taste of your skin. “Be my wife.”

The plea stunned you. This was no command from an emperor. This was a man stripped bare, offering his heart without armor, terrified you might refuse.

“Be mine,” he murmured again, lips brushing the sensitive skin of your wrist, then your palm. Hot tears escaped him, falling onto your hand one after the other.

You drew your hand back gently. He froze, eyes wide with the certainty of rejection, shoulders bracing for the fall. Instead you reached up, cradled his face between your palms, and kissed him.

Softly as tentative, tasting salt and the faint sweetness of wine. His eyes fluttered closed; a shudder ran through him. Then he answered, arms encircling you, drawing you close until there was no space left between your bodies.

The kiss deepened, with a slow ach, tears mingling on your lips, his hands trembling where they cradled your waist. When you parted just enough to breathe, he searched your face with desperate intensity, as though afraid the moment would vanish.

You shook your head once, a small smile breaking through your own tears, and kissed him again. This time he melted into you, completely, holding you as though you were the only thing he had.

Beneath the watchful gaze of the full moon, in the garden where the golden hour had first brought you both together, you stood wrapped in one another’s arms. Emperor and a simple country girl. Conqueror and a quiet reader of poetry.

The most unlikely of pairs, yet in that suspended heartbeat, the most inevitable. Rome would come to know this love story in time and in forums, sung by poets, carved in marble. And Geta once the cruel would turn and go down as noble and just.