Megadeth Masterlist౨ৎ

dino @ inkigayo, 231029

Shadows of Loss

Pairing ✦ Qimir x Sith!reader

Tags ✦ angst, character death

Notes: There’s so little fics about him I just had to take it into my own hands

Wordcount ✦ 805

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

The sky above burned with the fires of battle. Explosions lit up the horizon as the clashing forces fought for dominance. Among the chaos, Qimir's red saber cut through the air with lethal precision. He had fought countless battles, faced innumerable foes, but today felt different. Today, the stakes were painfully personal.

You stood by his side, a beacon of defiance amidst the encroaching darkness. Your own saber was a blur of light, defending against the relentless onslaught of enemies. Your eyes met Qimir's across the battlefield, sharing a moment of unspoken understanding and fierce determination.

You had trained, fought, and survived side by side, and over time, your bond had deepened into something more profound, something that transcended the dark side itself.

But fate can be cruel.

A sudden surge of Jedi reinforcements broke through the defensive lines. You were separated from Qimir, forced into a desperate fight for survival. He tried to reach you, but the tide of battle swept him further away.

His heart pounded with fear, a rare emotion for a seasoned warrior like him. He cut down enemy after enemy, each step bringing him closer to you. But as he fought, he saw you surrounded, your movements growing slower, more labored.

"Y/N!" he shouted, his voice drowned out by the cacophony of war. He pushed harder, fueled by desperation. But he was too far, and you were too surrounded.

A lightsaber struck you in the side, and you stumbled. Qimir's breath caught in his throat as he saw you fall to your knees. He unleashed a furious barrage of attacks, breaking through the enemy lines with sheer force of will.

By the time he reached you, you were on the ground, struggling to breathe. He dropped to his knees beside you, cradling you in his arms.

"Stay with me," he begged, his voice trembling. "Please, Y/N, stay with me."

Your eyes fluttered open, and you managed a weak smile. "Qimir...," you whispered, reaching up to touch his face. "I... I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he said, tears streaming down his face. "I’m going to get you out of here. You're going to be fine."

But you both knew the truth. Your breathing was shallow, your body growing colder. "I... love you," you said, your voice barely audible.

"I love you too," Qimir choked out, holding you closer. "More than anything."

You smiled again, a sad, beautiful smile. "Fight... for us," you murmured.

And then, your hand slipped from his face, falling limp. The light in your eyes faded, leaving Qimir alone in the darkness.

He held you close, his heart breaking. The battle raged on around him, but in that moment, all he felt was an unbearable emptiness. He had lost you.

With a final kiss to your forehead, he gently laid you down. Rising to his feet, he ignited his saber once more. The fire in his heart had not dimmed—it had transformed into a burning resolve.

For you, he would fight. For you, he would never give up. They would pay for their cruelty, and the power you had sought together would be achieved.

As he charged back into the fray, he carried your memory with him, a guiding star in the darkest of times. And though the path of the Sith was fraught with pain and loss, he would carve out a legacy in your name, ensuring that your sacrifice would never be forgotten.

Weeks turned into months, and Qimir's reputation grew. The stories of his ferocity in battle spread through the galaxy, a Sith warrior driven by a singular purpose. He became known for his ruthlessness, his strategic brilliance, and an almost palpable sense of sorrow that seemed to fuel his every action.

Yet, every night, when the battles subsided and silence enveloped him, Qimir found himself haunted by memories of you. The dreams were vivid and cruel, replaying the moments you shared, the plans you made, and the future you had envisioned together. Each morning, he awoke more determined, the pain sharpening his resolve.

On the anniversary of your death, Qimir stood on the edge of a cliff overlooking the battlefield where you had fallen. The wind whipped around him, carrying with it the echoes of past battles. He closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him.

"I will honor you," he whispered to the wind. "In every victory, in every moment of triumph, your name will be remembered."

He raised his saber, the crimson blade casting a red glow in the dim light. It was a promise, a vow made to the only person who had ever truly understood him.

And as he descended into the chaos of yet another battle, Qimir fought not just for the dark side, but for the memory of a love lost, and a future that could have been.

Aphrodite of Formula 1

Yn had never imagined working as Toto’s personal assistant would put her in the spotlight. Her days were filled with managing schedules, coordinating meetings, and ensuring the smooth running of the Mercedes team. She loved her job—it was busy yet calm, a perfect balance for her. But what she didn’t realize was how much her presence had captivated the entire Formula 1 paddock.

She was beautiful, yes, but it wasn’t just her looks. Yn was gentle, intelligent, and kindhearted, with an easygoing demeanor that made her magnetic to everyone she met. Her ability to handle pressure while keeping a warm smile never went unnoticed—especially by the drivers.

---

Charles and Alexandra

Charles leaned against the wall of the Mercedes hospitality, watching Yn chat animatedly with Toto. His lips curved into a soft smile as he took in her laughter, the way her eyes sparkled with genuine interest in every conversation.

Alexandra stood nearby, fuming. “I don’t get it,” she muttered under her breath.

“What’s that?” Charles asked, not looking at her.

Alexandra crossed her arms. “What’s so special about her? She’s just… Toto’s assistant.”

Charles finally turned to face her, his smile gone. “Don’t talk about Yn like that.” His tone was sharp, protective.

Alexandra blinked in surprise. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I’m just saying—”

“She’s kind, she’s smart, and she doesn’t need to try. She’s perfect just the way she is. She isnt.tge one.getting jealous about every tiny thing. And to be honest, she is a better person than you will ever be. At least she doesn't use me for fame and my name. She would never be a gold digger and has never done anything to you. You are the one acting fragile and shy, while we both know you are just jealous. Yn has always been a sweetheart to you and i wont let you talk liek that to her.” Charles said firmly.

Alexandra felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She had tried everything to mimic Yn’s effortless grace, from her style to her mannerisms, but it only made her feel more inadequate. The problem was that she didn't have Yn big heart and good soul.

Charles sighed and walked away, disappointed to call her his girlfriend, leaving Alexandra standing there, humiliated. Her cheeks were a deep shade of red. Some people nearby were giving her dirty looks. She glanced back at Yn, who was now walking towards the drivers’ paddock, blissfully unaware of the tension she had caused.

---

Carlos and Rebecca

Rebecca wasn’t blind. She could see the way Carlos’s eyes followed Yn every time she entered the room. He would light up like a kid in a candy store, his usually suave demeanor crumbling into something boyish and endearing. Sometimes, he would even beg his cousin to take a picture of Yn, just so he could see her every day. She was his wallpaper on his phone after all.

“Carlos,” Rebecca said one evening as they sat in their hotel room.

“Hmm?” he murmured distractedly, scrolling through his phone, looking at Yn Instagram. Oh, how he wished to be there right now. He was the one sending her flowers every week, paying her rent, and sending her random gifts.

“You’re in love with Yn, aren’t you?”

Carlos froze, his thumb hovering over the screen. “What? No! I mean… she’s great, but—”

Rebecca laughed softly, cutting him off. “It’s okay. I get it.”

Carlos looked at her, guilt written all over his face. “Rebecca, I—”

She shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t blame you. Yn is… amazing.” Her voice softened as she spoke.

Rebecca’s thoughts drifted for a moment, imagining herself with Yn, walking down an aisle, just the two of them in some intimate, fairy-tale wedding. She could see it in front of her, their beach house in Malibu. They would go shopping every day, she would dress Yn in the finest clothes. She could imagine Yn pregnant, carrying their child. She would kiss her breathless, lead her into their bedroom and...

She snapped back to reality and cleared her throat. “I’m not mad. I just wish…”

“Wish what?” Carlos asked cautiously.

Rebecca didn’t answer. Instead, she turned away, her mind swirling with thoughts of Yn’s gentle smile. Oh, how she wished to finally leave Carlos. She played often with the thought about breaking up with Carlos and running away. Oh, what a beautiful dream, a life without Carlos obsession over Yn, while she obsesses over her.

---

Max and Kelly

Max was leaning against the Red Bull garage, trying—and failing—to look casual as Yn walked by. Kelly noticed the way his entire demeanor changed when Yn was around. It was infuriating.

“Max,” Kelly said sharply.

He tore his gaze away from Yn and looked at Kelly. “What?”

“You’re staring at her again.”

Max frowned. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.” Kelly’s voice was bitter. “You act like she’s the only person in the world when she’s here.”

“She’s nice,” Max said defensively. “And she works hard. What’s wrong with that?”

Kelly scoffed. “You’re obsessed with her. Everyone is.”

Max didn’t deny it. Instead, he looked back towards Yn, who was now chatting with George and Oscar. “It’s not like she’s trying to get anyone’s attention. That’s what makes her… different.”

Better, was what he was thinking. There were so many moments where Max knew Kelly was just using him for his fame and that he could be a father to Penelope. He told everyone the age difference didn't matter, but it did. He felt like he was in a relationship with his own mother.

Kelly’s jealousy bubbled over, but she bit her tongue, knowing any outburst would only make Max more defensive. Oh, how she wanted that little disease called Yn to vanish forever from her life.

---

Oscar and Lily

Oscar was shy by nature, and his crush on Yn only amplified it. He could barely string a sentence together when she was around, his cheeks turning a deep shade of red whenever she smiled at him.

“You should talk to her,” Lily said encouragingly.

Oscar shook his head furiously. “I can’t. What would I even say?”

“Anything! Just be yourself,” Lily said with a laugh. “She’d probably find it adorable.”

Oscar groaned. “Lily, she’s way out of my league.”

“Everyone feels that way about her,” Lily said, rolling her eyes. “But she doesn’t act like it. That’s why everyone loves her. Including me, by the way.”

Oscar’s eyes widened. “Wait, what?”

Lily grinned. “What? I can’t appreciate Yn too?”

---

George and Carmen

Carmen adored Yn like a little sister. She often invited her to lunch, bought her small gifts, and even shared personal stories about her relationship with George.

“She’s like family,” Carmen said one evening as she and George prepared for a gala.

George forced a smile, adjusting his tie in the mirror. “Yeah… family.”

Carmen didn’t notice the wistful look in his eyes or the way he always seemed to find excuses to spend more time with Yn. The way he always had to walk up those stairs behind her, to make sure she didn't trip (and to admire her ass). Or his need to always show her how to do every training workout right (imaging her sweaty skin underneath his rough palm for a different scenario)

“You should invite Yn to the gala,” Carmen suggested. “I think she’d enjoy it.”

George’s heart skipped a beat. “You think so?”

“Of course! I’ll text her now,” Carmen said cheerfully. Oh, how excited she was to see her baby again. Her beautiful innocent angle.

George nodded, hiding the turmoil inside. He loved Carmen deeply, but Yn… Yn had a way of making the world seem brighter.

---

Pierre and Kika

Kika and Pierre didn’t hide their admiration for Yn. They often joked about being in a polyamorous relationship with her, though there was a hint of seriousness in their laughter.

“She’s perfect,” Kika said one evening as they lounged in their hotel room.

Pierre grinned. “I know. But don’t get any ideas—she’s mine.”

Kika raised an eyebrow. “Yours? I don’t think so. If anything, she’d pick me.” Deep down, she wished Yn would pick them over anything.

Pierre laughed, shaking his head. “We’ll see about that.” Hoping, to one day call this woman their wife.

Despite their playful rivalry, they both knew Yn was oblivious to their feelings—and to everyone else’s, for that matter.

They didn't need to talk about the things they imagined doing with her. If it could just be easier.

---

Yn hummed to herself as she sorted through some paperwork in Toto’s office. She loved the quiet moments when she could focus on her tasks, unaware of the chaos she caused outside her bubble.

When Toto walked in, he raised an eyebrow. “You’re always so calm. It’s impressive, considering how much you have to deal with.”

Yn smiled. “I like keeping busy. It makes the day go by faster.”

Toto chuckled. “You’re something else, Yn. Don’t ever change.”

She didn’t notice the knowing look Toto gave her or the way the drivers seemed to hover outside the door, hoping for a chance to talk to her. To Yn, it was just another day at work—a job she genuinely loved, with people she genuinely cared about.

Little did she know, the entire grid worshipped her.

Part 2. Part 3

More than Friends

Summary: can you do a slash imagine where slash hates her and she’s friends with Steven so they see each other a lot and they start becoming friends and then become lovers with some smut.

Requested: yes by anon

Warnings: sex

To say that Slash disliked Y/N was an understatement. Every time she was around him, he had some snide, rude comment about her, and she never understood why. There was nothing that she could think of to bring on his wrath and to have it all directed towards her.

And in all honesty, she would rather not hang out with him, but her best friend was friends with him too. Y/N couldn’t say no to Steven sometimes, so she tried her best to just play nice with Saul and act as if his comments didn’t affect her like it did.

She sat in the living room that Steven and his band shared in their apartment. It was kind of small, but it was all that they could afford at the moment. Plus, she wasn’t judging. She lived in an even tinier apartment and could barely afford it all on her own.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Saul asked, annoyance ringing in his voice.

“Steven invited me over, okay?” she replied. “I don’t know why you are so annoyed by the fact that my friend wants to me over.”

Saul hugged and sat down on the couch. “Oh, come on! You just want in his pants because he is in a band,” he retorted.

“You know I went to high school with you too. And I was friends with him then. And what I don’t get is that you have always treated me like I’m some chick out to get you,” she argued. “I have never been anything but nice to you, and yet I’m beneath you for some reason!”

Saul looked at her as if trying to measure his reaction. “That wasn’t nice,” he pointed out.

“Well, get over it. After all these years, I feel like I have the right to chew you out over the shit that you have done to me,” Y/N shot back.

Saul started to laugh, and when she glared at him, he said, “Look, I’m not laughing at you. I’m just laughing because you’re cute when you’re mad.”

“Shut up!” Y/N yelled.

***

After that day, Saul actually started to be nicer. Well, to an extent. He would still have his smartass responses, but Y/N had grown used to it and learned that it was just a quirk about him. What was odd was when they started to hang out without Steven around. They would be around each other more and more often and not have anyone else around.

She smiled as she sat down next to Saul as they absently watched TV. There wasn’t anything good on, but it was a rainy day and everyone else was out working at their own jobs.

“You know I still want to know why you were so mean to me,” she said.

“Uh, to be honest, I didn’t want to like the girl that was hanging around Steven,” Saul said.

“Wait! You liked me?” Y/N asked, shocked.

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to piss him off,” he replied.

Y/n looked at him and rolled her eyes. “So you decided to piss me off instead,” she pointed out.

It was kind of a shock to her that he was admitting this to her. There had always been an attraction to him on her part since knowing him, but she had never acted on those feelings because of how he was.

Saul laughed. “Well, I didn’t know what else to do,” he said.

“You could have just told me how you felt.” Y/N looked over at him, wondering if he was going to act out on them now. Or if he had changed his mind about her.

“Oh, and what would that have gotten me?” Saul asked her.

Y/N looked at him and decided to say screw it. She leaned into him and brushed her lips against his. “This,” she whispered.

She felt Slash smile as he kissed her back. She moved her hands to his shoulders and held herself against him as he deepened the kiss. His tongue brushed across her top lip. As he grabbed onto her hips, he pulled her into his lap.

Their tongues tangled together as Y/N tugged his shirt off. They were both rubbing against each other and pulled each other’s clothes off which it didn’t take long to have them both naked. Saul moved her around to where she was underneath him on the couch.

“Saul,” she pleaded as he pulled off her panties.

He slid them of her feet and kissed his way back up her body. He gave her a few licks on her center before coming up the rest of the way. They were both so ready with no need for foreplay at that moment.

Saul had himself lined up and pushed into her deeply. They both groaned at the feel of the other, but Saul didn’t hesitate to pick up the pace. Soon he was pounding into her and causing her to get closer and closer to her orgasm.

“Saul, I’m so close,” she whined.

He groaned and pushed harder into her. “Do it, love. Cum on me,” he demanded. “Want to feel you.”

His words were what did it. She felt her orgasm lock onto him as he rode her through it all. She rocked her hips against him, trying to encourage him to orgasm as well. It didn’t take long for her to feel him spurting inside of her.

He collapsed on her, giving her a complete feel of his full weight. She could feel his pounding heart against his chest, and she panted right along with him.

She smiled and rubbed his back a little as they both calmed down.

“So you two are finally friends,” Steven asked from the front door.

Y/N gasped and buried her face in Saul’s curly hair. She felt like she was going to die of embarrassment in that exact moment. Of course, Steven had to walk in right when she was making love with Slash.

“I say we are more than friends,” Saul corrected.

metallicaislife masterlist

I mainly write for Metallica, but there will be dustings of Guns 'N Roses(mainly Slash and Duff as that is who I know best in the band) scenarios too.

✨ = fluff

🌹= smut

😿 = sad/angst

METALLICA

Christmas Decorating - Metallica ✨

Cliff Burton

Thin Lizzy and Mary Jane ✨

First Time 🌹

Afternoon Delight 🌹

My Girl ✨

Save a Horse, Ride a Bassist 🌹

Early Morning Surprise 🌹

Tag Team 🌹

Day Trip ✨

Tight Fit 🌹

Birthday Boy ✨🌹

What Flusters Cliff ✨

Making You Feel Good 🌹

What's Your Fantasy? 🌹

Dreams 🌹

Childhood Friends ✨

Cliff Burton Headcanons ✨

Talk is Just Talk, Right? 🌹

James Hetfield

Daydream 😿🌹

Daydream Pt 2 😿✨

Daydream Pt 3 ✨

Been Hiding in Plain Sight ✨

Impatient 🌹

Let Me Take Care of You 🌹✨

What's Your Fantasy? 🌹

Brothers Best Friend ✨

Brothers Best Friend pt 2 ✨

My Nemesis, James Hetfield ✨

My Nemesis, James Hetfield pt 2 ✨

My Nemesis, James Hetfield pt 2 Bloopers ✨

Hey Jealousy 😿✨

Kirk Hammett

The Exorcist ✨

Long Day ✨

Phone Call Confession ✨

Tag Team 🌹

A Steamy Halloween 🌹

Bad Mood 😿✨

Pushed to Confess 🌹

After the Show 🌹

The Photographer and the Guitarist ✨🌹

The Photographer and the Guitarist pt 2 ✨🌹

Introverted 😿✨

Slow Mornings ✨

The Interview 🌹

Arguments 🌹

Birthday Wishes ✨🌹

I Want to Learn 🌹

I Want to Learn pt 2 🌹

Overworked 😿✨

Meet and Greet 🌹

Kirk w/ a Clingy gf Headcanon ✨

Embarrassment Leads to… 🌹

Kirk Hammett Headcanons ✨

A Steamy Halloween pt 2 🌹

Lars Ulrich

The Spank Bank Incident ✨

Being Lars Girl Best Friend Headcanon ✨

Dating Lars Headcanons ✨

Jason Newsted

nothing yet

Rob Trujillo

Dating Current!Rob Trujillo Headcanons ✨

News ✨

Lazy Day In ✨

New Sensations 🌹

Dave Mustaine

Talk is Just Talk, Right? 🌹

GUNS 'N ROSES

Christmas Decorating - Guns N Roses ✨

Duff McKagan

Coconut Tequila ✨

Award Show ✨

Slash

The Unintentional Heartbreaker ✨(mentions spicy but not explicit)

Unwell ✨

ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ʙʏ ᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅ | emperor geta

pairing: emperor geta x fem!reader

summary: the fates spin the thread of destiny, and mortals have no choice but to follow its path. you have other plans.

➺‘the fates, who give men at their birth both evil and good to have, and they pursue the transgressions of men and gods… until they punish the sinner with a sore penalty’ - theogony, hesiod ➺‘whatever happens to you has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time’ - marcus aurelius

A/N: i watched gladiator ii, devoured all the geta fics i could find (ty writers for feeding me <3) and i’m still ravenous. the man is gnawing at me from my insides so i had no choice but to get typing. haven’t written for like a yr so bear with me. if this flops it never happened xx

warnings: mention of miscarriage (not reader's), period-typical misogyny, morally ambiguous reader bc she’s fighting for her life out here. she’s just a girl fr :( YOU try being a girlie in ancient rome :/ enjoy !!

w/c: 5.9k

latin translations: fatum - fate, carissima - dear, domina - my lady

As the moon ascends in wake of the sun’s descent, the gilded walls of the imperial palace glint softly in the moonlight. Glorious tapestries line these walls, each one telling the tale of hallowed heroes, of terrible tyrants and of revered rulers. The history of the Roman Empire.

Their patterns, depicting stories of both rise and ruin, are woven by none other than the three Fates. One Fate spins the thread, and an heir is born. Another Fate weaves it, and a battle is won. The last Fate cuts, and an emperor meets his end.

As three pairs of hands work nimbly in the heavens, another tapestry begets itself in the mortal realm, where our story takes place.

From a tender age, you had been taught to believe in fate.

Fatum.

You had first learnt the word as a little one.

You’d been a curious creature, like most children are. Sheltered from the terrors of the world, your appetite for life was insatiable. You’d wake up with a hunger for new knowledge about the world around you, and go to bed still hungry for more, no matter what had transpired during the day. Thus, you found it impossible to go to sleep of your own accord - you relied on your mother’s bedtime stories to satisfy your appetite, and lull you into slumber.

Perched by your bedside with a gentle hand stroking your hair, she regaled you with the tale of Rome’s beginnings. A tale of abandonment, wolf-mothers and fratricide. Enough thrill to tire you out, she hoped. To her chagrin, she looked down to find widened eyes, without a trace of sleep in them, staring up at her expectantly. Instead, your eyes shone bright with the excitement of unanswered questions.

She sighed fondly before prompting you to talk. “Yes, carissima?”

And so the floodgates opened. You fired her with questions with all the sternness of a Roman general, and she listened intently with all the patience of a loving mother.

Why did the king try to kill the babies? Why didn’t the wolf eat the babies?

And finally, taking great care to be gentle, you placed a tiny hand on her rounded belly and asked the most burning question. Why did Romulus kill his brother? Your innocent mind struggled to comprehend it. You hadn’t even met your little sibling yet, and you already couldn’t fathom the idea of bringing harm to him. Or her, you thought, but your father had insisted that all refer to the babe as the male heir he so desperately desired it to be.

“Fatum,” was the simple answer she supplied. “Without the king’s cruelty, without the wolf’s mercy, without Remus’ death, our great city would never have been built.”

Eyes shining with knowledge yet untold, her gaze held yours. “Whatever happens to you, has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time,” she quoted, a tone of finality in her voice.

As well-loved children do, you’d lapped up your mother’s answer as readily as the twin babes lapped the wolf’s milk.

You had first witnessed fatum some years later, at the age of twelve.

On the brink of adolescence, much about you had changed compared to the little girl having bedtime stories told to her. Much except one. Age hadn’t quelled your curiosity - if anything, it had grown.

You’d exhausted all the resources available to a girl of your standing. You’d read enough philosophical texts to debate with Aristotle himself, asked questions faster than your tutors could find answers and yet, you knew there was much more that the world had to offer. So, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

With age had also come a newfound deviance. Observant as you were, you’d learned that there was much to be gained with certain types of information - if you knew how to use it to your advantage.

As such, you’d taken to eavesdropping on your father’s meetings with his fellow senators from behind a pillar. For weeks on end, they had spoken of a play becoming popular amongst patricians and plebeians alike. Oedipus.

At the centre of their discussion was a ploy to ban the play from being performed. Abhorrent, they had called it. A threat to their authority, if the people are led to believe that even kings are subject to a thing as fickle as fate. At that statement, your eyes twinkled with mischief and a devious smile found its way to your face - you were determined to see this for yourself.

So, on the fateful night you caught your older cousin in the arms of a man bearing no resemblance to her betrothed, you knew you’d struck gold.

Desperate to protect her reputation and far too embarrassed to berate you for sleuthing around when you should have been asleep, she’d hastily agreed to the terms of your silence. She would sneak you into the city’s amphitheatre to watch the next production of Oedipus, if you swore to secrecy.

And so your plan commenced. Hidden under the large folds of her toga, you observed the story unfolding before you. The mighty king of Thebes brought to his knees by the tragic fate he’d tried to escape, to no avail.

A real spectacle, the performance elicited emotions from you that were both old and new. In a short two hours you’d been perplexed, horrified, scandalised. You’d learned quickly why you had to be sneaked in - fate wasn’t the only mature theme you were educated on that night.

But you only came to understand fatum when it took the person dearest to you, two summers ago.

Pregnant again, the fifth time that you could remember, your mother had taken ill. Perilously ill. After years of unsuccessful attempts to produce an heir - one daughter, two miscarriages and two stillbirths - she had breathed her last. In her womb? The son your father demanded of her. The son he had longed for. Prayed to the gods for. What else could bring forth such a tragic end, if not the hands of the Fates?

Now a grown woman, the beliefs your mother had impressed upon you would soon be tested. Left with no living sons to continue his legacy and no living wife to bring forth such living sons, your father’s lofty political aspirations could only be fulfilled through his daughter. You.

Your father wasted no time in advancing his plans.

After a long day spent praying at the temple of Pluto, you had been ready to wind down and relax. A good distance away from the centre of the city and situated atop a number of hills, a trip there takes up the whole day. You had set out at dawn, and as the sun set over the Tiber river to bring forth dusk, your shadow darkened the entrance of your family villa.

Exhausted both emotionally and physically, your body went through the motions of preparing yourself for supper, but your mind remained absent - occupied with thoughts of what could have been and what will never be.

After your bath you called for your maid and allowed her to dress you, head still in the clouds. It was only when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the bronze mirror atop your vanity that you noticed something was amiss.

Your eyes squinted as you inspected the image reflected on the polished surface.

“Why have you dressed me in these garments? I wish to wear my usual attire.”

You wore a tunic, the draped garment secured by an ornate brooch resembling an owl, with eyes made of precious gems. Nothing out of the ordinary.

What was out of the ordinary, was the saffron yellow hue of the tunic — since your mother’s passing you had been in mourning and thus only wore dark colours. A fact well-known by your maid, who dressed you day and night.

The hands fastening the brooch falter as she gathers a response.

“My apologies, Domina.” She stepped back, head bowed in deference. “I assumed you would revert to your previous wardrobe, seeing as yesterday marked the end of…” She trailed off meekly, allowing you to fill in the blanks.

The previous day had marked a year since your mother’s passing, and thus the end of the customary mourning period. As such, it would be socially acceptable for you to appear happy and content again, reflected in the abandonment of deep plums and drab greys for sunny yellows and bold blues. You supposed it was not odd for her to assume you desire to don brighter colours.

But upon closer inspection, your suspicion rose again. Detailed with beautiful patterns and made of the smoothest damask money could buy, the tunic was much too elaborate for a simple family dinner in the villa. The last time you wore it was to a relative’s wedding, where your father made a point of telling anyone who would listen just how much it had cost to import the material from China.

You poised yourself to question her further, but the words died on the tip of your tongue when you saw the pleading look she gave you.

“Please, Domina.”

She offered you no further explanation, but the fear in her eyes was explanation enough. She was not doing this of her own accord, but under instruction. And if you knew your father well, under strict instruction.

Whatever plans he had for you, you knew you would have little to no choice in the matter.

Wordlessly, you acquiesced and allowed her to continue. You did not protest when she brushed, braided and pinned your hair into an elaborate updo. You were compliant when she lined your eyes with kohl and blotted your lips with mulberry juice.

Primped and primed like a prized show horse, you dismissed your maid, sat by the window and awaited your fate.

Not long passed before the sound of a male timbre filled the room.

“It appears your outfit is missing something.”

You turned to the direction of the voice to see your father standing in the doorway. Instinctively, you stood to your feet - less as a show of respect and more because you were used to being on guard in his presence.

In his hands he held a translucent, gauzy material, sheer in nature and vibrant in colour, that was all too familiar to you.

Your mother’s favourite veil.

Usually fixed firmly atop her head during special occasions - festivals, birthdays, weddings and the like - you could recognise it from a mile away. Growing up, you had associated this veil with womanhood itself. You would traipse around the corridors of the villa with it wrapped around your head haphazardly, the excess fabric trailing behind you as you ran as fast as your little legs could carry you.

What a foreign sight it was to see it in the hands of your father. And what a foreign sight it was to see him in your chambers.

Following your mother’s passing, the two of you had not conversed beyond what was formally required of you, your already fragile relationship fracturing completely. Yet here he was, extending a peace offering. An olive branch.

Pleased as you were to receive it, you were not foolish enough to believe this to be a genuinely affectionate gesture. A politician through and through, your father was no stranger to symbolic gestures, and he had made no attempts to mend your relationship prior to this moment. This sudden generosity, paired with your extravagant dressing, could only mean one thing.

He wanted something from you.

Now, you had two options. Comply with his request, or comply with his request begrudgingly. You chose the latter, of course. Even if obedience was your only option, you weren’t going to make this easy for him.

You casted him a quick look of derision. “If you wish to barter for my forgiveness with a piece of cloth, I am afraid your efforts have been wasted.”

Unphased, he stepped further into the room.  “Now, now, peace, dear daughter. Let us be civil.” The faux humility in his tone was almost comical.

“Perhaps you feel…wronged by me for holding your mother to a certain standard. But, you must understand that I was simply fulfilling my duties, by encouraging her to fulfil her own. I have particular responsibilities to this family. As do you, now.”

You levelled him with an icy glare, wise enough not to express your discontent verbally, but too headstrong not to express it somehow.

“And even if I have, in some unfathomable way, wronged you; to err is human, to forgive, divine.” 

After knowing him for as long as you did, you knew this was the closest thing to an apology you would get. You also knew your father was a talented orator - it’s how he gained a large enough political following to join the Senate, after all. And so you prepared yourself to be subjected to one of his moving speeches.

“It is common knowledge that women are the weaker sex,” What a great way to start, you snarked to yourself. “Yet, I have always seen a unique strength in you. Not physical strength, of course, but a mental fortitude. Since you were a young girl you have been willful, stubborn,” he took a step closer to you with each word, purple-lined toga brushing the floor as he advanced. 

As he said the last word, he gave you a knowing look. “Nosy.”

You failed to hide your shock. “Oh yes, I saw you slinking around behind the pillars.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It matters not, now. In fact, whatever dregs of information you picked up from eavesdropping on my discussions may soon prove useful.”

His face was a picture of smugness, with an eyebrow cocked and the corners of his mouth upturned as if he knew something you didn’t. With just a few sentences he had complimented you (even if it was backhanded), revealed that he knew your secret, and teased you with a nugget of information. The perfect combination to make you anticipate his next words.

Silence filled the room as he kept you in suspense, mind whirring as you mulled over his cryptic words. 

One hand held your mother’s veil in front of him, while the other caressed its folds delicately. His eyes had a faraway look in them that suggested his mind had travelled to another time.

“Your mother was a strong woman. Not strong enough in the end, regrettably, but strong nonthele-”

“Don’t.” You interjected. “You will not sully her memory with your caustic words.”

His lips spread into a diplomatic smile, but the twitch of his eye betrayed the irritation he felt. Belligerent as he was, he ignored your outburst and continued. 

“Unlike her, you have the makings of a lady of great influence. Much like me, you have the mind for politics. That potential lies latent within you.”

With a gentleness you wished was also reflected in his words, he draped the veil over your head. “I advise you not to waste it, dear daughter, and suffer the fate of lesser women.”

You scoffed at his words, readjusting the veil so it rested perfectly atop your head and shoulders. “And how do you suggest I fulfil this…potential? The Senate is not exactly welcoming of women.”

Well-pleased that your interest had been piqued, he finally reveals his true intentions.

“Accompany me to the imperial banquet tonight. We will celebrate the successful conquest of Britannia.”

“I do not care for banquets, nor do I spare a thought for conquests.”

“You may not care for military conquests, but this banquet itself is a conquest of the political sort. In my experience, much more is won with words, than with swords. And tonight’s event presents an opportunity for much gain.”

Again with the cryptic words.

“Allow me to present you to the Emperors. Your face is comely enough to garner their attention, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, some men find opinionated girls like you to be charming.” 

Is he insinuating what you think he is?, you thought incredulously. Surely not.

“The Senate may not be the place for women, but the Senate is not the only facilitator of politics. Why not practice your politics from Palatine Hill?”

There was no mistaking it. He intended to make an Empress of you. Equally as curious as you were sceptical, you decided to test his logic.

“Beauty is fleeting. Charm wanes with time. How would I maintain their favour?”

“That, dear daughter, is up to you. I am certain you will find a way, formidable as you are.”

While it pained you to admit it, he was right. You and your father were more alike than different, what with your scheming and blackmailing. Besides, you were formidable. You were cunning. You were capable.

There may be greater things in store for you yet.

And those greater things began with this banquet.

Upon arrival, you were met with the most magnificent sight you had ever seen. Sat proudly upon Palatine Hill, the palace looked like the image your mind conjured when picturing Olympus. After ascending the intimidating number of steps that led to the entrance, you truly felt like you’d ascended to the land of the gods. Wherever you looked there was amazing artwork that instilled equal parts awe and fear in you. 

Look up, and there were grand arches to behold. Look to the side, and the spectacular frescoes offered a feast for the eyes. Look down, and there were beautifully designed floor mosaics you almost felt bad for stepping on.

As you passed through into the atrium, it was much the same. Ostentatiously decorated, it boasted gilded walls and glorious tapestries, each feature a testament to the Emperors’ opulence, and Rome’s riches.

But it was impossible to focus fully on the artwork with the room heaving as it was. Eyes darting from one person to another with every passing second,  you were captivated by the spectacle the hoard of partygoers presented. Something seemed to be happening in every square foot of the room, each guest having their fill of whatever their vice of choice was for the night. Wine was in abundance, giving way to loose lips, and scantily-clad whores prowled about in the shadows, giving way to loose purse strings.

You had been to your fair share of lavish affairs, but this was a whole new world of revelry.

Between the loud percussion of the musicians’ instruments, the aroma of the heavily seasoned foods and the leering gazes of overexcited men, you began to feel overstimulated. You stuck close to your father as he led you into the heart of the throng, finding comfort in the familiar when surrounded by the foreign. Better the devil you know.

Oblivious to your discomfort, he reprimands you under his breath. “Stop clinging to me like a child, lest our venture fail before it has even begun.”

You’d been so taken by your surroundings that you hadn’t registered where your father was leading you to. Now you stood in front of the two men at the centre of this affair, who were seated majestically upon a golden threaded couch. You prayed you didn’t look like the bewildered little girl you certainly felt like. 

With a grand, sweeping gesture of his hand, your father bowed. 

“Imperators, what an honour it is to partake in these…wondrous celebrations with your Majesties.”

“Senator,” one of them said, voice smooth like honey but with an edge that demanded caution. His face bore a smile, but his tone was calm and measured. “What a pleasure it is to see you.” The twitch of his eyebrow suggested otherwise. “In a more agreeable mood, might I add.” The man beside him sniggers.

More agreeable? Whatever could that mean? For the second time in one night you found yourself deciphering cryptic words. Father must have angered the Emperors, somehow. 

“And you’ve brought…” He trailed off, looking at your father expectantly.

“Yes, Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla,” with a single clap and an officious clearing of his throat he stepped to the side, no longer obscuring their vision of you. “May I present my daughter…”

You managed to regain your composure, exhibiting a grace only a lady of the upper echelons of society could possess when you sunk into a deep curtsy. Lifting your gaze, you were met with the hair-raising sensation of being observed. Not just observed – scrutinised.  

A pair of eyes, deep brown like rich soil, trailed over your form. The man that addressed your father with contempt - Geta. His brows furrowed as he took the sight of you in. Lined with kohl much like yours, his eyes were smouldering in their examination.

Another pair, red-rimmed and cloudy with the haze of inebriation, were the perfect contrast. The man that sniggered - Caracalla. With irises of a cold blue hue, they would have been intimidating if they belonged to a face other than his, what with his rosy rounded cheeks and seemingly perpetual impish grin. 

Despite their differences, the relation between the men was clear as day. Flaming locks of hair and the gold laurels that circled their heads confirmed their identities. These were the infamous twin tyrants.

But it wasn’t just the weight of their eyes that you felt. Lounging around the couch in various positions and in varying states of undress, was an entourage of courtesans. You did your best to avert your gaze, as theirs bore into you. 

And what a pleasant sight you were. Adorned with ornate jewellery and clad in the finest of silks, you were easily one of the best dressed at the banquet. Before a word had been uttered, your appearance relayed a message – you were a lady of fine stature, more than accustomed to luxury and thus, would be well-suited to palace life.

Well-suited to be Empress.

Not taking any chances, your father decided not to leave anything up for interpretation.

He began listing your virtues as if reading from a handbook - 100 Things to Look For in a Roman Wife. He spoke of your piety, your beauty, your fertility. With every trait of yours that was mentioned, you grew increasingly more irate and keeping the docile smile on your face became increasingly more difficult. 

“...and lest I forget, she is most gifted with the lyre-”

“How quaint.” Caracalla interrupted, a peal of childish laughter bubbling from his lips. “He presents his daughter’s hand as if he is lobbying for a law to be passed!”

Geta scoffed, “Or a conquest to be forfeited.”

At this, Caracalla doubled over in laughter, the overfilled cup of wine in his hand threatening to spill over the rim with every jostle of his frame. Clearly there’s a joke you’re missing here.

There’s a wicked glint in Geta’s eyes that tells you this joke has guile. 

“Three sennights have lapsed since you last stood before us, spewing nonsense about abandoning our pursuit of Britannica.” The vitriol that coated his voice strung a discordant note in the mellifluous tune of his brother’s continuous laughter. “Yet here you stand in your Emperors’ palace,” he gestured at the ongoing frivolities. “Drinking and making merry with spoils from the very war you so vehemently opposed.” 

Ah. It finally clicked. From what you had picked up from your father and his associates’ discussions, you knew that this conquest had long since been under contention among the Senators. The campaign was taking longer than anticipated, and required more reinforcements than expected. The Roman force was fatigued. At home, the starving plebeians of Rome were one famine away from revolting, and without the full support of the army, politicians relied on empty promises to appease their constituents and maintain order. Yet, the Emperors were adamant on expanding Rome’s borders.

For whatever reason, at the last Senate meeting three weeks ago your father had been the unfortunate soul to suggest that the troops should draw back. And now he stood before them at the celebration of the successful conquest, presenting you as a bargaining chip to secure his pardon. Opposing the Emperors was costly, and he decided you were going to pay that price on his behalf.

Geta leaned his head on his hands as he asked, “Tell me, Senator, what makes you think you will triumph this time?”

You watched your father’s reaction with bitter disbelief. For the first time in your life, your silver-tongued father, the man that had landed you this fate, floundered for words.

Fine. If this was the hand dealt to you, so be it. But you were going to do this your way.

“Your Majesties,” At the sound of your sweet voice, Geta’s gaze affixed itself to your face. Instantly, he was beguiled. “If I may…” 

With the slow incline of his head, you were permitted to speak. 

“I know little of war,” you feigned ignorance. “But I do know that defying the odds to bring glory to Rome is no small feat.” Preening at your praise, Geta leaned forward in his seat, a silent encouragement for you to continue. “Rome and her citizens are fortunate to be led by you, Imperators, and I am grateful to be in the presence of such wise rulers.”

His mouth spread into a self-satisfied smirk. “I bask in your praises, my lady. It pleases me to see that someone in your family has a semblance of loyalty to the powers above them” A pointed look was shot at your father. “You see, all those that oppose their Emperors,” His venomous gaze roved over the group of Senators shifting uneasily as they watched this ordeal. “Will soon learn that there is only one way for a man to wield power.” He held up his index finger for emphasis and paused for suspense. “War.”

With all the self-assurance of a man that has never truly been challenged, he stalked towards you.

“What other power can bring a man to his knees and cause him to surrender?”

“I can think of nothing greater than war!” Caracalla piped up from behind him.

“Yes, brother.” Geta held his cup of wine up in agreement. “By no other means can a man wield such power. I am sure my lady agrees?” He offered his right hand, each finger as bejewelled as the next.

The ultimatum he presented you with was clear. Kiss the ring, let all be forgiven and allow this encounter to end pleasantly. Refuse the ring, and…well, don’t refuse the ring.

But compliance was predictable, and would only get you so far. Your beauty and charm had ignited a spark of interest in him, but that wasn’t enough. You needed that spark to burst into a flame.

With swan-like grace you knelt before him and take his hand, smiling inwardly when his eyes followed your descent with rapture. You didn’t miss his quick intake of breath when you halted your movements to look up and meet his eye, lips an inch away from the stunning signet ring.

“Upon second thought,” You tilted your head as if considering his words. “There exists another power great enough to make a man kneel in surrender.” At your bold words, the hand you held tightened around your fingers until he had a firm grip of your hand. “A power so great, even Emperors are not immune.”

Gasps of shock came from the onlookers sober enough to process what they had heard.

“Impertinence!” Caracalla’s cry of protest tore you from the captivity of his brother’s gaze. 

“Forgive my daughter, she oversteps her bounds.” Your father spat the words out and fixed you with a look of warning, a late and unappreciated attempt to de-escalate the night’s proceedings.

With a wave of Geta’s hand, his words were dismissed. For the sake of keeping your resolve, you pretended not to see the Praetorians return their drawn swords to their scabbards.

You returned to the intense stare of brown eyes narrowed in… intrigue? Suspicion? You weren’t sure, but you had his attention. 

“And what power would that be?”

Your gentle smile had him entranced. “The strike of a drum, the strum of a lyre’s strings. Music, my Imperator, holds much power.”

See, while your father was busy waxing lyrical about you, you had been studying Geta closely. As he listened to others speak, his fingers unconsciously tapped the thigh of the courtesan perched on the arm of the couch. But they were not tapping any old rhythm – they tapped to the beat of the percussion in the background. The ring your lips had puckered up to kiss was not embossed with an imprint of Ares, the god of war, but Apollo, god of music. Geta the Emperor championed conflict and violence, but Geta the man held music dear.

Rich eyes twinkled as his laugh rang in your ears. “Ah, yes. Your father mentioned your skill with the lyre. He failed to mention your humour.” He didn’t believe you.

“I assure you, Imperator, my lyre-playing is unparalleled.” You indulged him with a coy smile.

“You believe you would best our most talented musician? That your playing would put your Emperors’ finest to shame?” He challenged your claim.

“Given the chance, I would outplay each of the Nine Muses,” you asserted boldly. You rose to his challenge.

His eyes gleamed with ardour as he regarded your statement with a raised brow. “I await the day I hear you play with baited breath, my lady.”

“It would be my pleasure, my liege.”

Not risking any more excitement, you curtsied and took your father’s arm as he guided you towards the outskirts of the atrium, and away from watching eyes. He wasted no time expressing his displeasure.

“Have you lost your senses, girl? Has some strange plague come over your mind?!” He released an exasperated sigh. “You should have held that tongue of yours.”

 “Oh, and left you there, stammering like a bumbling fool? Father,” you uttered the paternal term without an ounce of familial affection. “You entrusted this ploy into my hands, so leave it there.”

Anger flashed across his face like a clap of thunder. Before he could berate you for your indolence, however, a piercing shriek stole the moment.

You pushed through the crowd to see the commotion, weaving past bodies stilled with shock at whatever it is they were witnessing. When you got to the centre, you were met with a most harrowing display of fraternal discord.

Geta lay sprawled out on the marble floor, the corded muscle of his limbs tensing as he strained to hold back the man towering over him, wielding a dagger above his head. Caracalla. 

At first glance one may have supposed this fray was borne of anger, but with the spittle flying out of gritted teeth that gnashed and snarled like those of some inhuman beast, the incoherent stream of words and the crazed look in his eyes, it was clear that he did not have full agency of his person.

The rumours were true. He was having one of his infamous episodes.

Your eyes darted from Praetorian to Praetorian, waiting for one of them, any of them to take action. Their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, hesitation rooting them to their spots. To raise a hand against Caracalla would be treason, punishable by death. To ignore the distress of Geta would be treason, also punishable by death. They were at an impasse.

The chatter of mingling guests and the ambience of the musicians’ instruments had long since stopped, leaving the grunts of the brothers to take their place. All watched on in stunned silence, revelers turned horrified spectators.

Their scrambling continued. Geta managed to hook a leg around Caracalla’s ankle, toppling him over to join him on the cold marble. Wine cups clanged as they were knocked to the ground, collateral. The cacophony of sound nearly masked the sound of Geta’s desperate plea.

“Break the spell! Break the spell!”

Moved by an impetus you couldn’t explain, you barreled further through the crowd until you reached the musicians’ corner. You grabbed the lyre from the hands of the bard (who was too focused on the ongoing tumult to protest), and started strumming the tune of a nursery rhyme favoured by Roman children both rich and poor. 

Dulcet tones and sweet symphonies echoed through the chamber as you sang of Rome’s rolling hills, of fair maidens awaiting the return of brave soldiers, of the Tiber River’s ebb and flow. Those around you listened intently, enraptured. They stepped aside, clearing a path for you towards the quarreling brothers. You walked forward as you sang, and as you reached the last verse you stood a few feet away from where they squirmed, limbs akimbo. 

From your position you saw the exact moment the muscles in Caracalla’s face relaxed, and his body went limp. He released a weak whimper better-suited to an injured animal than the tyrannical emperor he was rumoured to be. Eyes fixed on you over his brother’s shoulder, he dropped the dagger as if compelled. Tears began to run down his face as he wailed, balling himself up into a foetal position. When they noticed his change in disposition, his entourage took the chance to spirit him away from the room. 

The final note of your song rang out. A beat passed as everyone came to, as if they too were held captive in a trance. Then, a slow, steady clap from one became a roaring applause, your fellow guests lauding your performance as if it had been planned. 

Chest heaving from exertion, Geta used a three-legged (formerly four-legged) stool to pull himself from the floor and adjusted his toga. At the raise of his hand, the clapping stopped. Flopping back to sit on the couch, he gestured for you to come forward. His expression was inscrutable. 

Before you could scrape together an apology, or some sort of explanation, you were utterly disarmed by the grin that spread across his face. 

“My lady,” He huffed between words, still catching his breath. “I stand corrected. It appears your flair with the lyre is equally as bewitching as your looks.”  

Your cheeks heated up at his confession of attraction towards you. “It pleases me that you think of me so, my Emperor.”

“Mmm.” He hummed, dark eyes taking their time to appraise you. “The power to bring a man to his knees can be very dangerous, you know. I believe it would be in the best interest of Rome and her citizens if such power was… managed by the capable hands of their Emperor.”

The chill of deja vu ran down your spine when he extended his hand in your direction. A second invitation to kiss the ring. Most people only get one.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

As your lips made contact with the cold metal of Apollo’s face and you sealed your fate, you closed your eyes and said a silent prayer. When you opened them again, you found eyes the colour of rich soil searching yours. 

He turned the hand that gripped his and pressed a surprisingly sweet kiss to the back of it. His kisses travelled up your arm, growing more and more fervent, the plush of his lips leaving warmth on every spot they pressed against. He used his hold on you to pull you towards him until you were close enough to smell the heady scent of patchouli mixed with the subtle musk of perspiration, and count the freckles on his speckled cheeks, peeking through the layer of makeup. 

His palm ran up and down your arm repeatedly, inching further up each time.

“You will make a home for yourself here, in these palace walls.” Brown eyes gazed into yours, full of a veneration you couldn’t fathom. “And you shall be my little Muse.” 

As if the troubles of your life thus far had not been a sufficient allotment of suffering, the Fates had now tasked you with weathering the twin tempers of the Emperors Geta and Caracalla. And surviving. Gods help you.

A/N: thank you ever so much for reading ! i'm working on part two so let me know if you want me to post it when it's done <3

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated x

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Guns N’ Roses

Main Masterlist

𝕊𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕙

𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕜𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕤: 𝟙

𝕃𝕒𝕥𝕖 ℕ𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕤 - 𝕚𝕞𝕒𝕘𝕚𝕟𝕖

𝔼𝕒𝕣𝕝𝕪 𝕄𝕠𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖 - 𝕚𝕞𝕒𝕘𝕚𝕟𝕖

𝕄𝕚𝕕𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 ℂ𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕤 - 𝕚𝕞𝕒𝕘𝕚𝕟𝕖

ℍ𝕠𝕥 𝕄𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕤 - 𝕚𝕞𝕒𝕘𝕚𝕟𝕖

𝕁𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕠𝕦𝕤𝕪 - 𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕣𝕥 𝕗𝕚𝕔

𝔸𝕤𝕤𝕦𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖 - 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕟𝕤

𝔸𝕩𝕝 ℝ𝕠𝕤𝕖

𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕜𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕤: 𝟙

𝔸𝕤𝕤𝕦𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖 - 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕟𝕤

𝔻𝕦𝕗𝕗 𝕄𝕔𝕂𝕒𝕘𝕒𝕟

𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕜𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕤:

𝕀𝕫𝕫𝕪 𝕊𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕕𝕝𝕚𝕟

𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕜𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕤:

ℂ𝕚𝕘𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕊𝕚𝕝𝕖𝕟𝕥 - 𝕚𝕞𝕒𝕘𝕚𝕟𝕖

𝕊𝕥𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟 𝔸𝕕𝕝𝕖𝕣

𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕜𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕤:

guns and roses masterlist ౨ৎ

౨ৎ all of my gnr fics!

౨ৎ smut= ❦ fluff= 𖤐 angst= 𓉸

slash

𓋹 dating slash would include

𓋹 slash nsfw alphabet

𓋹 slash dating a model would include

𓋹 slash dating the guitarist of a metal band would include

𓋹 slasha (a christmas fic) 𖤐

𓋹 turn the tables ❦

𓋹 merry christmas ❦ 𖤐

𓋹 surrender ❦

𓋹 double trouble (feat. axl) ❦

𓋹 after the spotlight (feat. izzy) 𖤐

𓋹 fantasy (feat. axl) ❦

𓋹 fight night ❦

𓋹 hinting (feat. duff) ❦

𓋹 so responsive ❦ 𓉸

𓋹 you have no idea ❦

𓋹 broken jukebox 𖤐

𓋹 go crazy sweetheart ❦ 𖤐

𓋹 white-hot ❦

𓋹 laws of love 𖤐

𓋹 a little dream 𖤐

𓋹 through the darkness (feat. axl) 𖤐

𓋹 wicked grin (feat. axl) ❦

𓋹 bad night, good love ❦ 𓉸

𓋹 scrutiny (feat. axl) ❦ 𓉸 𖤐

izzy

𓋹 dating izzy stradlin would include

𓋹 izzy stradlin nsfw headcannons

𓋹 izzy stradlin nsfw alphabet

𓋹 izzy stradlin fics (masterlist is way too crowded)

axl

𓋹 dating axl rose would include

𓋹 axl rose dating a victoria's secret model

𓋹 axl rose nsfw alphabet

𓋹 axl rose nsfw headcannons

𓋹 axl rose scent headcannons

𓋹 axl rose and a young girlfriend

𓋹 axl rose fics (masterlist was getting crowded lol)

duff

𓋹 dating duff mckagan would include

𓋹 duff mckagan dating the guitarist of a metal band

𓋹 duff mckagan nsfw alphabet

𓋹 hangout (feat. izzy) ❦ 𖤐 𓉸

𓋹 center stage (feat. izzy) ❦ 𖤐

𓋹 cozy (feat. izzy) 𖤐

𓋹 meet the family 𖤐

𓋹 embarrassing 𓉸 ❦

𓋹 hinting (feat. slash) ❦

𓋹 one more time ❦

𓋹 rough handling (feat. izzy) ❦

𓋹 i can't ❦

𓋹 old friends, new feelings 𖤐

𓋹 silencing (feat. axl) ❦

𓋹 soft spine ❦

steven

𓋹 dating steven adler would include

𓋹 steven adler nsfw alphabet

𓋹 waited 𖤐

𓋹 vegas ❦ 𖤐

𓋹 welled ❦

𓋹 heaven's door ❦ 𖤐 𓉸

richard

𓋹 the sweetest ❦ 𖤐

the whole group

𓋹 dating all the guns n roses members would include

𓋹 behind the curtains ❦

𓋹 part of the band 𖤐

𓋹 appetite for destruction ❦

𓋹 juice box with ice 𓉸 𖤐

𓋹 working with ❦

𓋹 plaything ❦

Emperor Caracalla x Fem!Reader: Hermâs

A/N: The little lad dances once again.

I got this idea from listening to the soundtrack for Spirit. I’m a fucking horse girl at heart.

I also wanted to write about the true “quirky girl” experience. The majority of the time, the quirky girl isn’t beloved by all. In fact, many find her quite annoying.

I wanted to write about a sheltered, immature girl whose main character syndrome fucks her over when she finds someone that can match her delulu. I wanted to write a story where the reader is genuinely as stupid and naive, as well as childish, as the moron twins are.

Sometimes, we need a stupid reader.

Summary: Was this truly happening? Have the gods at last acknowledged your existence as the main character of your childhood narrative?

Warnings: Caracalla being a creep, period accurate misogyny, mentions of marrying off daughters to old men, Geta plotting evil, slight smutty elements

Credits: massive shoutout to @writhingg and @rxqueenotd for beta reading my clown shoes writing, as well as dealing with me screaming about my Shayla.

Dividers by: @strangergraphics-archive

You found yourself groaning awake in your bed the morning after your sojourn in the stables.

Despite the consistent treatments of echinacea salve and rendered animal fat, the large bruise on your thigh still stung and bled through the linens— your father’s new war stallion was not one to be trifled with. Whereas you had intended to capture the hearts of the handsome stable hands by taming the horse, your poor planning and recklessness had almost killed you.

The stallion had been a gift— war spoil— from a distant land far to the east. The animal was a beautiful golden buckskin with singed brown legs and dark mane; for a moment, you mistook him for one of the golden horses that pulled Sol’s chariot across the sky. One could imagine the distinct markings as telling a story of his divine origin.

Perhaps the fiery rays of the sun singed his legs, mane and tail, and maybe the light bleached his hide— just as it tended to wash out the dyed colors of forgotten laundry hanging on a line.

He was beautiful.

So different from the broken ones you had been able to ride bareback as a small child, you naively thought all this poor creature needed to be tamed was a tender hand. Someone who understood his divine origin, and respected him for it. Only heroes in your childhood fairytales could tame such a beast, and you fancied yourself to be of their rank.

Unfortunately, your status as a chosen one was called into question. The animal was still half possessed by the wilds, and the scent of the working mares around him drove him into a lovesick madness. You jumped without thinking onto his back, and the animal had tried everything in his power to throw you. Both of you went down when he reared, and landed on your sides when the horse lost footing in the arena.

Instead of a potential stable hand suitor rushing to your side to help, your father corralled the stallion, and it was Mother Lucilla who appeared with her maid Leta when she heard your cries of agony. Leta scolded you with a clicking of her tongue as she hauled you up, and your mother’s deep contralto barked out as she gave you a verbal lashing.

“What were you thinking?! Moronic child! Preposterous piss-ant! Behaving as though I’ve never taught you sense! You could have broken your neck, you could have been killed! Foolishness!”

While you were carted back to the house in a lectus, you could hear the young stable hands laughing at your idiocy. Doubled over, they slapped at their bare knees and mimicked your cries and moans of pain in high pitched voices. Baiting, ugly, almost sexual sounding cries, they laughed and hooted until chastised back into their duties by your father’s hard gaze.

The old stable master had yet again approached your father, begging Acacius to do something about these repeated infractions.

“General! With all due respect, your daughter is a nuisance, a menace to my animals and to society! The horse may be ruined because of her stupidity.”

“She is only a child…”

“Does she not count nineteen years, General?! She is more than old enough to be wed, certainly old enough to know better. Perhaps it would do her some good to marry a man of advanced age and wisdom, surely he would straighten out her insolence with a sound beating!”

Even though the war horses were your favorite creatures in all the land, never again would you enter your father’s stables. Far too much embarrassment had cowed you, and you feared that if you made just one more misstep with his animals, that this time your father really would punish you rather than make excuses. Acacius had been cross this time, inflexible with your punishment. Under threat of a good thrashing by your mother, you were not to leave the domus, nor were you allowed to breach even the threshold of the atrium for any excuse. Never in your life had you seen your father so angry…

For a moment you were afraid. Afraid that this time, he would listen to the advice of those he trusted, and ship you off to some shriveled old man who would break your spirit.

You stayed put in your bed as your mother and her maid bathed your wounds and stood by as you recovered. When you began to grow restless, your impotent begging for mercy from hateful Mother Lucilla earned you a few moments alone in the hortus.

You loved the hortus. It was a grand design of your late mother’s creation, consisting entirely of things which were either medicinal or able to be used in various dishes. This time of the year it would be awash with a rainbow of perfumed shrubbery; the marigolds and roses would be in bloom with the purple lavender, interspersed liberally with chamomile and pansy, and you could preoccupy yourself with endlessly plucking blossoms to savor the taste. The peppery marigolds and aromatic rose petals were the taste of summer, a comfort whenever you were distressed.

This task could be accomplished alone, leaving you to ruminate on your embarrassment. Settling against a marble bench near the laurel tree, you lay reclined, with legs splayed on either side of the seat as you chewed the petals on a marigold blossom.

There was no one to stop you. Lucilla’s impatience and eye for meticulous detail were soon distracted by matters of the home. With strict instruction to stay put until she came to fetch you, she departed to attend her responsibilities among the servants in preparation for Acacius’s departure. There was food to be purchased and stored beforehand, monetary affairs to settle, as well as a thousand different things to consider for the duration of the General’s campaign. Certainly no time to devote fully to a rambunctious youth who paced the length of the gardens, limping the entire way.

You could hardly imagine it. In a week’s time, your father would be gone for nearly half a year…

The thought was almost frightening and would have put you in your sickbed, had not you already gone to great lengths to harden your heart. This was nothing at all new. Acacius had left often before when you were young, hence why he’d married Lucilla. The marriage was one of mutual benefit: you would have someone to care for you besides your late mother’s selected wet nurse, and Lucilla would have a child of her own to love and raise, a comfor to her heart for the one she’d lost.

You loved Lucilla. But the thought of losing your father, your last biological connection, and being left alone in the world still frightened you. There was always a chance that this would be the one time Acacius wouldn’t come back— and you wished that the emperors would stop sending your father away.

When Acacius left the domus, the mood of the home became sullen. Prayer was ceaselessly carried out in the lararium. Tithes, incense, and blood libations offered to the gods were overseen by your mother, and she could be gone for hours at a time at temple while you stayed behind in your cubiculum.

When at last you tired of eating flowers, you began carelessly scattering blood red rose petals into your mother’s font filled with carp while asking questions of Venus. You were imagining her responses, looking for her answers taking shape in the patterns the petals made in the water, when you heard mad giggling from behind a pillar towards the domus’ portico.

Whipping around, you looked for the source, eyes widening at the unfamiliar sound.

The giggle increased, and you could see wine colored silken damask dart behind a marble column.

What in the name of the gods was that?!

Nymph? Genius loci? One of the marble gods from the lararium— a statuette— come to life to play with you? You weren’t sure, but your heart was racing, breathing staccato as you crept closer to find out.

The scraping of leather sandals against marble could be heard when you approached. Heavy footed and a little clumsy: the perpetrator moved opposite you. You veered to the left, he to the right.

You saw a flash of hair the color of sunset. As well as the smallest glimpse of blue-gray eyes.

Grinning at the game, you decided to go for a feint. The two of you circled the pillar for a time, the high pitched giggling increasing. The giggle drowned out the sound your footsteps made when you doubled back around the pillar, laying hands on the shoulders of the intruder.

“Caught you!” You sing-songed.

He screeched, his ringed hands covering his face, and you both toppled out of the portico into the grass.

“I caught you!” You cried out again, as you leaned down to pull his hands away from his flushed face.

“You did not! Liar! I was hunting you for sport.” Exclaimed the intruder.

“You aren’t supposed to giggle when chasing your quarry.” You smiled, finally yanking his wrists apart and holding them.

“Liar! You lie! No you didn’t!”

You loved the way the man’s face turned rose pink across pock marked cheeks, his aquiline nose scrunching in anger.

“The laughter was a tactoc… um… A tac… it was an idea of my own design to catch you unawares!”

“Fool!” You smiled, keeping his wrists in a secured hold.

Quickly you rolled off of the interloper when he attempted to knee you between your legs, not knowing who he was or what he was doing snooping in the hortus. He must have been some sort of benevolent spirit sent by the gods. Perhaps even one in disguise, for he was certainly dressed in such opulent finery. Wine colored damask silk with golden zardozi embroidery made his toga picta, with gems of all size and color sewn into the fabric. They caught the sunlight, and the pinpricks of color reflected against your skin.

“You look as if the gods laid your gold and jewels across your neck themselves.” You whistled.

The intruder’s movements were feminine, almost demure. So unlike the more burly movements of generals, or the confident strides of the stable hands. As he sat cross legged, the sound made by the cuffs at his wrists clattering against the gems was captivating. Golden discs the size of libum hung from his ears and chimed with his movements as well.

“You dress like a nymph.” He murmured.

Pert, pink lips parted to allow his tongue to lick across, his smile revealing a single shimmering gold incisor. Surely he must be something otherworldly… you’d never seen someone with a golden tooth before.

“Tell me, nymph, have I stumbled into your secret grove?” He asked.

“No.” You were tickled at the insinuation, “I am no nymph. This is my father’s garden.”

“Your father? That’s not so, this is General Acacius’s garden!”

“General Acacius is my father.”

The intruder shook his head in vehement denial.

“Liar! Lady Lucilla counts forty nine years, and I would have known if she had birthed a child!”

“She is not my blood mother. I counted only three years when my father married her.” You responded, flicking off a half chewed petal from your chin.

Although you knew stories of wicked stepmothers, Lucilla had managed to break the molded stereotype. The first time your father left you alone with her, you bawled like an infant. The good lady had not punished you for your insolence, instead she swept you into her arms and showered your forehead with a thousand kisses.

She was a doting mother, your true mother, the one not of womb but of the heart; who held you and cared for you even when you were insolent.

“And your mother allows you to romp wild in your father’s garden?! To dress like a brothel whore, entertaining strange men?”

The stranger let forth a high pitched giggle, one that made you laugh with him. It was easy to feel inadequate, particularly in the face of such opulence and finery as he wore. The privacy of the garden allowed for leniency in your dress. You had wandered out of your cubiculum in a shrunken, thin, faded green stola that gave a clear view of your bandaged thigh and leg. A mismatched pale pink palla was slung carelessly around your shoulders, and you had long since abandoned your worn out calfskin sandals somewhere in the shrubbery.

“No! I dress like this because I should do as I wish in my own domus. And besides, what would a strange man be doing in my father’s garden to begin with?” You asked, “We were not told of visitors coming.”

“Not all visitors have to announce themselves.” He said haughtily, “Certainly not one as important as myself!”

A fist pounded against his chest in an intimidating boom, the sound reminiscent of a drum.

“Important?” You asked, cocking your head to the side, “Are you a messenger of some sort?”

Your nursemaid and her chatterbox daughter often told you stories of such divine messengers. Half asleep with daydreaming, you would sit at your window as your nurse embroidered crisp linens with geometric patterns, telling stories about Mercury— Hermâs she called him, in the language of the Hellenes— and his wily ways of bestowing divine fortunes and boons upon unsuspecting persons.

“Perhaps I am— a god’s messenger— in my divine disguise…!” exclaimed your stranger.

Your eyes were sparkling. Innocent and sweet.

“Truly?” You asked, crawling to him on all fours. Blissfully unaware of the sensuality in such a movement.

“Indeed. I am a bearer, a messenger, sent by Jupiter himself.” He said, his eyes trained lower on your body, “And I come bearing a secret, strictly for the young flower that hides in her father’s garden.”

“What message have you come to give me?” You asked.

“This divine message is for your ear alone.” He said, his voice lowering to a conspirator’s whisper, “Keep it secret, keep it safe. The gods have deemed you worthy of a special gift, but should you spoil the secret, they will take it away and rain down lighting from the west upon your house!”

“How wonderful!” You exclaimed, your excitement masking the fear of the stranger’s thinly veiled curse, “I’ve never had a message of my very own before!”

“Well then, prepare to be blessed, sweet one. For this message is for your ears alone… Come to my knee, let me whisper it to you.”

You sat upon his lap as he beckoned, nodding enthusiastically and sighing, holding both hands to your cheeks. The stranger leaned closer, cupping his hands over your ear as his lips grazed the shell.

“The gods have great plans for you.” He breathed.

A gasp of delight escaped you, enjoying the fact that your mystery messenger was so close. Whispering sweetness into your ear.

“The gods have told me you are to be given everything your heart desires, my beautiful nymph.” He said, “You will be the envy of all: walking marbled halls while draped in damask silks, vibrant jewels, and gossamer. Your name whispered in reverent prayer upon the tongue of the thousands who will see you in the imperator’s box at the colosseum-…”

“How would this be possible?” You interrupted softly, “I’ve never been outside of these walls, let alone in the palace.”

“You dare to question your divine messenger?! Do not underestimate the might of the gods, nymph. They can make anything so.”

He held your chin in his hand, the softness of his fingertips contrasting the tight grip he maintained, as if expecting you to try and get away.

“They can elevate you to a princess— no! To an empress, if they so desire. The gods wish to use you as their instrument, and they desire to give you everything you could ever want. Money, luxury, power, wine, sexual pleasure…”

“And… and how soon would this happen?” You asked softly.

“Very soon, my sweet one. Your time will come on the first day of the month of Juno, matter of fact.”

It felt so impossibly far away. Too far to even consider. But the fact that such an exciting blessing was to be bestowed during the month of weddings eluded you.

You bounced in excitement on his lap, his hands immediately reaching out to hold your hips steady. Hissing at the pain as he pressed your bruise, you attempted to re-adjust yourself when you felt something press against your inner thigh.

“What in the name of the gods is that?! It… it feels as though you’ve a dagger strapped to your leg.” You said, grinding your thigh against the protrusion.

The messenger froze, and his cheeks turned crimson. A large, impish grin spread from ear to ear, catlike, as if he was preparing to steal a morsel.

“Undo the belt at my tunic, and find out what it may be.” He said, breathless, a perverse look in his eye.

With an impatient huff, you almost rent the damask fabric of his robes in two, demanding that your messenger help you…

But the calling of your mother interrupted the overwhelming need to see what he had strapped to his leg.

“Oh…!” You sighed, a puff of breath escaping past your lips, “I have to go. I’m sorry, but thank you! Thank you for bringing me this message! Tell the gods I will accept this blessing and that I am most thankful to them, and to the messenger who told this to me!”

Before the messenger could protest, you quickly kissed both of his cheeks, scrambling to your feet as you ran off towards the house. As you approached your mother, running breathlessly up to her, you noticed something odd. It appeared as though her heart was racing, almost as if Lucilla was agitated

“What is it, mother?” You asked, out of breath.

Servants were darting every which way, making preparations to feed their guests and make the house presentable. Leta— your mother’s servant— was ordering the others to set the domus to rights, and you were shocked when Lucilla glowered at your unkempt visage.

“What have you been doing?!” Lucilla exclaimed, brushing leaves and petals off your stola, “I allowed you to take a walk, not roll in the shrubbery— is this a stain?!”

“What is this fuss mother…?” You attempted, but your words were stopped by Leta turning your head to look at you.

“My lady, shall I clean your daughter and dress her in the damask?” Asked the handmaiden.

“Yes, quickly! Make sure she is presentable.”

“What’s going on?!” You squeaked, both women taking you by an arm and leading you away like a prisoner to your cubiculum.

“We have been… graced, by the presence of the twin imperators—…”

“THE EMPERORS?!”

“Hush! Yes, the imperators, my darling. You will not speak out of turn again. You will smile and say little more than a polite greeting, after which we shall keep you in your cubiculum, and pray to the gods that you are spared from the lechery of men…”

Lucilla gave you no room to fret, nor to protest. She instead lead you away, to dress you in her armor of modest silk layers and a thick palla.

All the while, you could not stop thinking of the messenger’s promises.

Luxury…

Wine…

Sexual pleasure…

Unannounced guests and the multitude of problems they brought with them hardly made an impression upon your mind, not when there were such wonderful boons coming your way. All divinely ordained, draped like a zardozi embroidered sheet over the hidden evils of the machinations at hand.

In your ignorance, you believed in the lies of the powerful. Blindly trusting in your place as the chosen of the gods, and feeling the least bit better than at last, your worthiness was recognized.

“Caracalla, what in the name of the gods are you doing…?”

The stern tone of his brother, Geta, interrupted his moment of thoughtfulness as Caracalla watched his nymph run back to the house. His brother was scheming, his giggling increasing to a fever pitch, and Geta raised an eyebrow as Caracalla pointed to the home.

“Enjoying the touch and warmth of a beautiful nymph.” Caracalla beamed.

“… a nymph…” Geta deadpanned.

“Indeed. Simple and pure, with a supple breast-…”

“There are no nymphs in a general’s garden.”

“There are!” Caracalla argued.

“You are mistaken. For I only saw a pauper run from you. What have I told you of infecting the inferiors of other men’s houses? You will deplete Rome of slaves with your appetites.” Geta groused.

“This one was no slave! She is Lucilla’s daughter.” Caracalla snapped.

“The general and Lucilla have no daughters.” Geta said.

“Oh but they do, brother! Acacius hides this charming rose in his garden, away from the eyes of men.”

“Is not Lucilla past the age of childbearing?”

“His seed must have overcome that obstacle.” Cackled Caracalla, “For he has quite the lovely young spawn. Very innocent, and eager to believe every word from my lips.”

“What schemes do you invent in that empty head of yours…?” Geta asked, although he knew the answer already. He could see Caracalla’s maddened mind already concocting the most convoluted, outrageous ideas; the grey blue of his iris overtaken by dilating black pupils.

“Do not tell me…” Geta grinned wickedly.

“You know me so well.” Caracalla smiled, “It is a simple thing, really. Turning nymphs into empresses…”

Geta laughed out loud at his brother’s plotting.

“And how much would you ask for her?”

“Two million denarii!”

“Charity, brother, charity...” Geta laughed, “Acacius is a general after all, not a nobleman. Keep your dowry request under one hundred thousand denarii, or you shall never have her.”

“Only one hundred thousand?!”

“Yes, brother. To be paid in coin, land, or flesh, in the customary three years time-… Well… No, no. We may extend the dowry installments to five. After all, we are sending him away to fight your campaign in Numidia. He will need some time. You’ll want to wed her and bed her before he leaves as well.”

“I would have preferred the two million…” pouted Caracalla.

“Whatever for? The money is of little consequence. You would only piss away two million on whores, and her father would sooner give her away to someone else. This conquest will be far more simple, exercise your power and will it so. I shall give my blessing as the arrangement is not without benefits.”

When Caracalla’s feverish mind could not connect the dots, Geta prompted him.

“She is Lucilla’s legitimate heir. Marry her daughter, and you secure not only the title, but a closer position to the good lady herself… Slake your thirst for flesh with both this nubile creature’s affections, and with the attentions of her comely mother as well.”