Fear The Rot

fear the rot

synopsis: a short study of geta's death following the death of his child. (782) contents: child death, murder, graphic descriptions of blood and gore, body rotting, some serious separation issues, angst, a whole hell lot of angst, mourning, a/n: the child will come back!! this is not her end, just a character study on how geta would react to his child being killed.

masterlist!!

her body was brought back underneath a sheet. thick, red blood soaks the fabric, the sheet sticking to her body. he cannot bear to peel it back, to see the lifeless eyes of his child peering up at him, to see the traces of terror in her eyes.

outside of palatine, war rages as his brother fights off the rebellion, molding the romans back into shape.

he should be out there, staying tall next to caracalla as they protected their city, their home. yet, as he sits near the rotting body of his child, geta cannot bring himself to stand.

it's been days since her murder, days since his brother had declared war against the rebels, demanding heads to roll.

he can still feel the shock in his veins, pulsing violently as he sits by the body, remembering the way her body rolled off of her chair, chest nearly torn to shreds by knives.

it had been a poorly orchestrated reenactment of julius' caesar's death, yet they succeeded in murdering his child. he had watched as she slipped out of the blood covered chair, knives sticking out of her chest like arrows as he raced towards her.

the rebels who had killed her slit their own throats, their bodies dropping onto the stone floor. they had taken the coward's way out, choosing to shrivel in fear when the consequences had been presented.

he was still in his blood stained toga, the blood from his child had gotten everywhere, somehow finding it's way into his hair.

the blood cracked and flaked on his skin, leaving his skin irritated as he sat across from his child, ignoring the putrid scent permanenting their room.

she had begun to rot, chilled by death. the stiffening of her muscles had passed, her body no longer straining against the sheet. instead, she had begun to bloat. he could see her arms, no longer small, instead red and blue, bloated to twice their original sizes.

he could see where the blood pooled in her body, making her turn nasty shades of blue and red as her blood settled, weighing her body down.

he was unsure of how much time had passed, no longer concerned with external affairs as he lied underneath the blankets of their bed, wallowing in his loss.

there was no light in his life. there was no reason to live without his child. why should he be allowed to live whilst she would never see the light of day once more?

he would never hear his child's laughter once more, he would never be called father again, he would never know the love of a child again.

his eyes drifted reluctantly over to the sheet shrouding his daughter. the image of her, peaceful yet so grotesque in her stillness, haunted him. he wanted to shield himself from the agony of seeing her ravaged form, yet the thought of turning his back on her was worse.

this was his reality now—clinging to the girl who would never again laugh or play, shackled to the incessant memory of her murder.

the bugs have gotten into their room. they buzz around her body, yet geta still cannot bring himself to leave the bed.

everything hurts. he thirsts for water, hungers for food, yet he cannot pull himself out of their bed. why should he be comfortable after his child suffered so?

caracalla stabs him in his own bed the next day.

his brother's nose is twisted up in disgust as the smell of his daughter's rotting body fills the room, skin and muscle beginning to slide off of pale bones.

geta can't even fight against his brother, stubbornly clinging to the bed like a toddler as the sword is stabbed through his chest. he can hear his mother screaming, can feel her hands on his face, begging him to stay alive.

all geta can do is hope that he will be buried alongside his child.

they're cremated together, ashes mixed in a golden urn. a statue is created in their honor, standing tall in the gardens, near the tree his child used to lay under.

rome mourns her more than they mourn him. festivals and celebrations are held in honor of their lives, yet they tend to focus on her life, her youth and her peacefulness.

caracalla has their room cleaned, yet refuses to remove anything, leaving the room untouched. eventually, it is walled off, and their room becomes inaccessible.

within the room, a smaller urn lies on the bed. it is held up by a small stuffed doll, a testament to his child's youth. the urn will stay there until palatine crumbles, as they are together, even in death.

Reblog if you would make a religion out of Lin-Manuel Miranda

bc Lin is def our Lord and savior lmao

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tanger1n3s

4 years ago

My Favorite BNHA Characters

10. Eri

9. Eijiro Kirishima and Fatgum

8. Katsuki Bakugo

7. Inko Midoriya and Rei Todoroki

6.Tomura Shigaraki

5. Overhaul/Kai Chisaki

4. Shota Aizawa

3. Dabi

2.Tamaki Amajiki

1. Shoto Todoroki, Hitoshi Shinso, and Hawks/Keigo Takami

Tags

bnha my hero academia todoroki bakugo shoto dabi hawks aizawa eri bnha dabi fatgum overhaul dabi bnha shota Rei Shinso inko tamamki shiagarki kirishimia

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tanger1n3s

1 year ago

More 1870s Cowboy!Ghost, I saw someone cosplaying his gunslinger skin and lost my mind just a little

Life is quiet here. The sky is wide and blue, the grass is just on the yellow side of green, and the women are as pretty as they are quick with a gun. Well, just the one. Ghost swings off his horse to lead her the rest of the way to the barn.

“Hey, pretty boy!” You call from the back door, “Come have a drink when you finish up.” He’s still not used to the way your smile makes his heart jump. The genuine fondness behind it. Pretty boy. He wouldn’t let anyone else get away with calling him that, just you. You get away with a lot of things.

Most recently it’s been this. A spare drink to drown out the still uncaught bounty. Never mind that he’s hardly trying anymore. There’s hardly time for it with all the work you have him doing. Work he hardly minds when it’s you asking for it. He likes the animals, likes the warm soil of the garden, likes looking over his shoulder to see you going about your own work. Shaking out sheets as you take them off the line or twisting ripe squash from the vine, the way you brush your hand up the back of your neck to wipe away the sheen of sweat, you’re gorgeous. Ghost’s never seen anyone like you.

He takes his time unburdening his horse, putting away tack, checking her stall has food and water. Steeling his nerves. It’s becoming harder and harder to ignore your sweet talk. Eventually he’ll find himself stuck in your honey. Then he can’t say what will happen. Maybe you’ll keep him.

Ghost touches the worn cotton of his mask; thinks of the scars under it, the scars under his skin. Maybe not.

You’re waiting by the back door when he finally makes his way back to the house. You offer a short glass of clear liquor. “You’ll get him tomorrow,” You tell him. Ghost can’t tell if you’re joking or serious. Your usual good humor makes it hard to gauge.

He pushes his mask up to his nose and takes the offered glass, clinking it against yours. You both tip your head backs, let the alcohol slide down your throats. Ghost sniffs, clears his throat against the residual burn. He checks his glass to be sure he got it all, and looks up to catch you staring at him.

“I got something on my face?” He jokes, voice flat as he wipes the wet edge of alcohol off his lip with his thumb.

“No it’s just,” you tilt your head with a smile, “Every time I see you like this I can’t help wanting to kiss you.” Ghost stills, you’re forward but not this forward. “That’s probably silly of me,” your smile falls a little, and he can’t have that. He can’t have you losing hope, losing interest. You’re not supposed to be interested in the first place, but- but he wants you to keep it. Wants you to keep sweet talking him. You can’t give up and let him win. Not when he wants so badly to lose to you.

Ghost grabs you by the collar of your shirt and pulls you to him, leaning down to bring your mouths crashing together. He catches a bit of your smile before you can pucker, a little bit of teeth before he kisses you properly. It's not a perfect first kiss, but it is perfect. You're perfect, so warm and sweet and soft. God you're so soft, how can anyone be this soft? Your lips cushion his and your warmth surrounds him in a way that can't just be physical. You part your lips, draw him in for another kiss and another, a slow slick glide of indulgence. His hand cradles your cheek, and it isn't the last drops of tequila he's savoring when you draw back. Stars, your smile could stop his heart. It nearly does.

Ghost tugs his mask back down over his lips to stop himself from kissing you again. Is he supposed to feel so, so giddy just from kissing someone? He can't push down the smile that bubbles up. Another good reason for the mask.

"I should-" you take a step back, make a noncommittal gesture with your hands. Ghost nods.

"Right, and I should-" he waves towards the barn, both of you smiling like fools for each other.

"Ok," even your voice is soft, so soft. He should kiss you again, he can still feel your lips against his.

"Supper," Ghost tells you, confirms with you. You nod, grip your skirt with giddy fingers.

"Six o'clock," God he wouldn't miss it for the world.

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tanger1n3s

4 years ago

Welp it’s Knockoff Jokers Birthday Today, so here’s an edit I made :P