palomahasenteredthechat - Tumblr blog

palomahasenteredthechat · 11 days ago

Text

Stat vindicta potens | emperor geta x reader.

word count | 2.4k

warnings | 18+, NSFW, concubines, demeaning terms, dark themes (dubious consent, violence, blood, mentions of war), porn with too much plot, unbeta'd.

synopsis | When the twin Emperors had entered the room—filled with musicians and dancers and food you had dared not touch—you had stood as rigid as stone. It had been the same visceral feeling as when you had first seen the Romans approach your home: a deep, clawing desire not to be seen.

Except now, you had to be seen. You were part of the spectacle.

gifs found online.

Stat vindicta potens, et adhuc crudelibus ausis respondet poena.

[Vengeance stands powerful, and still punishment answers to cruel deeds]

There had been no pain.

No.

There had been pain—so much that it constricted your lungs and scratched your throat—but not enough time to feel it.

Once, your father had praised the gods for his wealth, a fortune earned through the trade of fine goods; he had adorned you with corals and pearls, a living testament to his success.

Still adorned with the rich jewels he bought, you had walked into Rome wearing a stola stained with his blood.

You had thought an Emperor would choose his gifts himself—or rather, you had never thought about it at all, not until it was you who had been chosen.

It was a strange way to begin a new life: not through the predictable choices of your father, but through the whims of strangers in a far-off land. Your brothers, dead in battle, had been of no use to you as their wealth crumbled and the last of their possessions were taken. General Acacius had claimed what little was left—and he had gifted you to the Emperors.

A token of friendship.

A spoil of war.

Tuis nec parcitur umbris.

[Your shadows are not spared.]

Another servant had dressed you in a woolen tunic and had styled your hair.

You would have to learn how to do it yourself in time, she had warned, but first they had to gauge your worth — after all, there would be no point in teaching anything to a gift that had no use.

"What should I do?" you had asked her.

"Serve wine”.

Dread had filled your loins as soon as you had set your eyes upon the imperial palatium. Shining in the sun, the marble stairs had welcomed you—not like the arms of a mother, but like the open doors of an adorned crypt.

It was then that you had come to understand another truth: General Acacius had been nothing more than a weapon wielded by others. When a sword cuts through your flesh, it’s not the blade you fear, but the pair of hands that guide it.

"How?" you had asked again, but she refused to answer.

Non impune feres: seris venit aspera pœnis retributio.

[You will not bear it unpunished: a harsh retribution for your crimes will come in time.]

When the twin Emperors had entered the room—filled with musicians and dancers and food you had dared not touch—you had stood as rigid as stone. It had been the same visceral feeling as when you had first seen the Romans approach your home: a deep, clawing desire not to be seen.

Except now, you had to be seen. You were part of the spectacle.

You had served wine before—to your father, your brothers and their guests. You had poured before the same kind of deep red wine: but the hands that had to do it now had changed, and the weight of the eyes on you had pressed harder.

You had approached your captors carefully, your gaze lowered in deference—but unseen, as they had sat on their adorned thrones, draped in robes of golds and reds, without sparing you a glance.

At the time, you had not known how to tell them apart; both could have been either Geta or Caracalla, as their names had meant nothing to the terror they equally inspired.

The first you poured wine to had ignored the cup, his attention fixed on the man seated to his left. Once, you might have sneered at the lack of a compliment - now, the gift of being nothing to him had washed over you like fresh air (but still stung like a silent mockery). To the man, it had been as though the wine had fallen into his goblet by the gods’ will alone.

Then, you had moved on to his brother — and instead his gaze had lingered, sharp and unwavering.

"Is there a trick to it?" he had mused, his voice low, almost to himself. You had frozen in place, as still as the statues scattered around the room. For a moment, you had almost believed the Emperor had just asked you how to pour wine — and your gaze had flicked upward, an instinctive mistake.

His face had surprised you: it was not an imposing man who owned you, not a fierce general or a quiet sage — but a rabid dog, sick and weak in his silks. His eyes, red-rimmed and glazed with white, remained unseeing.

"How does one keep something" he had murmured, "when it feels as if it may slip away at any moment?".

But yet again, it had not been you he had been asking. Was it treason to leave an emperor’s question unanswered, when he posed it to the air?

And then, through the suffocating fear, a streak of something darker had twisted in your chest—rage, hot and sudden. You had had men and women alike ingratiating themselves to you, hoping for nought but a smile: and now an ill animal, with his teeth stained in gold and spit and blood, could bite your neck and move on without a thought.

You had measured your words, then. "As the poet says, fortune is like the winds: fickle, but a friend to those who know how to steer."

And if he had truly understood the meaning of your words—that you did not think him a steerer, not a good one—you could have signed your death with feigned servitude.

But the Emperor (Caracalla, as you would learn later) had just blinked and chuckled. Shrill and sharp, it had not been a laugh born of humor, but something else: as if he had found mirth in you speaking at all, not a thought spared to the words you had used.

He had then drunk from his goblet as if nothing had happened—and yet, seated next to him, his brother had heard and not laughed.

Emperor Geta’s gaze had lingered on you: no amusement in his eyes, no warmth.

Fatis pendebis, ficta modestia.

[You will hang by fate, with feigned modesty.]

You once thought an Emperor would choose his gifts himself—and that’s what Geta did with you.

No hope for burning passions, no overwhelming closeness: this time someone thought it fit to have you learn about your role, because a concubine must please more than a servant.

“You’re less talkative than before”.

Emperor Geta lounges on his lectus, cushions surrounding him. In the soft light filtering through the curtains, his ginger curls seem molten gold—a physical extension of his crown, a birthright to power.

Your started your private encounter like you had started the first: not draped in a rough wooden tunic, but still pouring wine into his cup.

You spent more than one night wondering what had caught his attention, and how he must have heard your exchange with his brother: and whether it was the words he understood, or the venom laced in them, the result still has you in his bedchambers.

“I don’t want to spill a drop” you lie.

He observes you pouring his wine as if it were a religious rite. You try not to care: you pour and pour —and by the time the cup is full, you have emptied your head of all the thoughts and the dread that filled you.

“You won’t” he says. It’s endearing, almost like a compliment, but not quite. “Drink with me.”

He’s not asking.

Drinking in front of him (taking a quick gulp that barely registers the taste) feels as much a part of the ritual as the wine he offers: a play to show you what he can give you, should you continue to play his game.

"How does it taste?”. Geta's voice is as soft as a caress: it’s unsettling, how sweet he is choosing to be.

You stare down at the large goblet you just filled with thick, red liquid: wine, herbs, and honey—the kind you would have enjoyed in another life. "It's great."

"Only the best for us" he says—and you know, by instinct alone, that us means him and his brother. The remark almost makes you raise your goblet in a toast, but you fear it might come across as mocking. All the rage that Caracalla ignited in you, Geta suppresses with dread.

He watches you as you pass the goblet back, because he is always watching.

Your eyes, your chest, your hands. You know you barely look like your old self now—before purple silks and face paints and ornati crines. A shiver escapes you: if you had thought of his brother as a rabid dog, you don’t know how to describe the quiet madness behind Geta’s gaze.

A predatory smile twists his lips, the kind that reveals his teeth and narrows his eyes with a hint of delight. You try not to let any old rage show on your face, knowing he would easily pick it up—but every pass of his eyes screams satisfaction.

His head cocks to the side as he regards you. “Your lips are stained" he observes instead.

When he rises from the lectus, his movements are deliberate. Even in the privacy of his own rooms, servants dismissed and gone, he still carries himself as if an audience is present—so much so, you wonder what kind of untold he feels the need to hide in the presence of a concubine.

Emperor Geta pauses before you, and you let him taste the flavor of the wine off your lips. His kiss is almost too sweet—and his command comes next.

“Undress me”.

Someone must have started the task, for he wears only a linen tunic; a servant must have helped him with that, while others lit the incense that now thickens the air in the room. It's an oily smell, suffocating—mixing poorly with whatever herbs had been added to the rich wine.

“As you wish, domine”. The term makes his eyes roll toward the drapes above your heads.

You know some concubines call Caracalla Carus as an endearing term. A bold young man had boasted to you how he called him regina once —going into detail about how much the Emperor liked it, though few had believed him.

You dare not try the same with his twin.

After the tunic falls to the ground with a soft thud, you let Geta guide you to sit on his bed. You let him undo the braids in your hair and take your own tunic off your shoulders; the multitude of bracelets and anklets he had his servants put on you stay on.

He does not turn you to face him when lays you down on the bed, as your own nails dig into your palms and his head bows low into your hair.

You don't say no. You could not say no if you wanted to.

So when your knees are firm on the mattress, and you feel his weight behind you, you take the small liberty of parting your own legs. If he appreciates the gesture, he does not say: with a palm he pushes on your back until your bare chest is touching the linens, his hand sliding slowly back to your hips.

It is not the first time you’ve lain with a man — a stain on your pudicitia that your father would have abhorred, and one that Geta does not even question.

Your sigh is one of relief when you feel him push into you, because this is what you have been waiting for since you had been brought to his bedchambers: not the his little scene with the wine, not his feigned sweetness, not his long stares.

“I suppose that’s all what you wanted” he grunts, his lips caressing your collarbone. His hips trusts into you so hard that the anklets on your legs clash against each other, creating a soft and clinking sound.

Tink-tink-tink. You don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.

The soft kisses he peppers behind your neck are nothing like the way he thrusts into you. As he moves you grip the pillows, the linens, your own arms—whatever you can find to steady yourself.

"This is what you wanted" he continues, his deep breaths coming out fast. “When he gifted you to us”.

Faster, he's going faster. The meaning of his words is not lost on you: that he may have taken your hatred for lust, your insult for a praise. That if Caracalla had shown the same interest he would have left you to him —because you were equally one’s and the other’s.

But Caracalla hadn’t cared for a servant and her poets; and his twin was not one to let a good gift go to waste.

Your thighs squeeze around him —and even if you command yourself not to say a word, it’s like the small yes escapes on its own. Let him believe whatever he wants; let him give you thought and purpose, as long as he keeps moving.

He growls his approval — and then he throws himself to the pillows that had been your anchor up until that moment, and pulls you on top of him.

At this angle and lighting, he looks divine.

Everything about him turns to gold under the sunlight: it serves to remind you of what he is, and what his people allow him to do. You loathe how much you admire the view as you sink down onto him, cataloging all the ways the muscles in his face shift when he is lost in pleasure.

“You were such a good gift to us”.

Your skin crawls at the praise and you push up on his chest, bringing your hips down quicker and quicker ad quicker.

The lingering presence of Caracalla in the rooms — even if only through the us Geta keeps referring to—ignites you, and you are furious once again. The heat of it washes over your naked skin, waking you up from your subservient slumber.

You feel Geta twitch within you as you slam into his hips one final time, his fingers sinking deep into your hips. You cherish that feeling: it’s sobering, for it means tomorrow you will still be alive—not as a servant but something more, the future the three Fates have woven for you clearer and clearer.

As he comes and grunts, your thoughts wander.

Geta on his knees, his throat slit. Blood gushing from him, as dark as the wine he had you taste.

Geta scared: you over him, not as an object of pleasure, but as the extension of Nemesis herself.

Geta powerless.

Geta defeated.

Geta enslaved—and it’s with that last thought, with that image, that you come.

Quis dabit exitio tantos, scelerate, triumphos?

[Who will give such triumphs for your destruction, wicked one?]

395 notes · View notes

palomahasenteredthechat · 11 days ago

Text

This was exceptional. Dark, twisted, and hot.

title: improbe amor

marcus acacius/publius septimus geta

rating: M

words: +5000k

summary: the night acacius is imprisoned for treason, he conceives a desperate plan that might save lucilla and himself.

“If you are speaking the truth, then tell me, why would you endanger your life and your position for your wife’s former lover’s son? He means nothing to you and provides no political advantage.”

“He means something to Lucilla…”

“Do you… love her that much, then?”

#emperor geta #general acacius #gladiator II #geta smut #acacius smut

20 notes · View notes

palomahasenteredthechat · 12 days ago

Text

#mood

3 notes · View notes

palomahasenteredthechat · 13 days ago

Text

mutual aid los angeles (MALA) has put together a spreadsheet with valuable resources for people affected by the ongoing los angeles wildfires and wind storm. the sheet is constantly being updated with resources such as shelter info, animal boarding info, addresses for distribution centers, volunteer opportunities and so much more.

please share this spreadsheet widely

#la fires

21K notes · View notes

palomahasenteredthechat · 14 days ago

Text

#life in hell

6 notes · View notes

palomahasenteredthechat · 15 days ago

Text

Be safe, Los Angeles.

#its truly awful #fire #devil winds #get a go bag #charge your phone

10 notes · View notes

palomahasenteredthechat · 15 days ago

Text

Interesting.

Hi, my freeranged and appropriately enriched audience. I need to talk about something real big bad and I think I've already ended all of my friendships for this reason, so I'm doing it here instead.

This scene? After Colosseum?

There's so many things going on in this scene, and for the love of everything that is holy, in order to talk about any of it, I've clipped Macrinus out of the picture because he doesn't exist.

I'll start with the fact that, while these two are described as somewhat pathologically paranoid, this is the first day we see them living through that gives them significant reason to be worried. Most days, they seem to coast by being both terminally naïve and endlessly isolationist in terms of their company, focusing solely on each other and themselves, particularly their hedonistic pursuits, while assuming that everybody they surround themselves with loves them, for whatever reason. Everything is going great for them as far as they're perceiving it. They don't know the audiences are not cheering for them - they take every cheer as if it was aimed at them. Presenting Acacius at the Colosseum for the first day of the games? They receive no applause beyond what the audience is already dishing out upon their introductions. But producing Marcus Acacius has the audience heated, and these two somehow think that's for them. They're idiots. Morons. They're so stuck in their own delusions of grandeur that yes, while they do recognise they're in Rome and Roman emperors have a terrible tendency to catch a blade, they don't seem to be actually living that reality at all.

What we know from the script is, however, that they have never truly known stability or safety: his whole life, Geta has been shielding Caracalla from their father's explosive anger. Caracalla, presumably, has witnessed this if nothing else, though I'm curious about that golden tooth within this context. I'm sure he's caught some inbetween there, too, because Geta can only afford so much shield from a grown man. And they've never had any protection from any of that. Nobody would stand up to an emperor to protect a prince; they were his rightful property. He could do with his boys whatever he pleased, and Geta's sole duty has been, it seems, not to survive, but ensure that his brother does. His pain has never mattered. His rights, needs, wants, wishes have never mattered. Caracalla's have.

I'm sure they used to be at each other's throats like the wolf pups that they are when they were younger. But what you can see with them in their early adulthood is that this is something that does not apply anymore. They'll hurt anybody else, particularly anyone they perceive as hostile to them, and most often it's done just for fun and pleasure. This makes Caracalla's fetish for watching violence particularly interesting - what with the complex relationship kinks and fetishes can often have with prior trauma, feelings of powerlessness, and attempts to regain control - but that's for a wholly different meta there. What I'm getting at is that it's always others they inflict cruelty upon, and enjoy, but never each other; there is an absolute dynamic between them, it's them against the world, them for one another. Geta's first duty is to protect Caracalla, and Caracalla trusts him implicitly. At least before this scene.

While script!Geta has less patience for his brother than Quinn's Geta does, there is never any doubt there who and what his priority is. Caracalla comes first to him. So, it's safe to say that with Dondus screaming, when he flings his water in Caracalla's face, it's never with the intent of hitting him. I have sensory issues and I'll be the first to admit I've thrown things when my processing threshold is violently crossed and it's something you just don't second-guess, like someone hitting your knee joint with a hammer. But regardless of intent, the consequences are so very interesting. And I'm sure Caracalla, even, knows that this wasn't intentional. Dear gods though, look at his reaction.

This is the face of someone telling you you have crossed a line that cannot be uncrossed.

And, for the sake of my sanity, I need to make sure everybody understands that Caracalla's way to emphasise just how much things have broken here is to say absolutely nothing, leave the room, and go cry under a table. Terrifying. But I digress; what is terrifying is Geta, after this has happened.

This is the face of a man who has crossed a boundary of his own, and it has quite little to do with the previous. Yes, Caracalla is angry at him, and there will be consequences in some form. Again, for now, the consequences are that he's chosen to become inconsolable and hide under furniture, likely much as he did when their father had his rages. But Geta, for the first time in his life, broke out of his role of a protector, and the one to be beaten.

He's realised that Caracalla is not untouchable. And for ages, he doesn't move, because his whole world has shaken here; and what he does then to justify his actions is blame his brother for them. Caracalla did absolutely nothing to earn what he did to him, but it's now his fault, for being so unstable. A liability. How could Caracalla make him do this to him, truly.

This evening, Geta's been brought face to face with his reality: he is not loved. He is not untouchable. While he can mandate the word of gods, he is not, himself, regarded as a god. Not like he deserves. Not like he should be. He's suffered so much - but he is a great man, and he knows this. He's not stupid, and he's a conqueror, albeit from his comfortable seat at home. But he deserves better.

And what, pray, is standing in the way? What is holding him back? His brother is. Caracalla, who is always embarrassing him. Who is his first and last responsibility each day and each night, who needs him to watch his every move, to keep him safe not only from the world but from himself and his own instability, his insanity, his unpredictable actions. Without Caracalla, Geta could be focusing on being an emperor. He could be achieving so much more than he is, if he wasn't his brother's constant, eternal keeper, his babysitter, his court jester. And he deserves more, doesn't he? He deserves to be remembered.

So, let Macrinus (who doesn't exist as you can see from the screenshots) handle Caracalla this time. Geta has an empire to think of.

And this, this is what interests me about this scene more than anything. For Caracalla's part, things seem at a glance much more benign, though no less broken: the one thing he took as certain as air has fallen apart - that his brother would always stand for him first, and would never lay a finger on him to hurt him. His brother, who bled for him, protected him from their father, and has ever since looked after him, elevated him to the highest status, aside from some... minor symptoms of hubris, of course. But while all of this hurts him, deeply, fundamentally, it isn't enough to make him immediately see Geta as his enemy.

And I can't stop asking - should he? Should he now regard Geta as his enemy? His whole world is collapsing. It's from this very moment onwards (yes, this one, specifically) that he begins to show symptoms of acute psychosis: delusions, paranoia, severe lapses in reality, memory, and continuity. He doesn't look like he sleeps either, but of course, other factors come into play with that part. (And gods know I don't blame him for that.)

Geta was his foundation, his bedrock. They were in this together, whatever happened. Yes, they bicker, but they've always known how that goes: Geta's patience is endless with Caracalla, and Caracalla's thirst for violence is not turned towards him, even at its worst. Geta has no issues turning his back to Caracalla in the state that he is while the man is wielding a sword and doing god knows what with it in the background. Not for one second does Geta flinch when coming between Caracalla, his sword, and a man he's already condemned to die, because Caracalla would never harm him, either.

But after this? After the first blow, however small? What then?

I'm just asking questions here. This could lead onto the next subject - the way Caracalla's whole demeanor changes when he inflicts the first wound on his brother and finds that he bleeds just the same - but I'm keeping that to me for now.

#gladiator ii #emperor geta #emperor caracalla

185 notes · View notes

palomahasenteredthechat · 16 days ago

Text

Out of the vault. My, how much has changed in a year.

Lord knows, when the cold wind blows It'll turn your head around

Independent

By request; A follow up to Paris.

Warnings: Minors DNI. M/F intercourse, smoking, drinking, drug use, general adulting. RPF: Move along if not your thing. His POV.

He couldn’t catch his breath.

Altitude sickness was what they called it. It only takes a day or so to get used to. Whatever it was, he hated it, feeling as if his anxiety was made whole, carved out from his insides onto his outsides, making him nauseous, sweaty, gasping for air.

The crowds weren’t helping. He hadn’t expected it, so many people, crammed onto buses or waiting in front of the Eccles theatre, hundreds upon hundreds, the pageantry of red carpets and velvet ropes temporarily traded in for snowy embankments and understated, expensive outerwear. Sundance, eternally low-key. Don’t look now but there’s a movie star standing in line behind you at the ticket kiosk.

He’s not alone, sharing the condo with the key creatives on the project, no family or friends this time. Just work friends. But he feels hemmed in, uncharacteristically tired when they gather in the common area after hours. He just wants to escape to his room and smoke in private.

Or take edibles. Jules had provided a supply for the long weekend, discreetly hidden in a clever compartment of pretend shaving cream. “Everybody does it,” she said as she pulled up to the hangar at Burbank. “They don’t care, it’s Park City. But don’t get caught in Salt Lake with any of it.”

He nodded, kissing her on the cheek before grabbing his luggage, his long coat out of place in the warm afternoon sun. “See you soon.”

The past few weeks had been a whirlwind. His next project had been pushed due to everyone’s conflicting schedules, freeing him up for the awards circuit. First the Golden Globes, then the rescheduled Emmys, and now everyone was pulling out their fleece and flannel, heading to Park City, relieved to be able to promote projects once again. There was a palpable sense of rebellion, masking the deep bitterness many of his colleagues felt about the outcome of the strike. Many trusted crew members they had considered friends had left the business entirely, forced out by the high cost of living and lack of income. While on the surface everyone was collegial, he’s sensed the resentment underneath every social interaction, and it was corrosive and exhausting. He’d almost booked a flight home before the festival, but Jules had insisted. “This might be your only chance to experience it. Don’t pass up that opportunity.”

Jules had been right about the location. He appreciated the spectacular views, but the nausea had steadily risen as they had climbed into the mountains, and it remained like an invisible yoke on the back of his neck. He clung to the rear of his group, allowing others to take the lead, avoiding the smiles of fans who had managed travel so far, even here, to try and get a glimpse of him.

After almost two years, he had finally reconciled that being followed was a permanent part of his life. He thought of them as a Greek Chorus, observing his movements and declaring omniscient commentary for an invisible audience. It had stopped being amusing long ago, and now he simply ignored them, refusing even to make eye contact as he brushed past their entreaties for a hug, autograph, or selfie. He’s changed, they’d say. He’s arrogant now. Entitled. Bratty.

Trapped, he’d think. Under a microscope.

Losing himself only temporarily in the most remote pubs, overstaying his welcome at friends’ flats. The focus of work. The anonymity of hotel rooms. The tangled sheets and smooth skin of beautiful women.

------

Night. Far below freezing. He’s standing in his long coat, hands in pockets (gloves misplaced once again), a scarf wrapped so far around his face only his eyes and curls are visible. He’s waiting for the shuttle, along with 30 other people, heading back to their respective lodgings before the after parties begin. A few flurries of snow drift down from one of the rooftops, blown in by the wind that whips down from the mountain peaks, slicing through his chest. He shuffles from foot to foot, grateful he listened to Jules and packed boots.

The shuttle bus arrives and everyone tramples on, thankful for the blast of warmth as they board. He grabs one of the handles above and moves to the side to allow more to file on, second nature by now from his years of riding the Tube. The shuttle lurches forward up Main Street and he pulls the scarf below his mouth, the crystals from his breath immediately melting. Sensing someone’s eyes on him, he looks up and sees a familiar face under a teal hat. It takes him a moment – but then he remembers. Paris.

His face flushes hot and he looks down. He glances up and she’s turned away, as if he’s simply a stranger. He gazes out the window and only sees his distorted reflection.

He exits the bus at 9th street, a short walk to the condo. It’s snowing lightly and he stares at his feet, careful not to slip, as he treks the two blocks. He’s trying to remember her name. She was a producer. Or was it a director? They had mutual friends. He’d liked her smile and her throaty laugh, making goosebumps rise on his arm the first time he’d heard it. A knowing laugh. She was one of the few non-Raya connections he’d made outside of Helaine. Why couldn’t he remember her name? He wondered what she was doing here. He didn’t think any other British films were in competition this year.

The next day is busy, with official photo portraits, interviews and the first screening. The film is well received and hopes of US distribution pick up as the day ends. The producers celebrate with a private dinner for the talent at Tupelo before kicking off the official after party at their condo.

He sees the woman arrive later, hugging the director in congratulations. He watches her from the corner as she talks animatedly to another actor, leaning in to catch his words in the crowded room. She’s wearing a black sweater and jeans tucked into her boots. Her hair hangs loosely in a braid down her back. He nurses a beer, feeling the edible kick in, his tongue and lips tingling as he starts to sweat, the condo too hot to compensate for the frigid temperature outside. He needs air. He weaves his way past her and presses his hand against the small of her back as he does so, not looking back as he heads for the patio. She joins him a few moments later. Their breath clouds against the ink black sky.

“I wasn’t sure if you remembered me,” she says. She sips her beer and hugs her arms against the cold. Her hands are covered in silver rings.

“I couldn’t remember your name,” he says. His lips have gone completely numb. His eyelids feel heavy.

She turns to him and tilts her head. “Do you remember it now?”

“Morgan,” he answers. “Morgan.” It had come up in conversation the night they had met. She had joked about her Scottish grandmother insisting it be passed on when she was born.

They sip in silence, as the heat from their bodies diffuses into the black. “What are you doing here? Do you have a film at the festival?”

“I’m workshopping a script,” she replies. “It’s one I started in Paris.”

“What’s it about?” he asks, more to be polite than anything else. His beer is empty and he wants to go back in for a new one. She doesn’t answer and he turns to see her looking out into the distance, avoiding his gaze. Finally she speaks into the wind. “It’s about loneliness.”

“Sounds brilliant.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Well, I’ll be seeing you,” he says, taking his leave. He goes to open the glass door when she says his name softly. He turns back to her, and she steps forward and kisses him. He’s too surprised to react as she presses her mouth against his, before taking a step back and brushing past him to go back in. He stands for a moment, still holding the empty beer bottle. Not knowing what else to do, wedges it into a mound of snow on the wall and heads back inside after her.

They revolve around each other for the next hour or so, making brief eye contact each time they circulate, but the tingle in his mouth has traveled down towards his belly and he knows he’ll be accompanying her back to her condo when the party winds down.

----

The air inside her room is chilly as they make love under the covers. It’s dark and he can barely see. His head is tucked into her neck, her hair tickling his cheek as he moves slowly within her. Morgan’s hands are on his shoulders and she rocks underneath him as he blissfully enjoys the sensations of warmth and softness. It almost feels like being lulled to sleep except for the growing pleasure between his legs. He murmurs into her ear. “I’m getting close, love.”

Her hands tighten as she whispers back. “You said you would take care of me first.”

He pulls out and burrows further underneath the blankets, finding her center with his tongue and fingers. He inhales the musk of her, feels the heat of her inner thighs against his hands as her fingers wriggle behind his head, guiding him. He runs his the flat of his tongue against her and alternates between sucking, nibbling and licking. He feels the muscles in her legs tense and her pelvis thrust forward to meet him as he quickens his pace. After a few minutes, she cries out and her voice is muffled by the blanket as he tastes her wetness.

He leaves a trail of soft kisses on her body as he climbs back up and enters her again. She wraps her legs around him and pulls him closer as the sweat of their bodies dampens the sheets. He’s tired but he pushes on, eager to finish, ready to find sleep. She lifts her head, and her hands cup his face as she touches her forehead to his. He comes with a half laugh and bites his lip. He feels her gaze on him as he closes his eyes and continues to thrust. Eventually, he pulls out and collapses next to her, too tired to even remove the condom. She curls up next to him and he feels her fingers gently slide it off. She discards it into the bin and then pulls the covers back up around them.

“You don’t have to take care of me,” he mumbles. Morgan laughs faintly. “I like to take care of you.” She brushes her fingers against his forehead, and he sighs.

“I should go,” he murmurs.

“Can you find your way back?” she asks softly.

“Mmmmm…” He’s asleep within moments. Morgan listens to the sound of his breathing before rising to relieve her bladder. She pulls on a long sleeved shirt before tucking herself back under the covers. Slowly she lowers her head against his chest and wraps her arm around him. She drifts off, her nose cold but the rest of her body cozy and warm.

----

The darkness has given way to dimness as he wakes. He glances over at the clock: 5:07 am. He turns to look at Morgan and she’s lying on her back, her head turned away from him. He pushes the covers back and stands, grimacing at the cold air as he grabs his pants. A few minutes later, he emerges from the bathroom, fully dressed and sits down at the edge of the bed to pull on his boots.

“Did you sleep well?” Her voice startles him. He turns to look back at her and she’s sitting up, tendrils of her hair rising from static electricity.

“Yes, thanks.” He busies himself with the boots. “Just in the mood for a walk.” Itching to escape.

“Care for company?”

Surprised, he falters. “Er…no, that’s quite all right. Get some rest.”

“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to walk too. It might be nice to beat the coffee line.” She smooths her hair and raises an eyebrow at him; a silent challenge. Uncomfortable, he shrugs. She throws off the covers quickly and grabs her jeans. “I’ll just be a moment.”

----

Snow has accumulated overnight and their steps fall silently on the fresh powder. Wind blows more snow into their faces as they slowly walk back toward the center of town. There is little sign of life except a street services truck pouring salt on the road.

He’s smoking, pensive, drawing in deep breaths of icy air. She’s quiet, her scarf wrapped around her chin and her hat pulled low around her ears. He wonders why she wanted to come with him. He knows it wasn’t for coffee.

“Are you attending any screenings today?” Morgan asks. The wind carries her voice above their heads.

“Not until tonight,” he answers. “Was just planning on doing a bit of sightseeing mostly.”

They approach the town plaza and see a few dozen people in line, but the coffee shop is closed for another hour. He pockets his vape and scans his phone, looking to see if another place is open nearby, as she stomps her feet from the cold. They’re standing under the Town Lift, the ski lift that takes skiers right from the heart of Park City to the trails. The chairs start to move and the knot of people begin to line up. Morgan turns to one of the passersby. “What’s going on?”

“Booze Breakfast at Mid-Mountain Lodge,” the man says. “It’s a fundraiser. You can get tickets at the booth.” Morgan turns back to him with a raised eyebrow. “Booze and breakfast sound just the thing. Think I’ll give it a go. Care to join me?” He shrugs, unable to think of a reason why not.

A few minutes later, they’re lurching skyward, their legs dangling off the chairlift as the ground recedes behind them. The breeze whispers through the trees, the only sound until the hum of the pulleys at the first tower pulls them along. The chair bounces and Morgan grips the safety bar tightly until they pass. “How many of these are there?” she jokes wanly. He looks up the mountain and gives a wry smile. “Not too many.”

The view is utterly spectacular. He wishes he had his camera, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to do it justice. He vapes, contemplating the moving clouds as Morgan tilts her face toward the dim sunshine visible over the eastern peak of the mountain. The sun’s rays turn her hair auburn. He studies her profile for a few minutes. Feeling his gaze, she opens her eyes and turns back to him. They look at each other for a long moment.

“Are you…feeling peaceful?” she asked.

“I’m not sure what I’m feeling,” he says, looking back over the mountain ahead. “It’s certainly spectacular.”

“I meant…are you feeling what you wanted to feel by leaving?”

He knew what she meant.

“No,” he says softly.

“Because I’m with you.”

“Yes.”

She nods, then pulls at her gloves and rearranges her scarf. They pass through another lift tower and the chair sways more this time. She closes her eyes and grits her teeth until they pass. “I’m not one for heights.”

“Then why did you suggest it?”

“It seemed like an adventure.”

He shakes his head, putting the vape back in his pocket. The wind is hitting him squarely in the chest and he shrugs the coat tighter. “What’s your script really about?”

She laughs. “Going right for the jugular.”

He feels a stab of sudden anger. “I hope it’s not about what I think it’s about.”

“It’s not.”

His mouth is in a grim line. He wants to curl up into a little ball.

“Joseph.”

“Don’t.” He turns away. He thinks he spots a deer under the trees. They are silent for a few minutes. She clears her throat and then he feels her hand tentatively on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry. But you’re not the only one that needs to escape.”

“What does that mean?”

“I mean that we all have our destructive patterns.”

He turns back to her. “Are we diagnosing each other now?”

She stares back at him and he thinks of Helaine; her calmness even as he could tell how angry she was. Morgan does not seem as angry but there is a steeliness in her eyes.

“I think you run away because you don’t want to be the one who gets hurt. I don’t know who hurt you but they’ve done you a disservice. You don’t even give people a chance.”

He laughs, a short sharp bark. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“You’re right. But I know how that made me feel. So I wrote about it. Turns out, it resonates with a lot of people.” She shrugs. “Perhaps we’re all just fumbling about in the void.”

They’re silent until the chair begins to descend.

----

It might be too early, but he’s ready to declare Bourbon butter pancakes the best thing he’s ever eaten. The bourbon flavor isn’t overwhelming, rather just the right note with the sweetness of the syrup. Paired with bacon and a decent Bloody Mary (or two), and he’s feeling much calmer. Perhaps he was just hungry.

Morgan is relishing hers as well, using her index finger to swipe the last bit of syrup from her plate. It’s crowded in the restaurant, and they’re wedged next to the window watching a queue begin to wind itself around the steps outside. The noise makes it easier for them not to speak without it being awkward. The waitress comes by with their cheque and Morgan has her card out before he can even find his wallet. “Let me,” she says, tugging her hair behind her ear. He nods, the world tilting on its axis briefly, the alcohol and altitude a bit much for the early hour.

Eventually, they vacate their seats for a waiting couple and head to the loos to wash up before lining up to descend the mountain back into town. There’s a line for the ladies’ so he sneaks his vape in the doorway until Morgan reappears, her hair re-braided and fresh balm on her lips. She lights up and smiles when she sees him, as if it hadn’t been terribly awkward earlier, and something makes him smile back.

They purchase a few postcards in the lobby shop and head back to the chairlift. The wind has picked up even more, blowing snow into their faces. His lips are chapped and his cheeks are numb, and he’s squinting into the glare. Morgan grabs his hand and pulls him along, until they are in the crowd once again, blocked from the wind until another chair ushers them into the sky. She hands him her lip balm and he uses it, tasting cherry. He hands it back to her without a word.

The descent is even more spectacular, Park City spread below in a breathtaking winter vista. Morgan takes his hand again and squeezes it. “It’s so perfect,” she says quietly. “It’s hard to imagine this exists.”

He nods but is shivering, the alcohol having lowered his body temperature. Morgan slides over and wraps her arms around him until he stops.

____

When he gets back to the condo, he crawls into bed in his clothes and sleeps until 3 pm. Rising later, he showers and grabs some leftover trail mix from the common area and heads out to the screening. The film is engaging, and he heads to a late dinner afterwards with a few agents from his American agency.

The next morning, he sees Morgan at one of the filmmaker lounges, engaged in conversation with two female producers. He nods as he walks past their table and all three women fall silent. He feels the hair on his neck stand up as he gets his coffee, convinced they were talking about him. He’s relieved that today is his last day. One more event to go.

The creative team behind their film does an informal Q&A in the lounge at 11 am in a packed room. He recognizes several of the fans who have followed him to the festival in the audience. Morgan is in the back, leaning against the windows with the producers. He’s dialed his charming, self-effacing persona up to ten, but drops the façade the moment the event finishes. His social battery is exhausted. Several of the fans approach him and he realizes that he’s cornered. He looks to his colleagues, but they have been pulled into other conversations. Slowly he stands as the fans circle him and ask for selfies. Several of them remind him that he’s met them before. He remembers none of them, only the feeling of unease that has become a daily experience.

He's signing programs and taking photos when he realizes Morgan has entered the circle. “Are you all right?” she asks. He nods. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Lillian and Mary would like to meet with you when you are ready.” She indicates the two producers. She steps purposefully into the knot of women, and they part to make way. She stands, hand on her hip, playing the part of someone terribly important and he nods. “That’s all everyone, I need to get to another meeting. Thank you for coming.” Grabbing his coat, he follows Morgan down the stairs to another part of the lounge. They duck under the stairwell and she wraps her scarf around her neck. “Thought you could use a hand.”

“Thanks,” he says, shrugging on his coat. “But that was unnecessary.” His feelings are swirling: indignation, relief, exhaustion and curiosity. How did she do that?

Morgan raises her eyebrow at him. “I’m sorry if I misjudged the situation. But you’re welcome. And I have something for you.” She hands him a script. The title reads: Lovers Lane.

“I’ll be interested in what you think,” she says. “Truly. I’ve had several meetings and there is interest. But…I would like for you to read it.” She looks down, uncharacteristically flustered.

His heart is in his throat and his cheeks are burning. Part of him is intensely curious. What did she write? He’s terrified to find out, but he has to know. More people have come into the hallway and the commotion gives him the window to take his leave of the situation.

He tucks the script under his arm. “Of course,” he leans over to give her a professional kiss on the cheek. “Happy to do it. Take care.” He smiles tightly and makes his escape.

----

The script is tossed in the bottom of his carry on and quickly forgotten. It descends with him down the mountain to Salt Lake City, flies over the Rocky Mountains back to Burbank, and spends the night at Jules’ home in Toluca Lake. Eventually it’s stuffed into an overhead compartment of a plane heading to Heathrow, and finally, nearly 16 hours later, is tossed on the bed of his London flat.

He’s packing for Shanghai a few days later when he dumps the contents of the bag onto his bed and sees it again. He picks it up and skims through the pages. Morgan has written a note on the front: Consider yourself a muse. Let me know what you think. Her number is written underneath.

He tosses the script back into the carry on.

It’s when he’s over the heart of Siberia, unable to sleep on the overnight to Hong Kong, that he roots around for it and begins to read. Steeling himself with a vodka tonic (his third), he tells if it’s terrible he’ll toss it in the rubbish bin in Hong Kong, and no one will be the wiser.

It’s better than he thought it would be. It’s a story of a woman looking for love but unable to make an emotional connection with any of her lovers. He finds himself laughing out loud at some of the wry humor, and he recognizes himself in her main love interest, a divorce solicitor who derives pleasure from winning large settlements for his clients from particularly nasty breakups. It’s a quick read and he finishes it in about an hour.

He glances up at the back of the seat in front of him and realizes that his section is enabled with wifi. Picking up his phone, he texts Morgan:

Just finished Lovers Lane. Suppose I’m the shark. Should have called it Lovers Lake.

A few minutes pass, and she responds: Clever and adds a smiley face. Then:

Where are you?

En route to Shanghai for a month

Pity

Miss me?

I missed you in Park City

Pity

I have a bad habit of saving stray men

I don’t need saving

Clearly not. You have it all under control.

Let’s get a drink when I’m back in London

Let’s get entangled when you’re back in London

Bold

Always. I hope to see you soon.

We shall see

It’s up to you. But I have faith in you

Faith in him. He rubs his finger on the screen over her words. Is she a fool for believing in him? Is he a fool for considering it? He doesn’t know what he feels about her and so much can happen in a month. Why did he text her?

He puts the phone down and looks out the window at the moon, enormous in the Eastern sky, as he hurtles toward the far side of the world.

#joseph quinn

36 notes · View notes