#Current Theme is Laurel

[stylesispunk]

"Shadows of the love under the laurel"

Marcus Acacius x fem!reader

Summary: In the shadows of the Roman Empire, you, a devoted servant, discover love with the honorable General Marcus Acacius. You both navigate the treacherous current of social expectations when a looming marriage comes to risk everything.

w.c: 13k.

warnings: themes of slavery and servitude, forbidden love, mentions of anxiety, mentions of blood, angst, fluff, poorly written smut, no proofreading.

a/n: I don't know what to write in here, but this one was a request by @negrita2345 i hope I did it justice and I hope you all enjoy it and share your thoughts with me because I really love to read your comments and thoughts. They make my day, so thank you in advance! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated 💌 happy reading 💌✨

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

The sound of the iron gate clanged shut behind you, a cold finality to another day of servitude. You knew that sound well, it was the only sound you had known since you were born, clamoring as a death knell, just reminder of your place in the world. You didn’t even own your freedom, yet you belonged to everyone who had put their hands on your skin or had thrown daggers at you. As a servant, your life was nothing but an endless circle of command shouted from faces that never bothered to learn your name. They simply called you “girl.”

In your twenty-three years, you had learned to endure the sting of insults, the cruel hands that shoved you from one task to another, and the stares that stripped all your dignity. Respect was something that didn’t exist for someone like you, born in the shadows of Rome’s grandeur. You were a property, a tool to serve, to scrub, to clean, and to remain unseen.

And today was no different. You had been sold again.

The place you now found yourself in was the biggest you’d seen. The walls were taller than the marble floors polished to a gleaming white that made your hesitant to step across them. A legion of other servants moved like silent specters, each one avoiding you gaze as you were ushered through the grand halls. It was as though no one acknowledged the arrival of new blood. In their world, new servants were as replaceable as the jugs of wine they carried.

As you moved through the villa, you hear whispers-murmurs of the man who ruled this place. General Marcus Acacius, a name that belonged to a man who had gained respect and admiration. He was no ordinary master, it seemed. He was a warrior, a man who had earned his position through conquest and battle. A man who stood close to the Emperor himself.

Your stomach knotted at the thought. Men of power, you had learned, were often the cruelest. The more they gained, the more they needed to remind those beneath them how little they mattered. You could only hope that Marcus would be indifferent—that he would not notice you at all.

“Girl, this way.”

A sharp voice broke your thoughts. One of the older housekeepers, her face lined with age and wear, beckoned you down a side corridor. It was darker here, the sunlight from the Roman skies barely reaching the shadowed walls. The keeper’s voice softened as you walked.

“You’ll serve General Acacious directly,” she said. “He’s… not like the others.”

You glanced up, surprised by the odd tone in her voice. You weren’t sure if the keeper meant it as a warning or a reassurance, but you nodded nonetheless, keeping your eyes lowered. You approached a set of heavy doors, carved with intricate symbols and flanked by tall, stoic guards. The keeper gestured toward them.

“The general is inside. Speak only when spoken to. He does not tolerate foolishness.”

With a final nod, the keeper disappeared down the corridor, leaving you alone. You stood for a moment, the weight of the moment pressing down on your chest. There was no telling what awaited you on the other side of those doors. You swallowed hard, brushing a strand of dark hair from your face before you stepped forward.

The guards opened the doors without a word, and you found yourself in a large, open room filled with the smell of burning incense and leather. It was dimly lit, the sunlight creeping through narrow windows high above, casting long shadows on the ground. Your gaze lifted, and then you saw him.

Marcus.

General Marcus Acacius stood by a table, bent over a map with a furrowed brow. His armor was still strapped across his broad shoulders, and the crimson cloak draped over his back gave him the appearance of a man who had just come from battle. He was taller than you had imagined, his presence commanding without a single word. His dark hair was cropped close, and his sharp features bore the marks of someone who had lived a life of discipline and war.

For a long moment, he did not acknowledge your presence. You stood still, your heart pounding as you waited for his command, for the words that would decide the course of your life here.

Finally, he looked up, his dark eyes locking onto yours. There was something in his gaze that startled you, not precisely cruelty, but something else. Something you couldn't quite name.

"You are the new servant?" His voice was low, measured. He didn’t shout like the others.

"Yes, General," you replied softly, lowering your eyes to the floor as was expected.

He watched you for a moment longer, and you could feel his gaze lingering on you, almost burning. It was as though he was seeing something in you that others had never cared to look for.

"Good," he said at last, turning back to his maps. "You will serve me directly. Be quick. Be silent. That is all."

His words were not cruel, nor were they kind. They were simple, matter-of-fact. You let out a quiet breath, your heart still pounding in your chest. You turned to leave, but something held you in place, a curiosity that stirred within you, a question you did not dare ask aloud.

What kind of man was General Marcus Acacious?

As you left the room, the weight of your life as a servant settled back onto your shoulders, but there was something different now, something you had not expected. It was faint, a flicker of warmth in the cold corridors of your mind.

In the days that followed, you learned what it meant to serve Marcus Acacius. His world was orderly, precise, and unyielding. He expected his servants to move with quiet efficiency, anticipating his needs before he voiced them. There was no room for error, but unlike you previous masters, there was also no room for cruelty. Mistakes were met with silence, not blows. It was a strange sort of mercy, one that left you both relieved and on edge.

You were tasked with attending to the general’s quarters, a task that placed you in close proximity to him every day. You polished his armor, prepared his baths, and ensured that the scrolls and maps he studied late into the night were neatly arranged. He rarely spoke to you, and when he did, it was brief and to the point. Yet, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he noticed you in a way no one else had.

It was in the quiet moments between orders that you caught fleeting glimpses of the man behind the title.

One afternoon, as you were cleaning his quarters, you heard a faint groan of pain. Startled, you looked up to see Marcus standing by the window, his hand gripping his side. His face was tight with discomfort, though he said nothing.

You hesitated, unsure if you should speak. “General… are you hurt?”

His eyes flicked toward you, the sharpness in them softening just slightly. For a moment, you thought he might ignore your question, but then he spoke.

“It’s nothing,” he said, his voice strained. “An old wound. It… flares up from time to time.”

He didn’t offer more, and you knew better than to pry. Yet, something in his tone—a vulnerability you hadn’t heard before made you want to help.

Without thinking, you set aside your cleaning cloth and moved toward him. “I could bring you something… some herbs. For the pain.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow, surprised by your boldness. “You know of such things?”

“My mother… she was a healer,” Your replied quietly, your eyes downcast. “Before…” You trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence. The silence filled in the gaps—before you were taken, before you became a servant.

He watched you for a long moment, as if weighing your words. Finally, he nodded. “Very well. Bring it.”

You hurried to the kitchens, your heart pounding. It was the first time Marcus had allowed you to do anything beyond your usual duties. As you gathered the herbs your mother had once shown you, the ones that could ease any pain and swelling, you thought of the strange connection you had felt in that moment. It wasn’t just your desire to help him. It was something deeper, something unspoken that passed between them.

When you returned to his quarters, Marcus was seated at the edge of his bed, the tension in his shoulders evident. You approached cautiously, mixing the herbs into a small vial of oil, then holding it out to him.

“You need to apply it to the wound,” you explained, your voice barely above a whisper. “It should ease the pain.”

Marcus took the vial from you, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. His touch was warm, surprising you. Your eyes met, and in that fleeting second, you felt an unfamiliar flutter in your chest—a burn you quickly buried.

“Thank you,” he said, his tone sincere. It was a small word, but coming from a man like Marcus, it carried weight.

You bowed your head, stepping back as he stood and moved to apply the oil himself. You returned to your work, quietly cleaning the room, but your mind was elsewhere. You had never thought much of men, especially men of power. To you, they were all the same: cruel, indifferent, obsessed with their own glory. Yet, Marcus was different. He was distant, yes, and bound by duty, but he was also… something else. There was a complexity to him, a quiet pain that you couldn’t quite understand.

As the days passed, you found yourself watching him more closely. You noticed the way he carried the weight of command, his posture rigid, his eyes always alert. He was a man constantly at war, not just with the enemies of Rome, but with himself. You saw it in the way he would stare out the window late into the night, lost in thought, his fingers drumming against the hilt of his sword as though preparing for a battle that had not yet come.

And then, one evening, everything changed.

It was late, the rest of the household quiet, and you were tidying the general’s quarters as he sat by the hearth, reviewing maps of distant lands. The flicker of firelight cast shadows on his face, making him appear both weary and resolute. You were just about to leave when he spoke, his voice low and thoughtful.

“Tell me,”He said, following by the use of your name for the first time. “How did you come to be here? In this life?”

Your breath caught. No one had ever asked you that before. No one had ever cared to. You hesitated, unsure if you should answer, but the look in his eyes was not one of command. It was curiosity. Genuine, quiet curiosity.

“I was born into it,” you replied softly. “My mother… she was a healer in a small village outside of the city. But when the soldiers came, they took us. I was just a child then. I don’t remember much before it.”

Marcus’s gaze lingered on you; his expression unreadable. “And your mother?”

“She didn’t survive long after that. She grew sick, and no one would help her.”

There was a long silence after that, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the room. You stood there, your hands clasped in front of you, waiting for him to dismiss you. But he didn’t. Instead, he sighed, a sound so faint you might have missed it had you not been standing so close.

“Life in Rome is rarely kind,” he said, his voice distant. “Even for those who believe themselves fortunate.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. You simply stood there, watching as the general seemed to wrestle with thoughts he could not or would not speak aloud. Finally, he shook his head, as if clearing his mind, and looked at you once more.

“You may go,” he said, his tone once again that of a man in command. But there was a softness to it now, something that hadn’t been there before.

You bowed and left the room, your heart pounding. As you walked down the dark corridors of the villa, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between you, that the lines separating servant and master had blurred, if only for a moment.

Weeks passed, and Your role in Marcus’s household became routine, yet far from ordinary. You had served many masters before, but none like him. There was a strange rhythm to your interactions now, a wordless understanding that passed between you in brief glances and moments too fleeting for anyone else to notice. Marcus was still the general, the powerful, untouchable figure, but there were cracks in his armor that only you seemed to see.

The changes were small at first. A few words exchanged at the end of the day, a subtle shift in the way his eyes lingered on you when you thought he wasn’t looking. It was during one such moment, late in the evening, that your quiet bond deepened.

You were clearing away the remains of his evening meal, the room lit only by the soft glow of a single oil lamp. Marcus sat at his desk, writing a letter, his brow furrowed in concentration. You moved silently, careful not to disturb him. But as you turned to leave, your hand brushed the corner of the table, knocking over a small cup.

The sound echoed in the stillness.

Your heart leaped into your throat. You had been so careful, always careful. You froze, waiting for the rebuke, the sharp words you had heard from other masters a hundred times before.

But instead of anger, Marcus’s voice came, calm and even. “It’s alright. Leave it.”

You paused, your fingers trembling as you stooped to pick up the cup, determined not to disobey. But as you did, Marcus spoke again, his tone softer this time.

“Do you always expect punishment so quickly?”

You straightened slowly, unsure how to answer. “It’s what happens when mistakes are made, General,” you replied quietly, your eyes still downcast.

Marcus stood, his towering frame casting long shadows in the flickering lamplight. He approached you slowly, the silence between you thick with unspoken words.

“Not here,” he said, his voice low. “You don’t have to fear that here.”

His words, though simple, carried a weight that you weren’t prepared for. For a moment, you dared to look up at him, meeting his eyes. There was something in his gaze—a gentleness that you had never expected to find in a man like him. It made your chest tighten, and you quickly dropped your gaze again.

Marcus sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “I don’t know what kind of men you served before, Mea Columba, but cruelty… it does not make a man stronger. It only makes him feared.”

He was quiet for a long time after that, standing just a breath away from you. You could feel the heat of his presence, the nearness of him unsettling but not unpleasant. You could sense the tension in the air, something unspoken hanging between you like a thread stretched too tight.

“You deserve better than that,” he said finally, his voice almost too soft for you to hear.

Your heart raced, your thoughts a tangled mess. How could he say such a thing? You were nothing more than a servant, a slave, how could someone like him believe you deserved anything at all? But in his words, you heard the truth of what he felt, and it terrified you as much as it filled you with something dangerously close to hope.

Before you could reply, before you could make sense of the moment, the door creaked open, and a soldier entered the room, interrupting them. Marcus immediately stepped back, his expression shifting into the impassive mask of the general once more.

“General Acacius,” the soldier said, bowing. “The emperor has requested your presence tomorrow. Urgent matters to discuss.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened. “Very well. Inform the Emperor I’ll be there.”

The soldier bowed again and left the room, leaving you and Marcus standing in the silence. The air between you had changed, something fragile, something delicate had passed between you, but neither dared acknowledge it.

“You may go” Marcus said, his voice once again composed, though you could sense the tension beneath it. “Get some rest.”

You bowed quickly and left the room; you heart still pounding in your chest. As you walked back through the dim corridors, you replayed his words in your mind

“You deserve better”

and wondered how dangerous it was to believe them.

You hadn’t expected him to say your name, less to hear a name with such affection from him It startled you, but in a way that made you feel seen, in a way that sent warmth through you despite the cool evening air.

“It’s all I’ve known,” you whispered, barely able to speak the words.

Days passed in a quiet blur, and the memory of that evening lingered between you, heavy and unspoken. Marcus was the same outwardly, maintaining his stoic demeanor in front of his soldiers, the senators, and his household. Yet, when he looked at you, when your eyes met across the room during your brief encounters, you could feel the shift in him, the way his guarded exterior faltered for just a moment.

It was in these fleeting moments that you began to understand the gravity of what was growing between you. You had never been close to a man before, not like this. Your world had always been one of shadows, of quiet obedience. But now, Marcus’s presence lingered in your thoughts, his words echoing in the stillness of your nights.

"You deserve better."

You couldn’t stop hearing it. And it frightened you. How could someone like him, someone with power, command, and the loyalty of an empire, care about someone like you, a servant who had spent her life in the background? The idea felt dangerous, as though it could upend everything you knew, yet it was there, undeniable.

The tension between you simmered, growing with each passing day. You never spoke of that moment again, but it hovered between you, thickening the air whenever you were alone.

One afternoon, you were attending to the general’s chambers when he returned earlier than expected from the training grounds. His tunic was damp with sweat, the edges of his dark hair clinging to his forehead, and a fresh bruise marked his arm.

He entered the room quietly, not saying a word at first, watching as you busied yourself, you’re your work. You tried to remain calm, to focus on your duties as you had always done, but the awareness of his gaze unsettled you. Finally, Marcus broke the silence.

he said your name, almost sounding hesitant.

You turned to face him, your heart quickening at the sound of your name. He had been saying it more often lately, and each time it carried a weight that made your pulse race. “Yes, General?”

For a moment, Marcus seemed to struggle with himself, his expression hard to read. He took a step closer, the air between you humming with tension. “You’ve been quiet lately,” he said, though the statement felt more like a question. “Are you… well?”

You blinked, surprised by the question. “I am, General. I—” You hesitated, unsure how to respond. The truth was, you had been keeping your distance, afraid of what might happen if you let yourself grow any closer to him. “I’ve just been… busy with my tasks.”

His eyes searched yours, as though he could see past your words to the truth beneath them. “You don’t have to keep your distance, mea columba,” he said quietly. “Not from me.”

The words sent a shiver through you. You wanted to step back, to remind yourself of your place, but something in his gaze held you still. There was a tenderness there, a vulnerability that you hadn’t expected to see in him.

“I’m only a servant,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “You… you don’t have to concern yourself with me.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, and he took another step toward you, closing the distance between you. “You’re more than that,” he said, his voice firm but soft. “You’re more than what this life has made you.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t know what to say, how to respond to the depth of his words. You had spent your whole life believing that your worth was measured by your service, by how invisible you could make yourself. But Marcus… he saw you. And it terrified you as much as it filled you with warmth.

“You deserve more than this life, mea columba” Marcus continued, his hand lifting ever so slightly as if he wanted to reach for you but stopped himself. “More than this… than the way others have treated you.”

Tears burned at the edges of your eyes, but you blinked them away, refusing to let them fall. You couldn’t let herself believe in what he was saying. It was impossible. He was a general, bound by duty and honor to Rome. And you were, no, you had to be nothing to him. Anything else was too dangerous to even imagine.

“Please,” you said, almost pleading, “don’t say such things. I can’t…” You trailed off, your words caught in your throat.

Marcus’s eyes softened, the hard edges of his face relaxing just slightly. “I know,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know we can’t… but it doesn’t change how I feel.”

The admission hung in the air between you, raw and real. Your heart pounded, your mind reeling from the weight of his confession. You wanted to step forward, to reach out and touch him, to tell him that you felt the same—that his kindness, his quiet strength, had stirred something in you that you had never thought possible.

But she couldn’t. The world wouldn’t allow it. He was a man of power, and you were a servant. Their lives were too different, their paths too far apart.

And yet, standing there in the quiet of the room, with only the soft flicker of candlelight between you, it felt as though the rest of the world had disappeared, leaving only the two of you in the stillness.

Marcus reached up, his hand trembling ever so slightly as it brushed against your cheek. You gasped at the touch, your skin tingling under his fingertips. It was the first time he had touched you like this, softly, tenderly, as though you were something fragile and precious.

“I wish things were different,” he murmured, his thumb gently caressing the curve of your jaw.

You closed your eyes, leaning into the warmth of his hand despite yourself. You knew you shouldn’t, knew that this moment could only lead to heartache, but you couldn’t stop herself. “So do I,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

For a long moment, you stood there, suspended in the silence, the weight of your unspoken feelings pressing down on you. But then, just as quickly as it had begun, Marcus pulled away, his hand falling to his side. The mask of the general slipped back into place, his expression once again composed, though his eyes still burned with the emotions he couldn’t voice.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, stepping back. “I shouldn’t have—”

You shook your head. “No, it’s… it’s alright.”

But it wasn’t. You both knew it.

“You should go,” Marcus said, his voice rough with regret. “We… we can’t.”

You nodded, though your heart ached. “Goodnight, General.”

You turned and left the room, your heart heavy with the weight of what had just happened.

The days that followed were unbearable. You tried to go about your duties as usual, but you couldn’t shake the weight of Marcus’s words, the feel of his hand against your cheek, the unspoken desire that lingered between you. It haunted you in the quiet moments, in the stillness of night when you were alone with your thoughts.

And you could see it in him, too.

Every glance you shared, every brief exchange, held a tension that had not been there before. Marcus’s eyes lingered on you longer than they should, his gaze filled with something he dared not speak aloud. You could feel the conflict within him, the struggle between his duty and what lay deep in his heart.

One afternoon, as you were preparing the general’s chambers for the evening, you heard footsteps behind you. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. You could feel his presence, the energy in the room shifting the moment he entered.

“Columba” he said softly, his voice different from the tone he used with anyone else. There was no command in it, no expectation—just a quiet plea.

You turned to face him, your heart already racing at the sound of your nickname on his lips. He stood in the doorway, his posture rigid, yet his eyes betrayed him. They were filled with the same turmoil that had been building between you for weeks.

“General,” you said, your voice steady though your heart was anything but.

He stepped forward, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. “Marcus,” he corrected, his gaze fixed on yours. “When we’re alone, please… call me Marcus.”

The intimacy of his request made your chest tighten. You had spent your life addressing him with titles, always reminding herself of the distance between you, but now… now he was asking you to cross that distance, to meet him as something more than a servant.

“Marcus,” you repeated softly, the word feeling foreign yet familiar on your tongue.

A small smile touched his lips, but it was strained. He walked slowly toward you, his movements careful, as though he was afraid to shatter the fragile space between you. When he stopped just a step away from you, you felt the air grow thick, the unspoken emotions pressing down on you both.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Marcus said, his voice low and rough with honesty. “I’ve tried… I’ve tried to bury it, to remind myself of who I am, of what’s expected of me. But every time I see you, every time I hear your voice… it’s like I can’t breathe.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. You had never imagined a man like Marcus, a man of such power and command, could feel this way about you. You had always been invisible, always kept in the shadows. But with him, you felt seen. And that terrified you.

“Marcus, we can’t…” You shook your head, your voice trembling. “You know we can’t. You’re a general. You serve Rome. I’m nothing more than a servant.”

“You are not nothing,” Marcus said sharply, his eyes flashing with a rare intensity. He reached out and gently grasped your wrist, his touch sending a jolt through you. “Don’t ever say that. You are everything I—” He stopped himself, his jaw tightening as if he were trying to restrain words he couldn’t say.

Your heart pounded in your chest. You could feel the heat of his hand on your skin, the warmth of his breath as he stood so close. Every instinct told you to pull away, to remind him of the impossibility of this, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t deny the pull between you, the feelings that had been growing in your heart, no matter how forbidden they were.

“Why me?” you whispered, your voice fragile as your heart. “Why would you care for someone like me, when you could have anyone?”

Marcus’s gaze softened, his grip on your wrist loosening but not letting go. He lifted your hand slowly, his thumb brushing over your palm in a gesture so gentle it made you ache. “Because you see me,” he murmured. “Not the general, not the man who leads armies or answers to the emperor. You see me.”

His words made your chest tighten painfully. You had always tried to stay invisible, to keep your head down and avoid the eyes of those who held power over you. But with Marcus, it was different. You saw the man beneath the armor, the one who carried the weight of duty and responsibility on his shoulders but longed for something more—something real.

“I can’t stop what I feel for you,” Marcus continued, his voice filled with raw honesty. “Even though I know it’s wrong, even though I know what the world would think if they knew… I can’t stop.”

You felt your resolve crumbling. You wanted to tell him that you felt the same, that his kindness, his gentleness, had woven its way into your heart. But the fear of what could come from this, the danger of their impossible love, held you back.

“I feel it too,” you admitted softly, you voice barely above a whisper. “But we have no future, Marcus. You know that. You’ll be expected to marry—”

“I know,” he interrupted, his voice tight. “I know I’m bound by duty. I’ve spent my whole life doing what Rome asks of me. But for once, Livia, I want something for myself.”

His words hung in the air, thick with longing and pain. Your heart ached for him, for the man who had given so much of himself to an empire that would never give him the freedom to love who he chose. And yet, even as you felt the weight of his confession, you knew the truth.

“Even if we want this,” you whispered, “Rome will never let it happen.”

Marcus’s face tightened with frustration, his hand still holding yours as though he couldn’t bear to let go.

You stood in silence for a long moment, the weight of your love pressing down on them. Your heart pounded in your chest, torn between the desire to give in to the feelings you had tried so hard to suppress and the reality of the world they lived in.

Finally, Marcus spoke again, his voice heavy with resignation. “I don’t know what the future holds,” he said softly. “But I know that for now… I need you here. By my side. Even if that’s all we can have.”

You swallowed hard, tears burning at the edges of your eyes. You knew he was right. Your love, if it could even be called that, would never be allowed to flourish in the light. But in the shadows, in the quiet moments you shared, it was real. And maybe, for now, that had to be enough.

You nodded, your voice barely audible as you whispered, “I’ll stay.”

Marcus’s shoulders seemed to relax, and for the briefest moment, a small, sad smile crossed his face. He gently released your hand, stepping back, the distance between you once again restored. But the bond you shared remained.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice filled with emotion. “For staying.”

It was a few days later, and the weight of your shared confession still lingered in the air. The nights had grown heavier with unspoken feelings, and each day, the tension between you and Marcus became harder to ignore. You told yourself to be content with what little time you could have by his side, though it tore at you, knowing that it would never be enough.

That evening, you were cleaning his quarters, your movements methodical, when the door creaked open behind you. You turned and saw Marcus step in, but this time he wasn’t the composed general you had grown used to. His tunic was torn at the shoulder, a dark patch of blood staining the fabric. His brow was furrowed, his jaw set in pain. He tried to stand tall, but there was no hiding the wince as he moved.

"Marcus," you gasped, forgetting all formality in the moment, rushing toward him. Your heart hammered in your chest, worry washing over you at the sight of him.

“It’s nothing,” he said gruffly, waving off your concern, though the tightness in his voice betrayed him. “Just a training injury.”

You moved closer, eyes searching his. You had seen him injured before—he was a soldier, after all—but this felt different. There was a vulnerability in the way he looked at you, as though he had allowed himself to come to you in a moment of weakness.

“You should sit,” you said softly, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice. “Let me prepare a bath for you.”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded, walking slowly toward the bed and sitting on its edge, his movements stiff and labored. His dark eyes followed you as you quickly went to work, preparing the bath with warm water and fragrant oils to ease his wounds and the tension in his body.

When you returned, you found Marcus removing his tunic, the fabric peeling away from the gash on his shoulder. His skin was marred with bruises, old and new, the marks of a warrior who had seen countless battles. But it was the fresh wound that made your heart ache, the sight of him in pain stirring something deep within you.

“Let me help you,” you whispered, kneeling beside him. He met your eyes, his expression unreadable, and then he nodded, allowing you to step closer. With trembling hands, you gently unfastened the remaining clasps of his armor, your fingers brushing against his skin. You tried to keep your touch professional, but each time your skin met his, a jolt of electricity shot through you.

Once he was bare to the waist, you guided him to the bath. He lowered himself into the warm water with a sigh, his muscles relaxing as the heat enveloped him. You sat on the stool beside the tub, gathering a soft cloth in your hands. You hesitated for a moment, the intimacy of what you were about to do settling heavily in your chest.

When you began to gently scrub his skin, the water rippling with each movement, Marcus closed his eyes, leaning back slightly. His breath came in slow, deep draws, and for a moment, it was as though the world outside the room no longer existed. There was just you, him, and the quiet sound of water.

Your hands moved carefully over his skin, your touch tender and cautious, tracing the contours of his shoulders, his back, the lines of his strong arms. You could feel the tension in his body slowly easing, though your own pulse raced with each moment that passed. The intimacy of the act was overwhelming, but Marcus made no move to stop you.

As you worked, you couldn't help but steal glances at his face, at the way the flickering candlelight danced across his strong jaw and the softness in his expression that he only ever showed when you were alone.

He opened his eyes after a long silence, catching your gaze. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured, his voice husky from the warmth of the bath or perhaps something more.

“I want to,” you whispered, barely able to meet his eyes. “Let me take care of you.”

The vulnerability in your voice, in the gesture of your care, seemed to affect him deeply. Marcus’s eyes softened, and he reached out, his fingers brushing against your wrist in a silent gesture of thanks. The warmth of his touch lingered on your skin long after he pulled away.

For a long while, you continued in silence, the only sound the gentle splashing of water as you washed away the blood, the dirt, and the exhaustion from his body. Each stroke of the cloth felt like a confession, a quiet way of telling him what you couldn’t say aloud. That you cared for him. That you wanted to protect him in whatever small way you could, even though you knew you couldn’t keep him from the dangers of the world beyond these walls.

When you reached the wound on his shoulder, you were as delicate as possible, your touch light and careful. Marcus winced slightly, but he didn’t pull away. His eyes remained on you, dark and intense, watching every movement of your hands as though you were something precious.

“You’re always so careful,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why?”

You paused, your heart tightening at the question. How could you explain it? How could you put into words the way your heart ached for him, the way you wished to offer him comfort in a world that demanded so much of him?

“Because you’ve given me more kindness than I’ve ever known,” you whispered, barely able to say the words. “I want to give some of it back.”

Marcus’s gaze softened even more, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might say something, something that would change everything between you. But instead, he closed his eyes, leaning back into the water, his hand slipping beneath the surface and resting on the edge of the tub.

You continued to wash him in silence, your heart heavy with the knowledge that these moments, these stolen moments in the shadows, were all you would ever have. And yet, they felt so real, so profound, that you couldn’t bring yourself to regret them.

When the bath was finished, you helped Marcus stand, wrapping a towel around his broad shoulders. He stood before you, his body strong but weary, the weight of his duties ever present in his posture. You couldn’t help but reach out, your hand brushing lightly against the wound on his shoulder.

“Does it hurt?” you asked softly.

He shook his head, but his eyes told a different story. “Not as much as other wounds,” he said quietly, his gaze meeting yours. “Not as much as the ones I can’t show.”

Your heart clenched at his words. You understood. The wounds of battle were visible, but the wounds of the heart—the ones inflicted by duty, by honor, by a world that wouldn’t allow him to follow his desires—were far deeper.

Marcus’s hand reached out, his fingers gently curling around yours, and for a moment, he held on as though you were the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes searched yours, filled with emotions too complex to name

Marcus’s fingers curled around yours, and in that moment, the air between you seemed to shift. The world outside his chambers fell away, leaving only the two of you, standing so close, bound by an unspoken connection that had been building since the moment you first laid eyes on him. The intensity in his gaze sent a shiver through you, and you felt your breath catch in your throat as his thumb gently brushed over the back of your hand, a simple touch that carried a weight neither of you could ignore.

His hand lingered, holding yours as if it was the only anchor he had left. His eyes were darker now, filled with emotions too complex to name—longing, conflict, something deeper that neither of you had dared to speak aloud. The space between you felt fragile, like a thread stretched too tight, and yet neither of you could pull away.

“Mea columba” he murmured, his voice rough, barely more than a whisper. The way he said your name sent warmth coursing through your veins, and you felt yourself trembling beneath the intensity of his gaze.

You opened your mouth to speak, to say something—anything—to break the silence, but the words wouldn’t come. You didn’t need them. Everything was in his eyes, the way they searched yours, as though he were trying to find an answer to a question he hadn’t yet asked.

Slowly, cautiously, Marcus took a step closer, his hand still holding yours. Your heart pounded wildly in your chest, the pulse in your ears deafening as the space between you closed. His breath was warm on your skin, mingling with your own as he stood so close that the air felt charged, thick with something unspoken.

He reached up with his free hand, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed a strand of hair from your face. The touch was so tender, so careful, that it made your heart ache. His thumb lingered on your cheek, his palm cradling the side of your face, as though he were afraid to break the moment, afraid to shatter the delicate connection you shared.

“I’ve tried to fight this,” he whispered, his voice filled with a quiet desperation. “I’ve tried to remind myself of what’s right, of my duty, of all the reasons why I can’t—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. You already knew. You knew the weight of the world that rested on his shoulders, the impossible choice he faced between the life he was bound to and the feelings that had grown between you.

But in that moment, as you stood in the dim light of his chambers, none of it seemed to matter. It was just the two of you, and the pull between you was too strong to deny.

“Marcus,” you breathed, your voice trembling as his name passed your lips, a quiet plea for something you both knew couldn’t be undone.

He hesitated for just a moment, his gaze searching yours one last time, as if waiting for a sign, for permission to take that final, forbidden step. And then, with a soft, broken sigh, Marcus leaned in.

His lips brushed yours, so softly at first that it felt like a whisper, a question, a promise. The world seemed to still around you, the moment suspended in time as he kissed you with a tenderness that made your heart ache. His hand tightened around yours, holding you close, as though he were afraid to let go, afraid that this fragile moment would slip away if he loosened his grip.

And then, slowly, the kiss deepened. His lips pressed more firmly against yours, and all the emotions that had been building between you, longing, desire, love, poured into that single, desperate kiss. It was as though every unspoken word, every hidden glance, every touch that had lingered too long was finally allowed to come to life.

You kissed him back, your hand finding its way to his bare chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath your fingers. It beat in time with yours, fast and hard, as if it, too, was caught up in the storm of emotions swirling between you. His other hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer, his body warm and solid against yours.

For a moment, nothing else mattered. Not the rules, not the expectations, not the world outside these walls. There was only Marcus, his lips on yours, his hands holding you like you were something precious, something he had longed for but never thought he could have.

“I don’t know how we’ll keep this secret… but gods, I can’t stop myself. I don’t want to stop.”

You felt the same. You didn’t know how you would hide this, how you would keep it from the eyes of the world, but in that moment, you didn’t care. You had already crossed a line, and there was no going back.

“I don’t want to stop either,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “But we’ll find a way… we have to.”

Marcus’s hand slipped from your waist to your cheek once more, his fingers brushing softly against your skin. He leaned in again, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment as though he were trying to hold on to the peace you had found in each other, but as soon as your eyes connected in unspoken pleas, his lips found yours again, this time his kiss screamed desire for you.

The way his right hand slipped down your arm, his touch soft but filled with purpose, sent a shiver through you. His fingers trailed along the curve of your waist, pulling you closer as his lips remained firmly attached to yours, deepening the kiss with a slow, deliberate intensity that made your head spin.

His body pressed against yours, strong and warm, as if he were trying to merge your very beings into one. The world around you seemed to melt away, your senses consumed by the feel of him, the taste of him, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. Each moment felt suspended in time, the quiet intimacy of the moment holding you both captive.

You could feel the heat radiating off his body, his chest rising and falling in time with yours as the kiss grew more passionate, more desperate. His hand at your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him, as though he needed to feel every part of you, to confirm that this wasn’t a dream.

Your own hands, trembling with the weight of the moment, slid up his arms, feeling the strength beneath his skin, the tension coiled in his muscles. You had never been this close before, never allowed yourself to imagine being this close to him. And now, here you were, pressed against him in a way that defied everything you had been told about your place in the world, everything you had believed about what you deserved.

His lips moved against yours with a hunger that matched the fire burning in your chest. It wasn’t just desire, there was something deeper, something raw and unspoken that neither of you had been able to express until now. Every kiss, every touch, was a release of all the feelings you had kept locked away for so long.

As his lips parted from yours for just a moment, his breath hot against your skin, Marcus whispered your name again—so soft, so reverent that it felt like a prayer. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes half-closed, his voice thick with emotion.

“I can’t…” he whispered, his hand still resting firmly at your waist, holding you close as though he couldn’t bear to let go. “I can’t stop this.”

Neither could you. You didn’t want to. You were lost in him, in the warmth of his touch, in the way he held you like you were the only thing that mattered. You could feel the conflict within him, the weight of his duties and the forbidden nature of what was blossoming between you, but none of that mattered in this moment.

His lips found yours again, this time slower, more tender, as though he were savoring every second, memorizing the feel of you in his arms. His hand slid up your back, pulling you even closer, as if he needed to feel the beat of your heart against his own. You melted into him, your own hands finding their way into his hair, threading through the dark strands as you kissed him with a longing you had kept buried for far too long.

No long after, his fingertips caressed your shoulders, slipping the strips of your dress down your arms. None of you stopped locking your gazes as you felt you dress slipping down your body. You were completely bare in front of the man who had made your heart race like never before.

You had never felt like this before, and the fire in the pit of your stomach was a new sensation for you. There was fire everywhere.

Marcus swept his eyes down your body, clearly reacting to the sight in front of him. The dim light of the moon danced across your skin. Marcus couldn’t believe it. You were the most beautiful woman he laid his eyes on, and under his stare he could swear God had made you just for him to find you, to find love in your eyes and in the way they looked at him now.

He placed his right hand on your neck, before trailing the path down to your neck, your breasts, your stomach as if you were the most delicate map he had ever touched in his life.

Goosebumps arise on your skin as you gasped under his touch. The way he unbraided your hair and swept it, looking at you with adoration. He wasted no time to devour your lips with his, stealing the moaning sounds out of your mouth, when his fingers slipped into your entrance. He worked his was in and out, your mouths attached, and his tongue caressed your swollen lips.

Your hands made their way to his back, his chest, his stomach. A groan came out of his throat when your fingers found his cock. Before you could even react, he carefully laid you on your back, his eyes bored into yours. Your lips were parted by the surprise of his sudden movement, and yet you looked beautiful under his stare, and you could feel beautiful too. It felt like a dream, to had found love in someone like him.

Marcus reached out and cupped your breasts. Your nipples hardened at the touch, and he duck down taking one in his mouth. You whispered his name making his cock throb at the sound of you pleading him, clearly enjoying the was your stomach trembled under his body. He then spread your legs to find the place where you needed him the most.

“Marcus” you whispered; voice weak “please.”

He grumbled and buried his entire face on your cunt. Your legs tightened in surprise, but he kept them open by draping one over his shoulder. He'd done this before, but with you, it seemed different. This time, he couldn't contain his thrill at the thought of making you pleased. He wanted you not only for this reason, but also because you cared for him and he for you, and he desired to prove thar by making love to you and waking up next to you for the rest of his life.

He continued sucking on your clit until you gasped for air. You felt hot under his tongue, and the flavor of you drove him crazy.

“You’re so beautiful mea columba” he whispered, pushing your thighs further apart and took his cock to press the head into your cunt, pushing it with pressure. You both moaned. He dropped his head to your shoulder, inhaling your exquisite scent.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, voice trembling at the thought. You were tight. He knew for the way your eyes looked that you never had done this before, so he tried to be as careful as he could.

“Marcus” you moaned, whimpering. He was all the way inside you. He felt embarred as how weak he seemed because of you. He tried not to come so fast, while glancing between you every second to make sure he wasn’t hurting you.

When he felt himself getting close, he tried to lift your back, holding onto your waist, his chest against yours, lips devouring each other.

“I’m in love with you, mea columba” he whispered, while pounding into you with a steady but delicate force it made you squirm.

your lips and bodies moving in perfect harmony, the rest of the world slipping away as you both gave in to the feelings you could no longer deny. The weight of the consequences lingered at the edges of your mind, but in that moment, nothing seemed as important as this. As him. As the way his hand cradled your waist, the way he kissed you like he had been waiting for this his entire life.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless, your foreheads still resting together. The silence that followed was heavy, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was filled with the quiet understanding that you had both crossed a line, and there was no turning back now.

Marcus’s eyes flickered open, his gaze locking with yours, the intensity of his emotions shining clearly in the dim light of the room. His thumb brushed lightly against your waist, a touch so gentle, yet filled with a quiet urgency that made your breath catch in your throat.

“I meant it,” he whispered, his voice low and rough with emotion. “I’m in love with you.”

His words hung in the air, thick and heavy with a truth neither of you could deny anymore. And then, without hesitation, he leaned in and pressed his lips to your forehead, the kiss soft and lingering, filled with a tenderness that made your heart swell.

You felt a rush of warmth flood through your body, his confession sinking deep into your chest. You had heard it in his voice before, seen it in his eyes, but hearing those words—words you never thought someone of his stature would say to you—made everything feel real. His love was dangerous, forbidden, but it was also undeniable.

Tears burned at the edges of your eyes, not out of sorrow, but from the overwhelming emotions that surged through you—relief, joy, and the painful knowledge that this love, as real as it was, lived in the shadows.

“I…” your voice faltered, barely above a whisper. “I never thought I’d hear you say those words.”

His forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours as he closed his eyes, his hand tightening around your waist, pulling you even closer. “I’ve tried to fight it,” he murmured, his voice filled with quiet anguish. “I’ve tried so hard to push it away, to tell myself it can’t be. But I can’t… I don’t want to fight it anymore.”

You felt the trembling in his voice, the vulnerability in his words, and it mirrored the storm of feelings inside you. You had spent so long burying your own emotions, convinced that someone like Marcus could never see you as more than a servant, more than someone beneath him. But here he was, his love laid bare, his heart in your hands.

A tear slipped down your cheek, and before you could speak, Marcus lifted his hand to your face, his thumb brushing the tear away with the same care he had shown you so many times before. His eyes were filled with something so raw, so real, that it made your chest ache.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words escaping you before you could stop them, but you didn’t want to stop them. They were the truth, and in this moment, you had no reason to hide.

Marcus closed his eyes again, his lips parting in a quiet, shaky breath, as though the sound of your confession had taken away the last of his restraint. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that made you feel like you were the only person in the world.

“I’ll protect you,” he said softly, his voice filled with quiet resolve. “Whatever happens, whatever comes next… I won’t let anything take you away from me.”

His words were a promise, one that felt as fragile as it was powerful. You both knew the risks, knew the world wouldn’t accept this love, but in his arms, in this stolen moment, you believed him. You believed that somehow, against all odds, you might be able to hold on to each other.

As the night deepened, the warmth of Marcus's arms around you became a cocoon of safety and comfort, unlike anything you had ever known. The intensity of your shared confessions, the raw emotions lingering between you, began to soften into a quieter, more intimate connection. His hands, once rough with battle, now caressed your skin with the gentleness of a man who had found something worth protecting, something precious.

You remained in his embrace, the two of you sitting on the edge of his bed, the flickering candlelight casting soft, golden shadows across his quarters. Marcus's thumb traced slow circles against your back, his touch reassuring and grounding, as though he was afraid that letting go would make this moment slip away into a dream. His forehead still rested gently against yours, his breathing steady but deep, as if he, too, was caught in the weight of everything you had just shared.

“I never imagined feeling like this,” you whispered, your voice barely breaking the silence of the room. You weren’t sure if you were confessing to him or simply speaking aloud the truth of what was in your heart. “I never thought I’d ever know this kind of closeness, this… love.”

His grip on you tightened slightly, his lips brushing the top of your head. “Neither did I,” he murmured, his voice thick with sincerity. “Not like this. Not with you.”

For a while, neither of you said anything. The quiet sounds of the night outside his window drifted in—a soft wind, the distant murmur of soldiers on watch, the occasional flicker of torchlight from the corridors. But none of it touched the stillness that enveloped the two of you in this space. Here, with Marcus, the world felt far away.

You felt the exhaustion from the day, from the intensity of everything, slowly creeping into your limbs. Your eyelids grew heavy, and despite the swirl of emotions still lingering in your chest, a deep weariness began to settle over you.

Marcus must have sensed it too, because his hand moved to your cheek, lifting your face gently so that your eyes met his. His expression softened, the hardness of the general gone, replaced by the tenderness of a man who cared deeply for you.

“You’re tired,” he said quietly, his voice filled with concern. “You should rest.”

You opened your mouth to protest, not wanting to leave his embrace, not wanting to lose the warmth of his presence. But he only smiled, his thumb brushing across your cheek in a soothing motion. “Stay here. With me.”

It was more than just an invitation. It was a promise, a reassurance that you didn’t have to return to the cold solitude of your small, servant's quarters. Tonight, you could stay here, beside him, and find some peace in his arms.

You breathed in the scent of him, your heart finding a slow, steady rhythm against his, and in the safety of his embrace, you finally let go.

Marcus’s hand continued to stroke your hair, even as sleep pulled you under. You could feel his heartbeat beneath your palm, strong and sure, and it lulled you into the sweetest, most peaceful sleep you had known in years.

And just before the darkness of sleep claimed you completely, you felt him press one last kiss to your temple, his lips soft and warm against your skin.

“Goodnight, my love,” he whispered.

And with that, you fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, wrapped safely in his arms.

The days that followed were filled with an eerie calm, the quiet before the storm neither of you could ignore. You and Marcus fell into a rhythm of stolen moments—brushed hands when no one was looking, lingering glances that spoke more than words could ever say. In the dim light of dawn, in the safety of his quarters, your world shrank to just the two of you, the outside concerns held at bay for a little while longer.

But the world, especially one as ruthless as the Roman Empire, couldn’t be held back forever.

It began with hushed whispers from the servants, news of political maneuvering at the highest levels. You heard it first while fetching water from the well. Two women were gossiping, their voices low but clear enough for you to overhear.

“The Emperor’s orders,” one of them said, her tone almost gleeful. “General Acacius is to marry Lucilla, they say. It’s all but decided.”

Your stomach dropped, the bucket in your hand suddenly too heavy. You froze in place, the weight of those words sinking into you like a stone. Marcus is to marry. The Emperor’s will was absolute, and any personal desires, any feelings, would be swept away like dust in the wind.

You barely remember how you made it back to Marcus’s quarters, your mind a blur of emotions—dread, anger, helplessness. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat echoing with the terrible reality you were trying to push away. By the time you arrived, your hands were trembling, your breath shallow as if the air itself had become too heavy to breathe.

When Marcus walked in later that evening, you could see it in his face before he even spoke. The weight of duty, the burden of decisions not his own, bore down on him like a heavy cloak. His eyes, once so full of warmth when they met yours, were shadowed with the knowledge of what was to come.

You tried to speak, to find the words to ask him if it was true, but they caught in your throat. Instead, you stood in silence, waiting for him to tell you.

“They’ve ordered it,” he said quietly, his voice strained. He didn’t meet your eyes as he spoke, as if doing so would make it all too real. “The Emperor has arranged a marriage.”

Your heart shattered at that moment, but you willed yourself not to show it. You had always known this was a possibility—he was a man of power and status, and the empire would always demand his obedience. Still, knowing didn’t soften the blow. You felt like the air had been knocked out of your chest.

Marcus took a step closer to you, his expression pained. “I didn’t want this,” he murmured. “I don’t want her.”

He reached for you, his hand hovering just above your arm as if unsure whether he still had the right to touch you. The distance between you felt insurmountable now, the shadow of his impending marriage looming over everything you had built together.

You pulled back, just enough to break the unspoken promise of his touch. “But you must,” you said, your voice trembling. “You have no choice.”

Marcus’s eyes finally met yours, and the anguish in them was more than you could bear. “I swore I would protect you, that I wouldn’t let anything take you from me.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to stay strong even as the tears threatened to fall. “And I swore I would stay by your side, no matter what,” you whispered. “But Marcus, this… this is the world we live in…I can’t stay here just to watch you being married to a woman who is not me.”

“I can’t lose you,” he said, his voice breaking. “I can’t pretend this marriage means anything to me. It’s politics, nothing more. You are what I want.”

You felt your resolve crumbling, the enormity of what you were facing pulling you under. “But once you’re married…” The words felt like poison on your tongue. “Once you’re bound to her…”

He shook his head fiercely, stepping closer again, this time not hesitating as he took your hands in his. His touch was warm, familiar, but it couldn’t erase the reality pressing down on both of you. “I won’t let her come between us. I won’t.”

Tears filled your eyes despite your best efforts to hold them back. You couldn’t stop the ache in your chest, the knowledge that your love would now have to exist in the shadows of Marcus’s new life—hidden, secret, and forbidden.

“What kind of life is that for us?” you asked, your voice breaking. “A love hidden away, always in the dark?”

Marcus’s jaw clenched, his eyes blazing with desperation. “We’ll find a way,” he insisted. “Even if the world says we can’t… we’ll find a way.”

You wanted to believe him, you wanted to hold on to the love that had grown between you, but the cold reality was seeping into every corner of your heart. This marriage wasn’t just an obstacle—it was a wall that you couldn’t break through.

You stepped away, pulling your hands free from his grasp. The distance between you felt like a chasm now, one that neither of you could cross. “I don’t know if love is enough,” you whispered, the weight of the world pressing down on your chest. “I won’t have my heart broken every day of my life just for you to see me from afar.”

Your words hung heavy in the air, each one a dagger piercing both your hearts. Marcus's face fell, the determination in his eyes flickering like a candle in the wind. He reached out once more, but hesitated, his hand hovering between you as if unsure whether he still had the right to touch you.

"Mea columba, please," he pleaded, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Don't say that. Don't give up on what we have."

A tear slipped down your cheek, and you quickly brushed it away, straightening your spine to muster whatever strength you had left. "I'm not giving up," you replied softly. "But I can't live a life where I'm constantly in the shadows, hiding what I feel, watching you build a life with someone else."

He shook his head vehemently. "My marriage to Lucilla will be in name only. It means nothing compared to what I feel for you."

"But it changes everything," you insisted, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions. "She will be your wife. She will stand beside you in public, share your home, perhaps even bear your children. Where does that leave me? Sneaking around in the dark, pretending I don't exist whenever others are near?"

Marcus's expression crumpled, pain etched into every line of his face. "I would never ask you to diminish yourself like that."

"But that's exactly what this would be," you said, stepping back further to put some distance between you. "I deserve more than to be a secret, Marcus. And deep down, you know that."

He opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. The silence stretched between you, filled only by the distant sounds of the bustling city beyond the walls—a world that seemed determined to keep you apart.

Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse. "What are you saying?"

You took a shaky breath, gathering the courage to face the truth you'd been avoiding. "I'm saying that perhaps it's time for me to leave."

His eyes widened in alarm. "Leave? No, you can't. I won't allow it."

A bitter smile tugged at your lips. "You can't keep me here, not like this. Not when staying would mean watching you live a life, I can never be a part of."

Desperation flashed across his face. "I can speak to the Emperor. I can refuse the marriage. There must be a way—"

"And risk everything you've worked for? Your honor, your position?" You shook your head sadly. "You and I both know that's not possible. The Emperor's command is absolute. Defying him would only bring ruin upon you."

"I would risk it for you," he insisted, taking a bold step forward. "For us."

"And that's precisely why I can't let you do that," you replied gently. "I won't be the cause of your downfall.” You inhaled “Because you would end up despising me for it.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every movement. "So, what then? We part ways? Pretend none of this ever happened?"

You felt your heart break a little more at the pain in his voice. "I don't want to forget," you said softly. "I will cherish every moment we've shared. But sometimes, love isn't enough to overcome the obstacles before us."

Marcus's shoulders sagged, defeat washing over him. "I can't accept that."

"Neither can I," you admitted, tears welling up once more. "But it's the only way we can both move forward without destroying each other."

He looked at you with a profound sadness, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hope. "Where will you go?"

You offered a small, sad smile. "I'll find somewhere. Perhaps another household, or maybe I'll find a way to make a life for myself beyond these walls."

A tense silence settled between you. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely audible. "When?"

You swallowed hard. "Soon. Before the marriage takes place."

He closed his eyes briefly, as if trying to steady himself against the inevitable. "At least allow me to ensure you're safe. Let me arrange for you to be placed somewhere you'll be treated well."

You considered refusing but knew it would ease his mind. "Alright," you agreed quietly. "Thank you."

Marcus stepped closer once more, and this time you didn't pull away as he reached out to cup your face gently in his hands. "I love you," he whispered, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "That will never change."

A sob escaped your lips, and you placed your hand over his. "And I love you. More than you could ever know."

He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, and for a moment, the two of you stood there, memorizing every detail of each other's faces—the warmth of your breaths mingling, the softness of his touch, the sorrow in his eyes.

"Promise me something," he said softly.

"Anything."

"Promise me you'll find happiness," he murmured. "That you'll live the life you deserve."

You nodded slowly. "I promise."

A single tear rolled down his cheek, and he pulled you into a tight embrace, holding you as if it were the last time—as indeed it might be. You clung to him, wishing you could freeze time, keep this moment suspended forever.

After what felt like both an eternity and a mere heartbeat, you pulled away, knowing that if you didn't leave now, you might never find the strength again. "Goodbye, Marcus," you whispered.

He reached into the folds of his tunic and pulled out a small object—a simple silver pendant engraved with a laurel wreath. "Take this," he said, pressing it into your hand. "So you'll always have a part of me with you."

You looked down at the pendant, your vision blurred by tears. "I will treasure it always."

With a final, lingering glance, you turned and walked away, each step heavier than the last. As you left his chambers, the weight of your decision settled fully upon you, but beneath the pain, there was a quiet resolve. You were choosing your own path, difficult as it was.

Behind you, Marcus remained standing, watching you go until you disappeared from sight. The echo of your footsteps faded, leaving him alone with the emptiness of the room and the ache in his heart.

The days that followed were a blur. True to his word, Marcus arranged for you to be placed in the household of a kind widow on the outskirts of the city. The woman, Julia, welcomed you warmly, unaware of the depth of your connection to the general. To her, you were simply a skilled servant in need of a place, and she was grateful for the help.

Life in Julia's home was peaceful, a stark contrast to the turmoil of your emotions. Each day, you performed your duties diligently, but your thoughts often drifted back to Marcus—the sound of his voice, the warmth of his embrace, the intensity of his gaze as he declared his love for you.

News of his impending marriage reached you through whispers in the marketplace. The union was to be a grand affair, solidifying political alliances and elevating Marcus's standing even further. You tried to steel yourself against the pang of jealousy and sorrow that accompanied these rumors, reminding yourself that this was the path he was bound to follow.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson, you found yourself standing on a hill overlooking the city. The distant sounds of celebration drifted up to you—the marriage ceremony was taking place. Clutching the silver pendant around your neck, you closed your eyes and whispered a silent farewell.

"May you find happiness," you murmured into the evening breeze. "And may our paths cross again in another life."

As the first stars appeared in the sky, you took a deep breath and turned away from the city. There was a whole world beyond Rome's walls, and perhaps, in time, you would find your place in it—where you could heal and maybe even find joy once more.

Weeks passed, each one heavier than the last. You had settled into Julia’s villa , trying to find peace in the simplicity of your new life. But the ache in your heart remained, the thought of Marcus and his looming marriage never far from your mind. Each night, you clutched the silver pendant he had given you, hoping it might somehow tether your heart to his, even from a distance.

It had been months since you had last seen him, and you had resigned yourself to the reality that Marcus’s life had moved on, even if yours still felt frozen in time. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

One late afternoon, as you were tending to the garden outside Julia’s villa, you heard the distant sound of horses approaching. You looked up, wiping your hands on your apron, and saw a group of soldiers in familiar Roman armor riding up the path. Your heart skipped a beat. Could it be?

When they came to a stop, your breath caught in your throat. There, dismounting from his horse, was Marcus—his eyes searching frantically until they landed on you.

Your heart raced, and before you could even process what was happening, Marcus was striding toward you, his face a mix of determination and relief.

"Marcus?" you whispered, barely able to believe your eyes.

Without hesitation, he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, as if he had been afraid you might vanish if he let go. His warmth surrounded you, and for the first time in months, you allowed yourself to hope again.

"I found you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I told you we'd find a way."

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, confusion clouding your thoughts. "But… your marriage? Lucilla?"

Marcus shook his head, his gaze locked with yours. "It's over. The Emperor himself annulled it."

Your breath caught in your throat. "What? How? Why?"

A faint smile touched his lips, though his eyes were serious. "Lucilla… she didn’t want this marriage any more than I did. She petitioned to me, and together we spoke to the emperor. She’s in love with someone else, someone who she could never marry while bound to me." He paused, his thumb gently brushing your cheek. "And the Emperor, surprisingly, agreed to release both of us."

You stared at him, stunned, unable to fully comprehend what he was saying. "So, you’re free?"

He nodded. "I’m free, mea columba. I can choose my own path now. And I’ve come to ask you to walk it with me."

Tears welled in your eyes, but this time, they were tears of joy. "Marcus, I…" you stammered, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of emotions. "Is this real? Are you really here?"

He smiled then, the first genuine smile you’d seen from him in so long. "Yes, it's real. I love you. I don’t care what anyone else says or thinks. I want you by my side, not in the shadows. I want you to be with me—openly, proudly."

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Everything you had feared, all the obstacles that had once seemed insurmountable, had fallen away. And standing before you was the man you loved, offering you the life you had once thought was impossible.

You smiled through your tears, your heart bursting with happiness. "I love you, Marcus," you whispered. "And yes, I’ll walk that path with you. Wherever it leads."

With that, he leaned in and kissed you, a kiss full of promise and hope, sealing the future you would share. At that moment, everything felt right. The shadows of the past no longer held power over you, and the weight of uncertainty had lifted from your shoulders.

Marcus took your hand when he finally pulled away, lacing his fingers through yours. "Come," he said softly. "Let’s go. There’s a whole world waiting for us."

A few months later...

The soft morning light filtered through the open window of the villa, casting a golden glow over the room as you slowly stirred awake. The cool breeze carried the scent of wildflowers from the hills, filling the air with the promise of a new day. You lay in bed, nestled in Marcus's strong arms, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.

For months now, you had known peace, a life far removed from the chaos and expectations of the Roman court. Marcus had retired from the military, choosing a quiet life with you in the countryside. The villa had become your sanctuary, a place where you could live freely, without the burden of secrecy or fear. No more hiding in the shadows—your love had found the light.

Gently, you shifted in Marcus’s embrace, your hand resting over your growing belly. A small, soft smile spread across your face as you felt the faint flutter of movement inside you. Marcus stirred beside you, his arms tightening around you instinctively, as though even in sleep, he wanted to protect you.

You gazed down at your hand, marveling at the life that grew within you—a symbol of the love you and Marcus had fought so hard to protect. This child, your child, was the future you had once feared might never come.

Marcus’s eyes slowly opened, and he smiled sleepily as his gaze met yours. "Good morning," he murmured, his voice deep and warm.

"Good morning," you whispered back, your hand still resting on your belly. His eyes followed the movement, and his expression softened as he reached out to place his hand gently over yours.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice filled with tenderness.

"I'm well," you replied, your smile widening. "The baby’s been very active this morning."

Marcus’s face lit up, and he leaned in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “And he will know freedom.”

His gaze lingered on you, filled with a deep, unwavering love. "I still can’t believe this is real," he said quietly, his thumb gently brushing your hand. "After everything, we’re here—together—and soon, we’ll have a family."

You felt tears prick your eyes, not of sorrow this time, but of pure happiness. "It’s everything I never thought I could have," you admitted softly. "But now, I can’t imagine life any other way."

Marcus leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a tender kiss, one that spoke of all the joy and gratitude you both felt. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, as if savoring the moment.

"I love you, Mea columba" he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "More than words can say."

"And I love you," you replied, your heart swelling with happiness. "For always."

Together, you lay there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the weight of your journey behind you and the promise of a bright future ahead. The child you carried was a testament to your love, a symbol of the life you had built together despite all the odds.

Outside, the world continued to turn, but here, in this quiet, peaceful place, you had everything you had ever dreamed of, Marcus, your love, and the family you would soon welcome into the world.

The future stretched out before you, filled with light, joy, and hope. And as the first rays of sunlight touched the horizon, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you and Marcus would face them together, stronger than ever, bound by a love that had defied the impossible.

Your love had triumphed. And now, the greatest adventure of all was about to begin, the creation of a family, born out of that love.

[velaenam]

𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭

                                                                         ◦ ♡

𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 — non!mc. a princess from a powerful merchant kingdom is thrust into a political marriage with rome’s most feared military emperor—only to catch the eye of a rival sovereign who believes her freedom is worth starting a war. 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 — set during the early imperial period of rome, the story unfolds at the height of political intrigue and military dominance, where empires clash, alliances shift. story will take place between 1st century bce �� 2nd century ce, give or take. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 — swearing, nsfw language, political manipulation, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, toxic relationships, war and violence, sexual themes, misogyny/patriarchal culture, classism and elitism, culture tensions, xenophobia, racism, non consensual stuff at times.. uhh.. romantic love triangle, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — hey sexies hope ur well. lets get this bread. 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — 1 of ? | previous chapter / next chapter / playlist — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! if you'd like to read the xavier x reader sequel my good friend @rcvcgers has a story! it's amazing, please check it out!

the northern frontier, outskirts of vindobona, the hills burned with the color of dying fire—deep orange bleeding into bruised purple. smoke still rose in fine trails from blackened trees, and the scent of damp earth, blood, and charred wood hung thick over the landscape. what remained of the last germanic stronghold lay behind them in silence, smoldering into surrender.

the roman banners stirred in the wind—red and gold frayed at the edges, streaked with ash. marching in clean formation behind them, the legions trudged through the cold mud, their armor dulled by days of combat and frost. horses snorted, restless but obedient, hooves sinking with every step.

at the head of the column rode caesar caleb and behind him was the praetoria xiv, his elite guards, headed by prefect praetorio gideon, his close friend and right hand man (but was in rome currently)

caleb looked like a war god carved into motion—his lorica musculata dulled by soot, etched with old dents and new blood, the bronze eagle on his chest tarnished but still proud. his imperial cloak, if it had once been worn, was long since discarded. he bore no laurels. no polished ornament. only steel and weight and silence.

the reins in his gloved hands were wrapped twice around his fingers. he rode without fanfare, but no soldier dared ride ahead of him.

to his left, general septus adjusted in his saddle, old joints aching beneath his plated armor. he had fought in a dozen campaigns, but something about this one had settled deeper in his bones. he glanced toward the emperor, the man who had not stood behind lines—but at the front, through every freezing skirmish, every blood-drenched push.

caleb’s eyes were fixed forward.

“how many?” he asked.

septus cleared his throat. “ninety-three dead. fifteen more expected to fall by nightfall. one hundred and two wounded.” a pause, “and the tribe?”

“their chieftain surrendered when we reached the inner ring. before we even breached the palisade.” a beat. “laid down his own sword. didn’t beg.”

caleb didn’t speak. his jaw flexed once. the leather of his gloves creaked softly. “he was smart,” he said at last. they continued in silence for several strides, the cadence of hooves and boots filling the space between words. crows flapped overhead, circling what little remained of the fires.

“most emperors,” septus said after a moment, “don’t lead charges anymore.” caleb’s gaze didn’t waver. “most emperors,” he said quietly, “have someone left to bury them.” it wasn’t said with bitterness. just truth. cold and clean. septus tilted his head in faint amusement, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

behind them, the legion shifted formation as they approached the stone bridge that would carry them south. the wind picked up—sharp, dry, biting through the fabric of exposed cloaks.

“rumor says you’ll be married by spring,” septus said, half-casual, eyes fixed ahead. caleb didn’t answer right away. then, “the senate confirmed it during the campaign,” he replied. “the offer was made. nabira accepted.”

“a trade agreement with silk and rings.” septus snorted. “practical.”

“they’re always practical until someone bleeds.” septus looked over at him, arching a brow. “is she that sharp?” caleb’s jaw tensed, but his voice remained steady. “so are most blades.”

“you don’t seem thrilled.” – “do i ever?”

“no,” the general said, smiling faintly. “that’s how we know it’s real.” 

they rode on, past the tree line, where the grass grew yellow and sparse. the scent of pine gave way to dust.

“will you rule her?” septus asked, his tone quieter now. caleb didn’t answer immediately. his eyes scanned the road, the horizon beyond—miles of land still marked with war. “i don’t know if she can be ruled,” he said finally. “and i haven’t decided if that’s a strength or a threat.”

septus nodded, like a man who understood more than he was willing to say aloud. “you’ll decide,” he murmured. “you always do.”

caleb didn’t reply. he simply kept riding, the fading sun casting long shadows across the earth. soldiers behind him followed in silence—battle-weary, blood-worn, but whole. they did not cheer. they did not call his name. but when he passed, they bowed their heads. not because of the laurels, the throne, but because he bled beside them. because he walked through fire and never once looked back.

the wind is dry but sweet, drifting through the lattice work with the scent of myrrh and honeyed citrus. you sit beneath the acacia tree in the inner garden, tracing idle shapes into the rim of your tea dish. the petals of fallen blossoms scatter across the stone floor like gold dust.   

you hear the soft jingle of his jewelry before you see him. “you’re late,” you say without looking up. “you’re sulking,” your brother replies, stepping into the light with his usual casual grace. “so we’re both playing to form.”

you glance up, and despite yourself, despite everything, you feel the tightness in your chest ease. he looks the same: sun-touched skin, robes the color of pomegranate wine, a merchant’s calm in his eyes and a diplomat’s weight on his shoulders. you could only hope you become something of sophistication. 

“i brought you saffron,” he says, sitting beside you. “the good kind. and pistachios roasted in salt, not spice annnnd—i remembered this time.” he holds up a bag of the finest pomegranates.

“trying to bribe me with food?” you murmur, taking the pouch from his hand. “always,” he grins. for a while, there’s only the soft hum of bees in the flowering trees. a drowsy peace. a stillness before something inevitable. he exhales. “they told me you’ve been quiet,” he says. “that you’re not sleeping.”

you shrug. “you shouldn’t listen to the staff.” – “i listen to everyone. it’s part of my curse.”

you don’t answer. your hands are still. your heart is not. he watches you for a moment longer, then says, gently, “you’ll be leaving soon.”

the words hang in the air like smoke. you nod “and you’ve met him?” – “briefly,” he says then he goes quiet, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. his rings catch the sun.

“rome is not nabira,” he says quietly. “you know this. but i’ll say it again. you cannot speak as freely there. you cannot carry yourself like you do here. their walls listen. their women are watched.”

you lift your chin slightly. “i know how to move in a cage.” he sighs. “i don’t want you in a cage at all.” you look at him. the man who taught you how to negotiate in three languages before you could hold a blade. the boy who once stole oranges for you from the temple courtyard just to make you laugh.

“what do you know of him?” you ask.

“emperor caleb?” he says, straightening. “he’s cold. brilliant. a man who wears restraint like a second skin. and a man the world would rather kneel for than fight.” you nod, absorbing it all. you’re quiet for a long moment, then: “do you trust him?” his eyes flicker.

“no,” he says. “but that doesn’t mean you’re not strong enough to handle him.”

you glance at the garden walls, at the vines curling along the marble. at the city you are about to leave behind. “i hate this,” you say. “so do i,” he replies. “but sometimes hate is the price of survival.”

he reaches over and presses a small bundle into your hand—another charm, another promise. something sweet to keep close when the walls in rome close too tightly. “i’ll write,” he says.

“you always do,” you murmur. he smiles. and you smile too but only a little. because this is still nabira. and for one more day, you’re still hers.

..

..

domina (latin for mistress/lady)

you wake up crying.

not loudly. just tears slipping out before your thoughts can catch up—before the weight of where you are reminds your body to stay still. the silks beneath you are stiff, foreign. the light is wrong. it cuts through thick roman drapery, sharp and pale, not golden and soft like home.

your throat is tight. everything smells like stone. rosewater and crushed fig drift up faintly, and you realize you’re not alone. gentle fingers brush your cheek. a quiet voice follows.

“you’re awake, domina.”

your maids stand nearby. one holds the silver basin. the other holds your favorite gold comb from nabira. both keep their eyes respectfully lowered. you don’t answer. you just sit up, slowly, letting the veil slip from your shoulder. your heart still feels too full. like it doesn’t know where to put all the grief. you were torn away from home—maybe not forever, but long enough for it to feel like exile. rome is not your kingdom. it never will be. and yet here you are.

“would you like your usual perfume, my lady?” the younger maid asks, lifting a small crystal vial.

you pause. then nod once. “yes,” you whisper. “that one.” 

the scent is warm. spiced with saffron, cardamom, and something citrus. your mother once said it made you smell like the sun itself. today, it just smells like longing.you close your eyes as they begin the ritual. hair unbound and rebraided. you let them dress you like a statue—silent, polished, distant. “domina you are beautiful.” one of your servants tug your dress down to flatten it, careful not to ruin the intricacies that lie beneath. 

“the depart begins soon” the elder maid says quietly. 

you say nothing for a moment. then you open your eyes. the silence that follows is thick with understanding.

the gates of rome stood open like the jaws of some ancient, sleeping god—tall and unyielding, carved in triumph and shadow. the sun beat down on white stone and bronze shields, catching every surface until the whole city shimmered with light.

they had been waiting for hours.

crowds pressed in from every street, shoulder to shoulder along the main thoroughfare, stretching all the way to the forum. flower petals littered the cobblestones. laurel branches were tied to banners. children perched on their fathers’ shoulders. even the priests had left their temples to watch.

and when they saw him, the roar started. from the people they hail their great caesar. the victorious one.

“imperator!”

“hail caesar!”

“roma invicta!”

they shouted his name until the air shook with it.

emperor caleb rode beneath the arch on horseback, draped now in imperial blue and orange, the sun catching the gold trim along his shoulders. a newly polished cuirass gleamed across his chest, but it did not hide the scuffs along his arms or the fresh scar at his jawline.

he wore his crown of laurel with the stillness of a statue and the exhaustion of a soldier. and he did not smile. he didn’t need to.

the people loved him not for pageantry, but for presence. for being the emperor who led from the front. who bled in foreign snow and came back standing.

behind him, the standard bearers marched, holding the flags of conquered provinces. his legions followed in perfect formation, but it was him the crowd watched. him they reached for. they called blessings, threw olive branches, wept at the sight of him.

he gave a single nod as he passed through the gates.

inside the city, nobles and senators waited on the steps of the curia, clothed in silk and gold, faces carefully arranged into admiration. among them stood his right hand– gideon, watching from beneath his helmet, saying nothing, but seeing everything.

a voice somewhere near the front cried, “ave, caesar! glory to the great emperor of rome!”

another shouted, “the gods walk with you, imperator!”

and still caleb did not wave. still he did not raise his hand. he looked at his city like a man returning to something heavier than war.

because war was simple. victory was clean. politics was neither.

he dismounted only at the foot of the steps, boots hitting stone with a deep, deliberate sound, and as he ascended toward the curia, flanked by marble and thunder, the crowd quieted just enough to let the weight of him pass.

rome welcomed its son with firelight and silence. and the city remembered why it bowed.

the cheering had faded. the petals were swept. the gates had closed.

now, the marble halls of the imperial residence were quiet—cool with shadow, heavy with gold-trimmed silence. caleb moved without guards. he didn’t need them here. every corridor, every arch, bent to him.

gideon was already waiting in the side chamber when he arrived—standing by the window, arms folded behind his back, his armor still dusted from parade formation. he didn’t bow. he never did.

“you look like hell,” gideon said without turning.

“i just conquered a northern rebellion,” caleb replied, voice full of amusement. “being handsome, is far from my mind right now.”

gideon glanced over his shoulder. “should i tell the sculptors to capture the scar or smooth it over for the statues?”

“leave it,” caleb said. “let them remember i was there.”

he stepped inside, rolling his shoulder until the muscles cracked. his body was beginning to feel the weight of the war—too many nights in tents, too many winters on horseback. the fire pit had been lit. a basin of wine waited.

gideon handed him a scroll. caleb grabs and opens it, before 

“senate tried to vote on a grain tariff while you were gone,” he said. “i buried it.” – “good.”

“they also tried to promote senator lucan to ‘imperial advisor on foreign affairs.’ i buried that too.” caleb raised a brow. “how?”

gideon smirked. “i mentioned his taste for married noblewomen and his personal debt to nabiran gold merchants.” a pause. caleb let out a soft exhale—half tired, half impressed.

“i missed you,” he muttered. gideon stifled a laugh as he nods, “i know.”

there was a comfortable silence. one only earned after years of shared blood and silence in the dirt. gideon pulled off his gloves and leaned against the far table, crossing one boot over the other.

“they’re whispering about the marriage,” he said, “i assumed.”

“the princess hasn’t arrived yet, but the court’s already full of opinions. they say she’s clever. stubborn. nabira wrapped in veils and steel.”

caleb nodded once. “sounds accurate.” – “you planning to fall in love with this one?” gideon asked, dry.

caleb gave him a look, “you know i don’t have the luxury of love.”

“no,” gideon said. “but you’ve been known to do stupid things for women before.” caleb didn’t answer. gideon’s expression softened just slightly. “she’s not the same as the last one, is she?”

“no,” caleb said after a long pause. “she’s not.”

they didn’t speak for a while. the fire cracked. outside, the city still rustled—the buzz of rome never truly stopped.

“get some rest,” gideon said eventually, pushing off the table. “tomorrow they’ll be lining up with scrolls and tribute. senators love to circle after blood’s been spilled.”

caleb gave a faint nod. gideon started to walk off, then paused at the door. he glanced over his shoulder.

“for what it’s worth,” he said, quieter now. “i’m glad you came back.” caleb looked at him. 

“don’t i always?”

gideon shrugged. “one day you won’t. and we both know it.” and then he was gone. the door closed, and caleb stood alone. just for a moment. just long enough to feel it.

.

the doors close behind gideon, and caleb stands alone with the quiet. he doesn’t move for a while. the fire crackles. outside, the sky is softening into blue-grey. he loosens the ties of his cloak with one hand, shrugs it from his shoulders, and lets it fall where it lands. the basin of water nearby has gone tepid but he doesn’t care.

he’s halfway through pulling off his gloves when he hears her, his mistress.

the door doesn’t creak. it never does when she enters. he doesn’t look at her—not at first. but he feels it, that shift in the air. her presence presses differently than anyone else’s. not heavy, but familiar. like a hand at his back.

“you came back,” she says softly.

he finally turns.

she looks the same, but a bit more refined. more shadow around the eyes. her gown clings like memory. deep plum silk, loose at the shoulders, gold at the throat. her hair pinned high, but barely. like it didn’t want to stay up.

“barely,” he says, voice low.

she crosses the room in three slow steps and stops just in front of him. doesn’t touch him. not yet.

“i missed you,” she says.

he looks at her for a long moment. then reaches up and brushes his fingers along the side of her face. her cheek is warm. always is.

“did you,” he murmurs. she nods. “enough to hate you for it.” he huffs a breath. something like a laugh. and then he kisses her– not gently.

his hand slips into her hair, fingers tangling in the pins. her mouth meets his with something between hunger and heat—neither of them soft, not anymore. the weeks apart burned too long. they kiss like punishment. like prayer. like people who’ve had to go too long pretending they’re just flesh and not history.

she pulls him by the front of his armor, and he lets her. he always lets her. they move through the room in slow collisions. wine spills. a shoulder hits the edge of the marble table. her bracelets scatter across the floor like coins.

he presses her back against the column. breathes her in. her hands slip under the edge of his cuirass, find the skin just above his waist. he lets out a sound low in his throat.

“caleb,” she whispers.

his name sounds different when she says it. like it belongs to someone before the crown.

he kisses her again. slower this time. more ache than heat. he hasn’t touched anyone since he left.  

.

the room is warm now. not with fire, but with breath. with the kind of quiet that only comes after.

his armor lies discarded beside the bed. her dress is somewhere near the foot of it, silk pooled like spilled wine across the stone. the curtains shift gently in the wind.

he lies on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he’s trying to remember where he is. his hair is still damp at the temples. his jawline shadowed with exhaustion.

she’s curled beside him, thigh draped over his, her fingers tracing the scar at his rib—one she hadn’t seen before.

“this one’s new,” she murmurs. “a spear,” he says quietly. “got too close.”

she doesn’t ask why. she knows he never tells the story unless someone dies from it. instead, she presses a soft kiss over the scar and rests her head against his chest.

“they cheered for you today,” she says after a while, her voice barely above a whisper. “like you were a god.”

he doesn’t respond. “you hate it,” she adds. he nods once. “they forget i bleed,” he says. she traces a slow line along his collarbone. “i don’t.” he turns to look at her then. just for a moment. the candlelight flickers across her bare shoulder, across the curve of her spine. there is a quiet in her gaze that unnerves him more than war ever could.

“you’re tired,” she whispers – “always.” she shifts closer. kisses his throat. not for want, not for hunger—just to remind him he’s still a man beneath the weight.

“rest,” she tells him. “rome will still be here when you wake.” he doesn’t answer. but his hand finds hers under the linen. and he doesn’t let go.

the sun hasn’t risen yet. but the city is already awake.

servants move like ghosts through the palace halls. trunks are being tied to camels. farewell gifts packed into velvet-lined chests. figs, saffron, carved bone combs. nothing too heavy. nothing too sentimental.

your handmaid wraps your wrists in gold thread while another pins your veil into place. everything smells like home and yet nothing feels like it.

your brother stands outside the gate, arms folded. he won’t follow you past this point.

“i had another horse chosen for you,” he says. “the black one you like.”

you nod. “thank you.” he hesitates as his jaw tightens. “rome isn’t kind,” he says. “you don’t have to be either.”

you look at him then, and your eyes say everything your mouth cannot. you are his sister.. you were not meant for cages, but you’ve learned how to walk in them anyway.

when you ride through the gates of nabira, the streets are lined with quiet. there are no crowds. no petals. just silence. your veil catches in the wind. your fingers curl slightly around the edge of your seat.

you do not look back. not even once.

the journey to rome was slow and less than ideal, even in a raeda as lavish as the one they had prepared for you. the spacious wagon was draped with silk sheets and embroidered cushions, the faint scent of rose oil clinging to the fabric, but no amount of finery could soften the ache of so many endless miles. you were not afforded the luxury of true rest; the caravan moved almost without stopping, escorts trading shifts like clockwork, their faces changing each time you pulled the curtain aside. most nights you stayed awake, stretched out among the silks with a shuttered lantern beside you, ink staining your fingers as you wrote in your diary. you watched the world crawl by—crumbling villas swallowed by fields, the broken ribs of aqueducts against the horizon, olive trees twisting like old bones along the ridges. every turn of the wheels carried you further from home and deeper into the mouth of a city you had only ever heard whispered about. and somewhere deep in your chest, you could already feel rome reaching for you.

..

..

..

“domina, we are here.” 

one of your guards mutters through silken drapes. your eyes snap open as you shuffle upwards. the city rose before you like a dream drawn in marble and gold. even through the thick curtains of your raeda, you could see it—white stone blazing under the sun, banners rippling in every color you had ever known and a few you hadn't. the gates yawned open, wide enough to swallow a kingdom whole, and your caravan slipped through them like a bead through a thread. for a long moment, you forgot to breathe. fountains danced at every square, spilling crystal water into shallow basins where children and merchants crowded alike. villas clung to the hills in proud terraces, draped in flowers and silk awnings that snapped in the high breeze. the streets shimmered with dust and rose petals crushed into the cobblestones, filling the air with the scent of life—ripe figs, burning incense, spiced wine. laughter and music rose and fell in waves between the towering columns. you had imagined rome as cold, carved, ruthless. and it was. but it was also alive—so terribly, vividly alive it ached to look at. you pressed your hand against the silk at your side, steadying yourself against the rush of color and sound. you had arrived. and the empire was already pulling you into its pulse.

marble pillars soar around the central forum like white sentinels, casting long shadows across the gathered assembly. sounds of glorious trumpet plays as a line of men and women drape the building like a red carpet. rome has spared no expense to welcome you– the princess of nabira, the city crowned in sun, veined with gold.

the raeda slowed as it pulled into the inner courtyard, wheels grinding softly against smooth stone. sunlight spilled over everything—blinding on the white marble, gilding the steps where rows of senators and noblewomen waited, clothed in silks so fine they seemed to shimmer like water. a fountain splashed somewhere close by. you could hear the murmurs already—the shift of sandals, the rustle of robes—as your arrival rippled through the crowd like a dropped stone in a still pool.

a handmaiden unlatched the door and stepped back, bowing low.

you step beneath a silver archway carved with laurels and depictions of battles in their full and autonomous glory. your blue-ivory stola flows like river silk, the color catching sunlight in watery ripples. your veil is thin, pinned with mother-of-pearl. but it's the jewelry– dozens of rings on your slim fingers, bracelets stacked in glimmering rows, gold and lapis earrings dancing at your ears that announces your arrival before your name is ever spoken.

you lifted your chin. you were not here to be appraised.  you were here to be remembered.

at the foot of the steps, a man in deep purple robes approached—his face lined with power and the dust of too many years in senate halls.

“princess of nabira,” he said, bowing low with a flourish that was almost mocking in its grandeur. “on behalf of the senate and the people of rome, welcome to the eternal city.”

you inclined your head just slightly. gracious, but unbending.

other nobles followed—introductions you barely heard, names flowing over you like a river you had no wish to swim. you answered when required, smiled when demanded, but your eyes kept lifting past the crush of gold and laurel—

searching. because you could feel it. the space he left open at the top of the stairs.  the place where he would stand.

and then—

you saw him.

emperor caleb.

he stood beneath the great arch of the curia, draped in a deep imperial blue that caught the sunlight and set him ablaze with a kind of terrible beauty. his breastplate gleamed, etched with the eagle of rome, but it was his purple gaze that arrested you—sharp, calculating, unreadable even across the span of the courtyard.

he didn’t move he just watched you cross the distance between what you were  and what you would now become. your breath caught once—only once. then you began to walk: toward the man who would shape your fate, whether by his hand—or your own.

the courtyard fell into a hush as you crossed the flagstones. the senators parted like cloth before you, the rustle of their robes barely a whisper against the stone. every step you took echoed faintly in the high, golden air.

he waited at the top of the shallow stairs, the imperial standard behind him, rippling bright as fire. caleb did not step forward to meet you. he let you come to him.

you stopped a measured distance away—close enough to show respect, far enough to show pride—and bowed your head, slow, deliberate, letting the sun catch on the jewelry threaded through your hair. when you lifted your gaze again, his eyes were already on you, unblinking.

you opened your mouth to speak first.

"hail, emperor caleb." your voice was calm, low, steady. "i come on behalf of nabira, with respect in my step and iron in my spine."

a murmur rippled through the gathered nobles at your boldness. caleb’s expression did not change. but something in the line of his mouth seemed to tighten, almost imperceptibly.

he answered without hesitation, voice rich and carrying easily across the courtyard.

"hail, princess of nabira," he said, the words formal, but weighted. "daughter of golden kings. steel of the east. rome welcomes you."

you felt the weight of it—not a greeting. a claim.

the senators bowed at his cue. a wave of movement around you, but you stayed still, feeling his gaze pin you in place. he descended the last step toward you, his caligae striking the stone with slow deliberation. when he towered before you, only a breath away, he extended his hand—palm up, not to command, but to offer.

the air between you was thick with expectation. you placed your hand lightly into his. a pulse passed between your skin and his. his fingers closed around yours, firm, but not bruising.

for a heartbeat, the entire city seemed to still.

then he turned, still holding your hand, presenting you to the forum, to the senate, to rome itself.

the crowd roared.

he led you through the arched colonnade, the murmur of the crowd fading behind you like the tide pulling away from shore. the stone beneath your sandals was warm from the afternoon sun, each step echoing softly between the towering marble pillars. servants bowed low as you passed, pressing themselves against the walls to make way, but caleb walked as if he didn’t notice. 

you stole a glance at him as you matched your pace to his.

he was taller up close than you remembered from the courtyard, broad through the shoulders, the imperial cloak falling heavy against the sculpted lines of his armor. the crown of laurel sat low against his brow, casting shadows across his sharp features. even in the heat, even after what must have been a grueling march home, he looked composed—untouchable. dangerous. the kind of man carved not by soft court life, but by fire and long winters and the weight of command.

it was unfair, you thought absently, how a man could look like that and still walk as if he carried no burden heavier than a sword. it made your mouth a little too dry. made your heart beat just a little too fast under the thin silk draped against your ribs.

“was the journey long?” his voice broke the quiet, low and rich, filling the space between you with almost casual gravity.

you blinked once, pulling your mind back from the way the sunlight caught against the gold trim of his cuirass.

“longer than it needed to be,” you answered, keeping your tone light, diplomatic. “your roads are fine enough..”

for the first time, you saw it—the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. not a full smile. but something close. something real.

“rome’s roads outlast kings and conquerors ” he said. 

you let out a soft, genuine laugh before you could stop yourself. he glanced sideways at you, as if memorizing the sound.

“we’ll see to it that you are afforded more comfort now that you are here,” he added, voice smoothing back into something more formal, but not unkind.

you nodded, lifting your chin just slightly, fighting the ridiculous urge to trip over your own sandals under the weight of his attention.

“i ask for little,” you said.

he paused at the base of a marble staircase, turning fully toward you. the sunlight caught against the polished planes of his armor, blinding for a moment, and for a heartbeat you thought—no, knew—that whatever promises this man made, he would keep. even if it burned the world to do so.

his gaze held yours.

“princess of nabira,” he said quietly, almost like a vow. “you will not have to ask.”

and then he turned, leading you upward into the palace, leaving you to follow with your heart pounding traitorously against your ribs. 

he led you through a narrower corridor now, quieter than the grand halls, the servants peeling away with each turn until it was only the two of you and the soft echo of your steps against polished stone. torchlight flickered against the gold-inlaid mosaics on the walls—scenes of heroes, gods, and conquests, all watching silently as you passed.

the doors he stopped before were carved from dark cedar, bound in bronze. two guards posted at either side bowed low as he approached, then turned their faces away, giving you privacy without needing a word.

he pushed the doors open himself.

you stepped inside—and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

the suite was vast, more a wing than a chamber. vaulted ceilings painted in deep lapis and gold arched overhead. silk-draped couches lined the walls, and in the center, a massive bed waited—its frame carved from dark wood, draped in layers of ivory and deep blue, matching the colors of rome and the desert both. thick rugs cushioned the marble beneath your sandals. a fountain flowed softly from a corner alcove, sweetening the air with the scent of roses and crushed mint.

it was a room fit for a queen. a room meant to impress you. to claim you. your fingers brushed the edge of one of the silken couches without thinking, grounding yourself against the overwhelming opulence.

behind you, you felt him move.

caleb walked past you, slow, deliberate, as if he owned not just the palace, but the air you breathed. he approached the bed, the heavy folds of his imperial cloak trailing behind him and he sat. the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly what power looked like when it chose to relax.

his arms rested loosely on his thighs, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you and he looked.

he let his gaze trace the length of you—lingering where the silk of your stola clung against the curve of your waist, where the fall of your veil left the slope of your neck bare. there was nothing hurried or shy in the way he took you in. just slow, heavy acknowledgment, like he was memorizing you before a battle he already knew he meant to win.

your throat tightened. the air between you grew heavier, woven with something thicker than perfume and sweeter than roses.

he sat there, unmoving, one hand resting loosely over his knee, his thumb absently brushing the fabric of his cloak. the silence stretched between you—long, velvet-thick, like the moments before a storm breaks.

**non-consensual scene**

then, his voice, low and unhurried:

"take off your stola."

the words landed like a stone dropped into still water. your breath caught in your throat. you stared at him, half expecting him to smirk, to let it hang there as a jest. but his face was unflinching—serious, intent, his gaze never wavering from yours.

you shifted slightly, the silk whispering against your skin as you crossed your arms tightly over your chest. confusion flickered across your features before you found your voice.

"i... i don’t understand," you said, trying for strength, but it wavered in the air between you. "why would you—" he leaned forward slightly, the chain at his throat catching the firelight, throwing a golden gleam  across his breastplate.

"again," he said, softer this time, but no less commanding. "take it off."

your heart hammered against your ribs. you felt rooted to the spot—burning with shame, fear, something else you dared not name. every instinct screamed at you to run, to argue, to defy.

and yet…. your hands moved.

slow, trembling, you reached for the pin at your shoulder. the mother-of-pearl catch slipped free beneath your fingers, and the stola loosened, sliding down your arms in a whisper of silk. it pooled at your feet, leaving you bare, a shift barely meant for public eyes. the cool air kissed your bare skin, and you shivered—not from the chill, but from the unbearable weight of his gaze.

he simply looked. as if you were some sacred thing laid bare at an altar he had no intention of desecrating.

"beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself. "so beautiful."

you stood there, cheeks burning, arms crossed tightly over your chest, unable to meet his eyes.

he rose from the bed and walked. when he reached you, he didn't touch. he only tilted your chin up with two fingers, so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. his other hand gripping your crossed arms, gently— but with the same commanding tone— pulls your arm to your side, so your chest reveals itself to him.

"do not be shy of your body," he said, voice low and devastatingly tender. "the gods made you from fire and light. there is no shame in being seen."

your breath trembled in your throat. you didn't know if you wanted to cry or kiss him. maybe both. 

he released your chin gently, his hand falling back to his side.

for a moment, neither of you moved.

the fire crackled low in the hearth, the silk of your discarded stola puddled at your feet like the shed skin of some softer, braver creature. his words still hung in the air—beautiful, worthy, seen—and you could feel them sinking into your skin, deeper than any wound.

you swallowed hard.

your hands moved instinctively, reaching down to gather the loose folds of your stola back into your arms. the silk felt different now—heavier, almost unfamiliar against your fingers, like a second skin you weren’t sure you wanted to wear again.

you kept your eyes lowered as you wrapped the fabric around your shoulders, hiding your bare arms, your trembling hands. pretending you could still be the girl who first stepped into this palace without knowing how quickly it would strip you bare.

he said nothing and he didn’t try to stop you. he only watched, silent as a blade sheathed just before the killing blow, the heat of his gaze never wavering even as you covered yourself again. you adjusted the drape of the stola with trembling fingers, willing your heart to slow, willing your knees not to give out under the sheer weight of what had just passed between you.

you felt his gaze slide over you once more—slow, reverent—and for a moment you hated how much you wanted him to look at you that way again.

how much you wanted to believe the things he said.

"rest," he said at last, his voice lower now, like the dying embers of a fire. "you’ll need it for what’s to come."

then, without another word, he turned and left, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft, decisive thud.

**end of scene**

.

the fire had burned low by the time you found yourself seated at the small writing table near the window, a wick dipped in tallow situated in the bronze base. the stola hung loose around your shoulders now, your hair undone, your skin still prickling from the memory of him standing so close. you grip the calamus as you take a deep breath, a hand that barely steadied itself, the familiar weight of the diary settling before you like an old, secret friend.

you stared at the blank page for a long time.

the sounds of the city floated faintly from beyond the balcony—distant laughter, the clatter of hooves against stone, the ever-present hum of life that never seemed to sleep here. you closed your eyes for a moment, breathing it in, grounding yourself in the strangeness of it all.

then, slowly, you began to write.

he looked at me like i was made of something holy. not silk. not gold. not treaties or thrones. just… me. i have never been seen like that before. and gods help me, it terrified me more than war ever could.

you paused, ink dripping once onto the corner of the page. you wiped it absently with your thumb, smearing it into a blackened bruise.

he asked me to bare myself. not just my body. my pride. my fear. my armor. and i did. and he did not strike.

you set the quill down gently, folding your hands in your lap as you stared at the words, as if they belonged to someone else.

you weren’t sure if it was love blooming beneath your ribs  or the slow, soft beginning of your own undoing.

maybe both.

.

after you put your diary away you clear your throat, and stand up, adjusting any misplaced pins, and disheveledness, before you set out of your room— to tour yourself.

the morning light flooded the palace halls with a soft, golden haze, catching against the mosaics beneath your sandals and painting the marble columns in pale fire. caleb had left early for the senate, his cloak snapping behind him like a banner as he disappeared down the long corridor lined with statues of forgotten gods. you had been left to your own devices—an invisible suggestion from the chamberlain, a bow too deep to be anything but a dismissal—and so you wandered.

the corridors of the imperial residence stretched endlessly, grander than anything you had seen even in the temples of nabira. domed ceilings soared above you, frescoed with scenes of rome’s triumphs: legions crossing frozen rivers, emperors crowned by winged victories, prisoners kneeling in chains of gold. the walls themselves were art—veined marble from every corner of the empire, gilded friezes depicting battles you had only ever read of in dusty scrolls.

you drifted through them like a shadow.

past courtyards spilling over with citrus trees, the scent of lemon blossoms carried on every breeze. past open galleries where senators and noblemen clustered in whispered knots, robes brushing the floor like the tails of lazy hunting cats. the air smelled of oil and parchment and sun-warmed stone. every surface seemed alive—etched, woven, painted, built not just for function but for legacy, for memory, for fear.

in one chamber, you paused to admire a towering statue of mars—the god of war—his stone eyes forever locked in silent challenge. wreaths of laurel crowned his brow, and offerings of coin and wine pooled at his feet. you wondered briefly if caleb had knelt there once, as a boy, swearing himself to victories not yet earned.

the sound of fountains followed you from hall to hall, low and steady, a heartbeat threaded through the bones of the palace itself. servants moved quietly around you, their eyes averted, their faces carefully blank. even here, in the belly of power, no one spoke freely. you could feel it—the tension humming in the marble, the weight of unseen wars fought in glances and sealed letters.

you crossed a high balcony overlooking the forum and stopped, breath catching.

below, rome unfurled like a living tapestry: streets teeming with merchants shouting their wares, couriers dashing between columns, temples gleaming like crowns on the hillsides. everything moved. everything shone. it was too much, and yet not enough to fill the hollowness blooming quietly inside your chest.

you rested your hands lightly on the railing, feeling the sun warm your skin, watching the empire breathe beneath your fingertips.

you turned a corner near the peristyle garden, the scent of rosemary and crushed thyme thick in the air, when you nearly collided with her.

she was draped in scarlet silk, scandalously cut for the propriety of the palace—shoulders bare, golden chains glinting across her collarbone. dark hair coiled perfectly atop her head, earrings swinging as she tilted her face toward you with a slow, measuring look.

you knew who she was before she spoke.

the mistress.

the one they didn’t dare name at court, but whose presence clung to the halls like expensive perfume.

"princess," she said, voice curling around the title like a snake around a branch. she offered a slow, mocking curtsy—too low to be proper, too languid to be respectful. "i hope rome hasn’t proven too overwhelming for you. it can be… intense for those unaccustomed to civilization."

you lifted your chin, letting your gaze sweep over her—necklace, rings, the cut of her robe. beautiful, yes. polished. but everything about her was just a little too sharpened, too desperate to be seen… like a blade dulled from overuse.

"on the contrary," you said, voice soft but slicing clean as glass, "rome feels very much like the desert. beautiful from a distance. filled with things that bite when you walk too close."

her smile tightened, a flicker of irritation passing through her eyes. she stepped closer, the garden breeze catching the hem of her robe. "careful," she murmured. "the wind carries words here. even queens are not above the weight of a whisper."

you tilted your head slightly, studying her. poor thing. she thought herself  as a queen.

"whispers–" you said, folding your hands neatly at your waist, " – do not dethrone those born to rule. they only gnaw at the feet of thrones, until they wear themselves to dust."

you watched the meaning sink into her—the slow, heavy realization that no matter how many nights she spent curled in the emperor’s bed, no matter how many secret smiles she stole, she would always be a shadow. a kept woman in a golden cage.

nothing more.

you inclined your head, gracious in a way that was somehow more cutting than any insult.

"good day," you said, voice like silk dipped in steel, then you turned, your sandals silent against the polished stone, leaving her standing alone among the rosemary, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

you walked away from the garden without looking back, the sting of lavender and crushed rosemary trailing behind you like the ghost of a battle you hadn't needed to draw blood to win. the stone corridor opened into a shaded courtyard, the breeze cooler here, the noise of the palace softened into distant murmurs.

and there, leaning casually against one of the marble columns, arms folded, watching with the faintest glint of amusement in his sharp eyes—

you hadn’t heard him approach. you hadn't seen him among the senators or the guards.

but he had seen you. he straightened slightly as you passed, falling into step beside you without being invited.

"that," he said under his breath, tone dry as the desert winds back home, "was brutal."

you glanced sideways at him, refusing to show the flicker of satisfaction warming your chest.

"i was polite," you said, prim as a temple maiden.

gideon’s mouth twitched.

"polite," he repeated, "if that was polite, i should pray never to see you lose your temper."

you said nothing. 

“apologies, your highness, i am gideon. the praetorian prefect of emperor caleb.” his right hand.

you nod, introducing yourself and he gave a low chuckle—brief, rare—and for a moment, you realized something startling: maybe if you play your cards right, the right people will come to you.

he nods towards the front of you, and you follow quietly.

gideon led you through a quieter wing of the palace, the wide halls soft with filtered light where the scent of lemon oil and old stone clung to the air. the noise of the central courts faded behind you, replaced by the low murmur of fountains hidden somewhere beyond the walls. it was almost peaceful here—almost.

you walked a few steps apart, not quite companions yet, but not strangers either.

"it’s quieter here," he said after a long moment, his voice low, almost casual. "the senators don’t bother to climb the north wing unless there’s an audience to impress."

you glanced up at the high vaulted ceiling, frescoed with curling vines and myths you only half-recognized—gods chasing lovers across painted skies, heroes frozen in endless, reaching battles.

"it's beautiful," you said, softer than you meant.

gideon gave a small grunt— a thoughtful one at that.

"beautiful," he echoed. "annnd full of ghosts."

you looked over at him, curious despite yourself. he caught the glance and shrugged lightly, arms loose at his sides.

"this palace," he said, nodding toward the golden-lit walls, "was built on the backs of men who thought they would be remembered. most of them aren't. only the stones remember. only the stones ever last."

there was something in the way he said it—no bitterness. just the resigned wisdom of someone who had seen too much to bother with illusions.

you slowed your steps a little, letting the hush between you stretch comfortably. after a moment, you asked, "how long have you served him?" gideon glanced sideways at you, the corners of his mouth tilting up just slightly—more a twitch than a smile.

"since before he knew how to carry a sword properly," he said. "before he was emperor. before he was anything but a boy with fire in his eyes and too much weight on his back."

you let that sink in. there was no embellishment in his words. no polished court flattery. just simple, quiet loyalty etched into every syllable.

"he must trust you greatly," you said. gideon let out a low sound, somewhere between a breath and a laugh. "he doesn't trust easily," he said. "and he shouldn't. not here."

you turned your gaze back toward the mosaics as you walked, the images blurring softly at the edges of your vision.

"and do you trust him?" you asked, not expecting an answer, not really. 

gideon was silent for a long moment.

then— "i trust him more than i trust this city," he said. "more than i trust the men who call themselves his friends."

you glanced at him again and he didn’t look at you. but there was something solid in his voice, something that settled in your chest like a stone dropped into a clear pool. trust wasn’t given lightly here.  not by men like him  and not to men like caleb.

you walked on together in the golden quiet, the first threads of an unlikely understanding weaving themselves between you—stronger than politics, quieter than loyalty.

something closer to respect.

you walked a few more steps in easy silence, the golden mosaics blurring past, the sounds of the city fading behind thick walls. it felt strangely like breathing freely for the first time since you arrived—no court games, no prying eyes. just the low hum of fountains and the quiet company of a man who owed you nothing, and yet did not seem to despise you for existing.

gideon slowed slightly, glancing toward a smaller archway where a column of ivy had begun to overtake the stone. the palace was ancient, after all. even marble bowed to time eventually.

"you should be careful," he said. you arched a brow, the edges of your veil catching the light.

"careful of what?" you asked. he gave a low grunt, folding his arms again loosely across his chest, gaze flickering over the courtyard as if taking its measure, and yours.

"the palace has teeth," he said "and some of them smile when they bite.." you considered him for a moment—the blunt honesty, the way he spoke not to frighten you, but to prepare you. he owed you no loyalty. not yet. and still…

you offered a small smile, the first genuine one you had worn since crossing the gates of rome. "i know how to deal with beasts." you said. gideon’s mouth twitched, that almost-smile ghosting back across his face, "good," he said. "but even wolves have to sleep sometime." he let the warning hang there a moment longer, then pushed lightly off the column, his armor creaking faintly.

"if you need a guide," he looked over his shoulder as he began to walk away, "find me. not all of us here are waiting to see you fall."

you watched him disappear down the corridor, the heavy hush closing around you again.

the last light of day bled across the marble floor of the curia, the senators’ shadows stretching long and thin against the columns as they murmured and bowed their way out. caleb sat still a moment longer after the hall emptied, the weight of the empire heavy across his shoulders, heavier than the gold stitched into his cloak. the business of governance was never clean; even victory tasted like ash when it was bartered over with words instead of swords.

he rose finally, the sound of his sandals sharp against the stone as he made his way back through the palace corridors, the halls quieter now, dipped in the thick velvet of approaching night. torchlight flickered low in the sconces, casting long ribbons of shadow across the walls. the guards posted along the path bowed but did not speak; they knew better.

his hand pressed to the heavy bronze door of his private quarters, pushing it open with a slow, familiar creak.

she was already there.

his mistress lounged across the low couch near the fire, clad in deep red silk, a cup of wine resting loosely in her hand. she didn’t rise at his entrance—only tilted her head to watch him, a small, knowing smile playing at her painted mouth. the firelight caught against the gold threaded into her hair, the rings heavy on her fingers, the faint scent of spiced oil clinging to the warm air.

waiting..expecting.

he closed the door behind him without a word, the tiredness sinking deeper into his bones with every step across the cool stone floor. 

she swirled the wine lazily in her cup, the firelight catching the deep crimson liquid as she watched him shed the weight of his cloak, tossing it across the marble bench with a careless flick of his hand. he was massive, to say the least. like a sculpture from the gods. rippling pectorals, abs that could make mars jealous. he didn’t look at her. not yet. but that never stopped her from talking.

"your desert flower has thorns," she said lightly, voice threading through the room like smoke. "i met her today."

he said nothing, only unbuckled the straps of his armor with slow, methodical precision, the soft scrape of leather filling the heavy silence.

"very proud," she continued, smiling over the rim of her cup. "very sharp-tongued. you would think she already ruled this palace, the way she carries herself."

caleb set the breastplate aside with a soft thud, the muscles of his back rippling as he moved. still silent.

"pretty, i suppose," she added, voice dipping into something sweeter, stickier. "if you like a girl who glares at the world as if daring it to disappoint her."

he turned then, slow and deliberate, leveling her with a look that made the words wither on her tongue.

"i do," he said.

just two words, but they landed heavy between them, cracking the careful artifice she wore like a second skin. she shifted slightly on the couch, the smile tightening, the cup lowering.

"you can dress a merchant’s daughter in silk and jewels," she said, voice tilting harder now, "but it won't make her an empress."

he moved closer, each step measured, like he was deciding if he wanted to waste breath at all.

"she was born to rule long before she crossed my gates," caleb said quietly, the edge of command slipping back into his voice, colder than the marble underfoot. "nabira shaped her. blood shaped her. not rome. not me."

he stopped a few paces away, arms folding loosely across his chest, gaze cutting through the firelight.

"remember your place," he added, voice low, unflinching. "i will not hear another word against her."

for a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire, the distant murmur of rome breathing beyond the palace walls. she looked away first, fingers tightening slightly around the stem of the cup.

he didn’t smile— he didn’t gloat. he simply turned from her, dismissing the conversation as easily as a general dismissing a soldier unfit for the next battle. 

the knock was barely more than a brush of knuckles against wood—soft enough you almost thought you imagined it. you were seated near the low table by the window, playing your fingers into your hair.

before you could answer, the door eased open.

caleb stepped inside, the torchlight catching across bare skin, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.

he wore only his dark linen trousers, the fabric hanging low across the sharp lines of his hips, secured by a simple leather girdle. his feet were still sandaled, dust from the courtyard clinging faintly to the worn straps. the bronze glint of his signet ring caught the light as he closed the door behind him with a soft click, sealing the two of you into a silence too thick to be casual.

he was stripped of the crown, the cloak, the trappings of empire. no armor now. no laurel leaves. just a man built from war and sun and the slow brutality of expectation.

his skin was tanned gold from years spent under open skies, marred here and there by scars—some pale with age, others still red at the edges. across his chest, the muscles flexed easily with every breath he took, the remnants of long campaigns and harder victories written into the planes of his body. his personal favorite— the scar running down his abs. (kinda proud of this paragraph.. WOOF WOOF)

he didn’t speak at first.

he only looked at you, standing just inside the door, the firelight throwing long shadows across his jaw, his throat, the taut line of his abdomen. his hair was mussed, still damp from a rushed wash, the scent of cedar and smoke clinging faintly to him.

"am i interrupting?" he asked, voice low, rough at the edges like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

you shook your head before you could think better of it. then he crossed the room slowly. he stopped a few feet away, close enough that the heat of him brushed against your skin, prickling up your arms.

he stayed close, but not so close you felt cornered. he simply shifted his weight, sandals whispering against the cool stone as he settled his arms loosely at his sides, the last of the firelight gilding the sharp lines of his collarbone.

for a moment, neither of you spoke, then, almost tentatively, he broke the silence.

"tell me about nabira," he said, voice low, but earnest in a way that didn’t quite fit the armor he usually wore around himself. "i’ve read the reports. the scrolls. heard the merchants brag about your jewels, your caravans."

his gaze lifted, catching yours, and without missing a beat,"but i want to hear it from you." you blinked, startled not by the question, but by the softness of it. by the way he asked—not as an emperor gathering intelligence, but as a man reaching for something real.

you eased down onto the cushioned bench by the window, gathering your stola tighter around your shoulders, grounding yourself against the rush of memory.

"nabira," you said slowly, as if tasting the word anew, "is a grand kingdom.."

he tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering across his face, "the desert gives nothing freely," you continued. "every orchard, every fountain, every drop of water….it’s fought for. coaxed from the bones of the earth with patience and prayer. we build with what will not break. we worship the sun because we have learned not to fear it."

you paused, fingers brushing lightly across the embroidery at your sleeve before continuing,"it is a hard place," you said softly, "but it is a beautiful one. the kind of beauty you have to bleed for."

he listened without interrupting, without looking away, as if each word you offered was something rare, something to be stored and guarded.

"i would like to see it," he said finally, voice roughened at the edges by something you couldn’t name. "someday." you smiled small, but real.

"nabira does not bend easily to outsiders," you said, "even emperors." he gave a low, genuine laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest, softening something sharp inside you.

"good," he murmured. "neither do you." the compliment hung between you, heavier than any jewel he could have draped across your throat.

you looked away first, not because you were afraid—but because you could feel yourself beginning to slip, beginning to soften under the weight of something far more dangerous than politics.

he lingered near the window now, resting one hand lightly on the carved frame, his body half-turned toward you. outside, the last colors of sunset had faded into deep blue, the first stars pricking the sky like cautious promises.

for a few heartbeats, he said nothing, only traced the line of a distant constellation with his eyes.

then, quieter: "what was it like… before all this?" you looked up from the slow knot you were twisting into the edge of your sleeve, caught slightly off guard by the question.

"before treaties. before politics. before you had to sit in rooms full of old men weighing your worth in silk and alliances."

you blinked, unsure for a moment what to even say. it felt like another life already.

but something in the way he asked—low, not demanding, not prying—made you answer.

"it was simpler," you said carefully. "i rode across the desert at sunrise. i learned the trade routes by the time i could walk without falling. my brother taught me how to haggle with caravans and how to spot a liar in a court full of gold-tongued men."

you let the smallest smile ghost across your mouth. "i wasn’t always tucked behind veils."

he watched you with an intensity that might have unnerved you if it came from anyone else. but with him, it just pressed heavier against your ribs, making your next breath slower to take.

he opened his mouth again, as if to ask something deeper. but you leaned forward slightly, tilting your head, your voice soft but sharp enough to cut silk.

"why do you want to know these things, caleb?" the way you said his name—without titles, without fanfare—made something flicker across his face. not anger. something closer to being caught off-guard. for a long moment, he said nothing.

then he pushed off the window frame and crossed to you, the space between you narrowing until you could smell the faint traces of cedar and smoke lingering on his skin.

he stopped just short of touching you. his voice was low when he answered, rough with something too raw to be polished into courtier’s words.

"because i need to know," he said. "not just who i’m marrying. but who stands beside me. who might one day stand against me."

you held his gaze, steady as a blade between ribs. you tilted your head just slightly, letting the dim firelight catch against the gold threads embroidered along your stola. you didn’t retreat from him. didn’t stiffen like a frightened court girl desperate to please.

instead, you smiled your face just barely colliding.

"so you wish to map me like a new province," you said, voice soft and amused, like you were indulging the curiosity of a child. "draw my rivers, measure my walls, learn where the ground turns soft beneath your boots."

he didn’t move. he only watched you, every muscle in his body wound tight beneath the surface, as if unsure whether to laugh—or to lunge.

you rose from the bench slowly, the silk of your stola sliding down your frame like water over stone, and stepped closer until you could feel the warmth of him bleeding into your skin.

your fingers lifted—not to touch him, but to hover just over the line of his jaw, tracing the air between you with a feather-light flirtation that never quite made contact.

"you would find me difficult to conquer, emperor," you murmured. "i do not yield to swords."

the ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the first true crack in that perfect imperial mask, "no," he said, voice low, roughened. "you wouldn’t." your smile deepened, sharp as the glint of a knife beneath a silk veil.

"and would it not be sweeter," you said, tilting your face up so that your breath stirred the space between you, "to have something that chose to stand beside you, rather than something beaten into submission?"

his breath hitched—so subtle most men would have missed it, but you saw, and for a moment, standing there between the dying fire and the cold pull of duty.

you let the space hum between you a moment longer, savoring the tension that coiled in the air like a drawn bow.

then, before he could answer, you dropped a graceful curtsy—a bow both elegant and mocking—and turned from him, a satisfaction placed on your facade as you walked out of the room.

when you were out of sight your eyes widen. staring at your palms you noticed how sweaty it was. you were gasped for air, as you swallowed hard. it took some gracious strength not to cave in front of him, but you sighed— thanking the gods for being able to survive that.

you beelined it outside.

the air outside was sharper, cooler. the courtyard stretched wide beneath the bruised sky, the last hues of twilight sinking into the marble. a low hum of voices floated up from the gates—noblemen, senators, dignitaries stepping down from their raedas, their servants scattering like flies to carry trunks and herald banners.

you lingered in the shadow of a colonnade, drawing a steadying breath, letting the hush of the evening slip against your skin.

and then—you saw him.

tall. robed in deep black that swallowed the light, the embroidery at the edges catching only the faintest glint of silver. a diadem rested low across his forehead, a thin, elegant circlet that gleamed like a sliver of moon. his hair was white, disheveled carelessness that no roman noble would dare wear in public. he moved through the gathered men like a blade slipping between.

your eyes caught his, just for a moment and you froze.

his gaze was a shock—red as coals banked under ash, gleaming with something sharp and knowing. he smirked when he saw you—amused— intrigued?

your heart gave a single hard beat against your ribs. you looked away first, heat prickling up the back of your neck, and turned, gathering your stola tighter around your shoulders as you slipped back into the palace’s shadowed halls.

you did not glance back.

but you felt his gaze linger long after you disappeared.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @rcvcgers, @collarteraldamage, @wind-canoe, @unstablemiss, @zaynesdesimc, @r0ckb1n, @pirana10, @miuangel, @cherrywinetuscany, @yourhornysister,

[abyss-seer]

Disclaimer: All content in this reading, including interpretations and messages, belongs to me and should not be copied, reproduced, or distributed without permission. The images used are sourced from Pinterest and do not belong to me. They are for illustrative purposes only.

Pick A Card Reading

Before that here's a channeled song for collective.

What change is radically transforming your life?

Welcome to today's tarot reading! I always find tarot readings enjoyable, like reading chapters from a fascinating book. Before we dive in, let's set the scene and align with today's reading. Remember, this is a timeless read, so the messages can apply whenever you come across this post.

To start, take a moment to meditate on the question, and then choose the picture that draws you in. It could be a random object in the image or just an inner nudge guiding you to a particular pile. Feel free to choose more than one pile.

This is a general reading, so take only the messages that resonate with you and leave the rest. A tarot reading offers insight or answers to your subconscious questions. It's important not to force yourself into any interpretation that doesn't feel right; readings are meant to be more about entertainment and reflection than precision.

Be mindful of not taking things personally. This is a collective reading, and while some aspects might resonate with you, others may resonate with someone else. Please take your time with this reading. These messages are intended to awaken and provide insights, so I hope you find value in them. Enjoy the journey through these reads.

With Love

Abyss Seer

Pile 1

Pile 2

Pile 3

Pile 4

________________________

Readings are here 👇🏻

Pile 1

Conformations: Stork and fox and the soup bowl story, the forked road, straight bangs, messy hair, song named Hum pagal nhi hai bhaiyaa hamara dimag kharab hai, family and parents could be significant, dead fish, being eccentric, not fit in, standing out too much in the crowd

Something in your life could be changing to move you toward a specific goal. You might be shaping into the person who attracts that long-desired opportunity or gaining access to something you've always wanted. Pile 1, there’s something you've been dreaming of for a long time—possibly a long-awaited family dream you've been on a mission to fulfill.

I'm sensing Magha nakshatra themes: maybe someone being granted access to a family business or finally receiving their share of an inheritance. You might be leading a new line or school of thought with your family members. It was your dream to see this idea come to fruition, perhaps through market success, new investors, or business registration. It feels like one family approving another.

You've likely struggled with this issue for a long time, but now you see the success of your efforts. This achievement could be very emotional for you, bringing laurels and affection from loved ones. You may have felt stuck, unable to find love or support from your loved ones. Now, I see you taking swift action toward this long-term dream. Pile 1, good luck!

________________________

Pile 2

Confirmation: tongue twister she sells seashells on the seashore, Karla, Sarah, Coraline the horror movie, love and hate relationship, someone could refer someone as bitch and may get called back as a scum, take them with you (you could be asked to not hold grudges and take people with you, but at the same time don’t dull your own shine)

You might consider watching Pile 3 as well only if you feel called to it. There's something you've been delaying for a long time, Pile 2. Did you miss an opportunity or freedom to do something? You might be very goal-oriented, but there's some pessimism or fear of failure causing you to deviate from your goals. This could be a past pattern or bad habit repeating itself due to your current state of mind. There might be lingering anxiety about starting a new endeavor, leading to procrastination and worry about committing to new habits.

Celebrate your small achievements and start thinking positively by targeting negative thoughts and changing your thinking pattern. This cycle of self-sabotage is harmful. Avoid dwelling on those negative thoughts. Do well in life, Pile 2. You might be moving away from new friendships and people, disliking mingling with them. You could be trying to go solo to achieve your goals, leaving everything behind for yourself.

You might feel misunderstood, underappreciated, and isolated, perhaps feeling someone stole your credit. This could lead to a sense of worthlessness due to your own selflessness. I'm sorry for what you went through. Know that you deserve better friends and people around you. This might be why you want to distance yourself from new people. I'm seeing a strong feeling of self-preservation, Pile 2. Don't worry, work hard, and people will appreciate your efforts. Focus less on fair-weather friends and more on yourself. Take care, Pile 2. I feel for you and am sorry if that happened.

________________________

Pile 3

Confirmation: Paon ki jutti (song), Sydney Sweeney, number 333, 33, foundations, Anuradha nakshatra, someone from your past,1212, Australia

"Disrespect"—some female figure feels disrespected. This is anger channeled into radicalization, literally. The Hawaiian goddess of sacred rage, Pele, is coming through. There’s a mother figure in this pile who feels hugely disrespected, abused, and is doubting her faith and duty towards the collective. This is a very radical energy. " They are becoming more agnostic after whatever has transpired". They are hating and thinking how you have lost your faith in yourself after failing so many times.

Pile 3, you are someone agnostic, and you could be in danger of crossing this empress-like figure in the wake of her rage. This person could get furious at your heartache, the pressure you're feeling, and the fear of moving forward. You can trigger them, so be careful. This empress could be getting over a huge loss in life, an investment, a semester that went down the drain, or some trigger due to "Sweet Home Sydney" (a restaurant). Be careful dealing with this mother figure they might not be in the mood to be teased, she must have lost her assets because of your failures.

You could be moving on from a heartbreaking and stressful situation and trying to get your life together. You think that you are bringing your life to balance using sharp tools(im getting someone cutting their nerves) (even a sharp tongue if necessary). You could be determined to restore balance of mind through chaos. Pile3 they are coming to pull you out of this rut and you are trying to get rid of them. This awakening and rebirth could be due to their investment drowning because of you. This is an unforgiving energy. They might feel very cold to you at start but this all for your good

This grounded person may not be in

the mood for fantasy.. Pile 3, your awakening moment is this woman who doesn't want to see you slacking off. She has been carrying many burdens, and this could be someone you collaborate with at work. She could get very angry with you, Pile 3. You need to stop staying stuck in your head. You might have taken a new start without preparing for the consequences and are still moving on, carrying emotional burdens. This will get you back on track. Whoever this female is, she might be a strict mother figure, but she will get you back on track. She will dish it out very straightforwardly. There's no going back; you better start working hard.

________________________

Pile 4

Confirmations: 99, September, number 5 could be significant, 1313, Yee haa, cowboy, the west, Madison beer- make you mine, Flo Rida – Right Round,1616

"There's no power left in thy hand." Let me tell you something: if you take anything from someone, make sure to give them something in return or return what you took in due time. This is called borrowing. In life, nothing is taken without giving something back. This is the main motto of your reading. You may have borrowed or taken money or assets, become stingy with that money, and are not ready to give back. You could be basking in others' achievements and material gains to fund your own independence and freedom. But none of this was guaranteed for free. Be grateful for what you got for the limited time and give back.

Your mind is stuck in the thoughts of comfort without pain. Get out of this mindset. You might lose a lot in life due to fights and competitions, developing a loser’s mindset, thinking nothing is meant for you. This could lead you to take a wrong path you will regret in the long run. It's a survivor mindset, trying to run away when things get rough. Maybe there was a time you couldn’t run to safety, and now you have a survival instinct to run irrationally without seeing things clearly because you feel you cannot face the challenge. Remove that guilt. What has happened has happened. Accept your regrets for what you could not do to save yourself.

Don’t miss opportunities because of being stuck in your feelings. Use your rationality to get ahead in life. Stop wallowing in emotions. Get out of this emotional cycle and traumatic pattern. Your payback time is coming. The phrase "every dog has its day" comes to mind. You might have received an opportunity given with trust that you would return it tenfold, but you felt you didn’t deserve it. Anxiety hit when you first took it. You weren’t capable of receiving it because of a lack mindset. Then you were attacked by fake friends and your own self-hatred. You fumbled opportunities meant to move you forward.

The change that will transform your life is moving away from this toxic community. Let go of reasons to stay in a place you thought was good for you. Let go of what is not serving you. Look forward to results from your efforts and hard work. Move toward self-love and self-care, letting go of thoughts, ideas, and emotional pain from others. Proceed in life learning new skills, unafraid to express yourself and your beliefs. You are coming to balance, losing the lack and hoarding mindset, becoming more authentic. Heal yourself, learn to care for yourself, and turn controlling tendencies into self-discipline. Become a more balanced individual

[qlossytbh]

𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 - 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 you and conrad had established no strings attached, that is until valentines fold up and conrad suddenly seeks more out of you.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 implications of sex, fwb, lots of fluff towards the end

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 3.1k by

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 back at it lol. i’m taking request!! feel free to send in any requests for any of the characters on my masterlist

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Valentines day. 

Some people are apprehensive when it comes to deciding what to spend the day doing on this particular holiday. For the lucky, it might be spending the day with their significant other or sitting around, basking in the simplicity of spending time with the person you love. For others, it was spending the day watching sappy rom-cons or moping around about the very fact of being single.

For you, Valentine's Day was the perfect excuse to show everyone how much you loved and cared for them. You were an overall extremely affectionate person, giving intricate gifts was a part of who you were. It was an extreme love language of yours— the feeling of running around, planning and buying different parts and pieces for each gift was something you found loads of fun in doing. 

For example, you had just finished baking and packing up your usual valentine themed cookie boxes to send out to all of your coworkers who worked with you at the local dog shelter. You had also sent out all of the small valentine themed envelopes to your family, who lived down the street from Susannah’s house here in Cousins, which reminded you not to forget her and Laurel's bouquets. You also put together the little treat bags with the group's favorite candy and other small things; one for Jeremiah, one for Steven, one for Belly, and one for Conrad.

It maybe was a lot, but you couldn't help yourself. You loved Valentine's Day. 

It was currently around four in the afternoon, and you were rushing around the kitchen of the Fisher household, scrolling through your tablet, checking off a few of the things you had left to do. 

Jeremiah walked into the room along with Belly, Steven, and Conrad.

"Hello Jeremiah." You looked up from your tablet and caught Jeremiah reaching for a cookie from one of the batches you were going to give out to your neighbours later on. His face twisted, laughing in embarrassment. You shook your head, looking down at the screen with a smile. 

"I left a batch of red velvet cupcakes near the fridge," Jeremiah and Stevens faces lit up. 

"You are the best person to step foot on this planet," Steven praised as they rounded the corner in attempts to get their hands on one of the cupcakes. 

"Seem's like you've been busy," Belly said, scanning the room as you set the tablet down on the counter. "I'll never get how you do it."

You shrugged, pulling your hand back and letting down the messy bun you had whipped up a few hours ago. "What can I say? Its Valentine’s Day."

"Not a valid answer, you don't see me running around gifting people random lovey shit, huh?" Conrad butted in as he leaned against the wall. You shot a glare at him.

"Well, you don't do lovey shit anyways," You teased with a smile, looking at your feet. "I dont know, I like seeing people happy, thats really all there is to it."

Belly looked at you with a smile. "That and your mind works at like, a thousand miles per hour."

It was true, you had a tendency to always need to be moving around. You barely sat still, not being able to stand the feeling of not being productive. You were always doing something, or you always had something to do. It was the main reason why you always ended burnt out. You loved doing things constantly, but it came with the heavy price of not knowing when you should stop doing things and rest. 

"People only usually do this stuff when they have boyfriends and shit like that," Belly insinuated. 

"You trying to tell us something, Y/n?" She said, gesturing towards her and Conrad. 

You cleared your throat, feeling a heat wave spread itself against your cheeks. You looked down only momentarily before shooting the pair a smile. "I do this every year Belly, if I had a special someone, you'd be able to tell."

It had been half true, given how you and Conrad weren't necessarily dating. 

It was complicated, at least if you explained it to others. You and Conrad had been best friends since you started coming to Cousins, which was since you were a baby. You loved Belly and Steven, and you loved Jeremiah, but things always felt different with Conrad. 

People had told you that Conrad was never an open book, and it surprised you at first, because he had always been more than open with you. It took very little, if not nothing, to guess with just a glance at what was going on in his head.

Many of the words that people used to describe Conrad Fisher, were the complete opposite of what you knew him to be. Conrad had a side of him that was reserved for only you, and you eventually started noticing it throughout your friendship. 

The two of you had many things that you preferred to leave unspoken. It had always worked like that with the two of you. When it came to how you felt about him, you couldn't put much into words. Words didn't do it justice most of the time.

But you and Conrad had been involved in this, thing, for about a year now. It started last summer, the two of you having one too many drinks at a party and hooking up accidentally. Or so you'd like to say it like that, because no one hooks up with their best friend drunk and says it was an accident. The two of you, not being able to communicate properly, ignored what happened that night for weeks.

But then it happened again

and again, 

and then again.

And none of the following times included alcohol. But for some reason, each time you saw each other after any sexual rendezvous, things would go completely back to normal. You guessed that was just your relationship with Conrad, it never got awkward or weird. 

You did however end up talking about it with him. 

"Can we talk?" You said, knocking on Conrad's door softly. He was lying down in his bed, book in hand. He sat up, placing it on the nightstand beside his bed. You looked at each other before he shook his head and ran a hand through his hair

"Sure," You walked in, feeling the cool air of the air conditioning hit your legs. You closed the door behind you, swallowing thickly as you could sense this conversation was going somewhere. You couldn't decipher if it was for the better or for the worse. 

You sat on the edge of his bed and looked into his eyes in silence. His gaze was just as locked on you as you were on him. That was before smiles started to grow on each of your faces before you threw your head back, laughing at the ridicule the situation presented. 

"I really don't know why we should talk about this," You said, turning to the side. 

Conrad sighed. "No, we probably should."

You looked at Conrad and focused on the blue in his eyes. "I dont regret what happened."

"Neither do I."

 "Is there a particular reason as to why it happened again after the first time?" You shifted your body and fiddled with your fingers. "And the second and third..

Conrad sighed heavily through his nose. He didn't get what was happening to him at all. He knew he cared about you; he knew he loved being near you and spending time with you. And he enjoyed what had happened between you two, 

A lot. 

But he didn't feel the need to put a title on what the two of you were. At this point, he was definitely opposed to the idea of dating, but he wasn't opposed to the idea of you. Maybe in the future? He didnt know, he was truly lost. 

And so were you. Which you hated. You couldn't stand not knowing what you wanted or what you were feeling. You needed to put titles onto everything—every feeling, every emotion, every situation—thats how your mind worked. But you knew you didn't want a relationship at this point in your life, but you loved spending time with Conrad the way you have recently.

"I don't know," He settled. "I don't see myself in a relationship, but I do love doing all the things we've been doing. 

You look at him and see a glint of something flashes through his eyes. "A lot."

You felt a rush of adrenaline pump through your veins as your cheeks went hot. You reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "I do too."

"I say," He pushed his body closer to yours, his knees lightly grazing against yours. You watched his movements with a sharp intensity. "Let's just be the friends we’ve been since we could talk, and ocacionally thing."

He placed a hand on your thigh. "Things have been normal so far, would you want to keep doing things?"

You nodded and smiled as he leaned forward. You said in a whisper, "What things are we talking about specifically?"

"Should I say it?" His breath fanned over your own. He then pressed a chaste kiss onto your lips, allowing your eyes to flutter close in delight as you smiled through the kiss. "Or do you want me to show you,"

With that you pressed your lips onto his, hungry for whatever you could have of him. 

For the rest of the summer it continued. The two of your manadged to keep it a secret, not wanting any complications of anyone else trying to put a name to whatever it was the two of you had. 

You didn't even know what it was. Friends with benefits? It was more than that, given how you two cuddled occasionally, kissed occasionally, and went on occasional dates. It stressed you out more to try to figure out what it was than just enjoying it. 

Plus, you knew Conrad cared for you, and you cared for him. That was all that really mattered to you anyway. 

Even when summer ended, you two talked all the time, which was not out of the norm for the two of you. The only difference was the occasional sexting. 

Things were occasional between the two of you, if you couldn't tell by now.

Winter break in Cousin's was your favorite, and when your college gave the students a week off, you were ecstatic. Every year, you never manadged to catch the Conklin and Fisher family, given how they were always given a few weeks off in January instead of February. You grabbed your keys, packed a bag, and headed straight for Cousin's.

Things with Conrad this week had been amazing, but you could tell things were a bit more romatic. Before it was easy to difirenciate when you were only friends and when you were in need of physical touch or intimacy, but now things were all fused and mixed together. 

It didnt bother you enough to talk about it though and neither did he, so you left it at that

You put the last bits of the dishes into the dryer before brushing your hands against the fabric of your cotton shorts. Jeremiah walked into the room with his keys in his hand. "Were headed out."

You looked over at him, grabing your phone and scanning it for any new messages. "Sounds okay,"

"We'll probably be back late, you and Conrad going to be okay?" You deadpanned at the boy.

"We'll be fine," You walked over to him, grabbing him by the shoulders and leading him towards the front door, where Steven and Belly stood. "You go have fun with Steven and Belly, god knows you need to take the poor girl out."

"Thank you," Belly said, agreeing with you. "Mom said she'd be back with Susanah in a few hours." 

You nodded, feeling the breeze of the cold air hit your bare shoulders as Steven opened the front door. Steven jumped. "Oh shit! Almost forgot." 

"That monstrousity came for you today," Steven said, pointing over to your left. "It had a small card, some sappy bullshit on it." 

"For me?" You looked over to the side, letting your jaw slack slightly. Placed perfectly in the middle of the table was a huge bouquet full of red roses and white tulips, both of your favorite flowers. They were carefully wrapped in white and silver paper, adorned almost perfectly with a pink satin bow. 

You never got much on Valentine's Day; you were used to giving the presents, not receiving them. You looked at the group aprehensively once more before walking carefully over to the table. You picked up the small card, reading it carefully: 'Happy Valentines Day pretty girl'

You felt your heart thump against your chest. You let out a small chuckle as your cheeks turned red, knowing exactly who these were from. "Dumbass.."

"What was that about not having a boyfriend?" Belly butted in, causing you to snap out of your lovesick trance. You turned to the three of them, who were eyeing you as you stumbled on your words. 

"Just- uhm, some guy thats been bothering me," You nervously chuckled, rubbing the back of your neck. The three of them looked at each other. 

"Conrad's gonna be pissed." Steven whispered before closing the door and heading out. You laughed to yourself and looked up the stairs, shaking your head. If only they knew. You placed the card down, looking back at the flowers once more before heading upstairs. 

You turned the corner, knocking softly on Conrad's door. With a hum on his side, you pushed the door open. He was standing near his bed with his shirt in his hand, and off of his body.

"Hey," He said, tossing the shirt into his already open closet. "I was just heading to bed." 

You smiled to yourself while crossing your arms, leaning against the door frame. "I thought you didn't do that lovey valentines day shit" 

He paused, looking at you with a perplexed look on his face. You rolled your eyes, walking into the room and closing the door behind you. Conrad eyed you carefully as you made your way to him. "Are you talking about the flowers?"

"Yes Conrad, I'm talking about the flowers," You said, placing a kiss onto his lips. He smiled into the kiss, letting his hands reach your waist, giving you the space your wrap your arms around his neck. You smiled widely into the kiss, not being able to contain your giddiness. 

Your heart was beating wrapidly in your chest, a feeling only Conrad gave you. You pushed into the kiss, deepening it as you directed his body towards his bed. The back of his knees hit the matress, forcing him to sit on the matress, which gave you the space to crawl onto his lap. 

You pulled away, looking down at the blonde boy whom you were currently straddling. "I'm guessing you liked them?”

"How'd you know roses and tulips were my favorite?" You said, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear as you admired the facial features you had grown to love. 

"I pay attention," He leaned forward, kissing the spot on your jaw just below your ear, causing a small giggle to erupt from your chest. 

"Thank you," You whispered, pulling away from him and looking into his eyes deeply. "You didn't have to, really."

He stared back at you, heart fluttering wildly. A feeling he was used to feeling around you, something only you brought out in him. It seemed that no matter how many girls would pop into his life or would come up to him at any frat party, you were always the first one on his mind. You were the only one on his mind.

"Of course I did," He kissed your cheek. "Its not even a quarter of what you deserve."

There it was again. He His your jaw again, trsiling soft delicate kissing up your neck. They were affectionate, none trying to iniciate something. Just soft pecks adorned with love and adoration. You let your hands enravel themselves into his hair, sighing in contentment. 

"Things have changed haven’t they?" You whispered as you pulled his body closer to yours. 

"Mhm," He agreed. You looked at the wall in front of you.

"Can we talk about it?" 

Conrad pulled away, looking at you with a look on his face. You stared back in silence. "Talk to me,"

You sighed, not really knowing what to say. Your heart fluttered at the sight of his attention, listening closely to what you had to say. 

The thing is you didnt know what to say. All you knew is that you cared about the boy in front of you a lot, and this ocassional thing has been going on for so long now. You knew you didnt want to end anything, fuck no. But you wanted more and you were scared it was a one paged thing. 

"Whyd you sent me the flowers?" You asked, paying close attention to his features. He smiled to himself, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

"Becuase," He started. "You love Valentines day, and you love recieving gifts, giving them as well, but not a lot of people know you like recieving them as well."

He continued. "You hate the color orange, you say it makes you squirmy and uncomfortable. Your favorite movies Rapunzel, great choice by the way,"

"You give so much to the people you love and I can vouch for that." He grabbed your hands, carresing them softly in his own. 

You looked at him in silence. "I don't want to do this thing occasionally anymore, I want it always.”

You and Conrad had always had a strong relationship, and its been a long time since it stopped being just platonic. You knew everything about him and so did he. Hell, it probably stopped being platonic before you even had sex with him for the first time.

Both of you could’ve saved yourselves months of time if you’d let yourself feel what you were meant to feel for each other sooner.

“So this mean what exactly? That you’re officially asking me to be your ‘girlfriend’” You asked, saying the word that felt so foreign. You knitted your eyebrows, waiting for an answer.

“If that’s something you want,” He said, hope and anxiety flooding his gaze. You stared down at him, smiling softly. You leaned in.

“I’d like that.” You closed the gap between the two of you, sighing deeply into the kiss.

Something inside you felt satisfied. As if your body had been longing for a confirmation that Conrad really was just yours.

He had always been.

You pulled away, hands resting at his bare shoulders as your foreheads rested against each other.

“Can we watch Tangled now?” You asked, voice laced with excitement. He rolled his eyes, pecking your lips softly.

“Duh.”

[gingermintpepper]

Day 3: Asclepius

Interpretation notes and trivia under the cut!!

Woo boy, this guy was another difficult character to settle on both a design and an interpretation for! Asclepius tends to have two big schools of thought for his tale, either he's the tragic doctor who resorted to illicit methods in order to save his patients or he's a strict scientist who was so skilled at his art that his resuscitations were called magic but were just science. I don't actually mind either interpretation, but due to the way I personally see Coronis and the way I chose to interpret Asclepius' birth story, I chose to focus on a different facet of Asclepius; Asclepius the family man. The theme of geneology and the inheritance of 'curses' through blood and birth is one that permeates this work and Asclepius, in a lot of ways, has not only inherited both his mother and father's banes but his actions and talents create new ones for his children. Throughout this, and all the many messy crimes Asclepius will commit in the name of what he thinks is necessary and right, he will willfully ignore the warning signs staring him dead in his face screaming that he will leave the burden of his work to his children and it will be easy. After all, Asclepius has made a career out of ignoring his own father's warnings and cautions, what are a few more red flags to ignore?

Less of a character note and more of a personal thing, but for a very long time I used his teenaged design when sketching out scenes and ideas but after tidying up my timeline, I realised that he would be an older man throughout the events of the story!! Since he's properly mortal, he would have to look his age and while that was slightly intimidating since I've not drawn many older characters, it also made me very excited since characters in the 40+ age range are rarely protagonists of these sorts of adventure/fantasy stories and working in the physical differences between him and his brothers was extremely fun!

Some fun trivia:

Youngest of Apollo's children currently alive and kicking. Maybe it was because Apollo so intensely regretted the way he dealt with Coronis but he doted endlessly on Asclepius and essentially personally oversaw his education and training. Because of this, Asclepius, without a doubt, is the child with the best relationship with Apollo between the brothers and believes unfalteringly in his father even if they have many practical and philosophical differences.

Has a bit of a sixth sense when it comes to necromancy and communing with the dead and spirits beneath the earth. Because he was rescued from the torch of death when he was babe, he has retained a connection with the chthonic. While he cannot exactly see figures like Thanatos or Hermes, he can certainly sense when they are afoot. Is very aware that Thanatos cannot stand him and expects to be taken by Ker when he does finally die.

Always keeps gold coins on him on the off chance he is spontaneously struck down while doing research or healing some previously unhealable disease. His father, upon realising that his warnings would be thoroughly ignored, pleaded for him to do at least that since after Asclepius is dead, Apollo would be unable to intercede for him.

Happily married and has four children! His eldest Machaon chose to follow his footsteps and became a gifted surgeon in his own right while his second eldest Iaso chose to follow her mother's footsteps and become more of a nurse than a doctor. He's endlessly proud of all of his children and hopes his research makes the world a better place for them.

Was recognised by Apollo at 15 and became Doctor Laureate at 17. Lost said laurels at 22 after he revived his second corpse from the dead and since then has been on a strict probation when practicing his medicine. Has a mark on his left wrist that will fill itself out if he commits such an atrocity again and then he will be marked for death and supposedly tormented until he forfeits his soul.

On very good terms with Orpheus and the two often work together and catch up when they happen to meet up while travelling. Never knew Eurydice but he gets the feeling that he would've really liked her.

Despite being a son of Apollo, has absolutely zero musical talent and cannot dance. He can't maintain his hair either and would've cut it multiple times over if Apollo himself didn't stop him and chastise him for even thinking about such a thing. Epione does his hair. The little braids in his beard are courtesy of the twins Hygiea and Panacea who enjoy putting little braids in anything they can get their hands on.

Doesn't resemble his father or his mother actually! The relative he resembles most is his paternal grandfather Zeus, a fact that gives his wife endless grief because his hair is thick but not curly, a trait she covets. Asclepius having thick body and facial hair was also very awkward considering Apollo is incapable of growing body hair and, for a while, his lack of curls and cascade of body hair when Asclepius started puberty made Apollo doubt whether Asclepius was truly his or if he had saved Ischys' child instead.

Has zero self preservation and will hunt monsters and creatures for their blood, teeth, claws and hides for his medicines. Like his father, he has a personal 'wall of horrors' where he stores everything from gorgon blood to pegasus feathers to hydra venom. Sometimes gods in the guise of men will simply give him precious materials because they know Asclepius is the one who will take their unsolveable cases in the face of disaster. It is a very risky exchange and has only barely skirted by Zeus' notice because actual money hasn't been exchanged (yet).

Preferred weapon is the scalpel and doesn't like fighting humans. Has a fire-retardant mantle made from chimera skin Apollo gave him when he was a child that doubles as a very good shield in a pinch.

Favourite colour is withy purple and his favourite food is goat butter spread on bread and topped with celery, tomatoes and olive oil. Has a lot of snake themed jewellry that he's passed on to his son because he thinks they're too gaudy for his old self to be wearing.

[synesthete-sylke]

i wanted to make a journal-themed entry for the victory curse, since i have smajor brainrot all of the time and i felt like it was a somewhat missed opportunity for angst :]

plus it's a cool concept, if people like it i might do the canary curse and a few others!

(shoutout to my brother for doing the 'laurel' and then proceeding to fail every other word he tried-)

text under cut because i was going for style, not legibility :P

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The "Victory" Curse

Top: Cursebearer and allies are predisposed to victory in the Life games; often results in repetitive loss of allies or partners, as well as those who See attempting to take advantage of the cursebearer. Strong-willed and fiercely loyal, even to the death.

Note: Curse is warded off but not cancelled by Canary curse; effects unknown. Range is possibly extended?

Side: Resists Boogey curse!

Photo: Current recipient is aware; has become sacrificial and borderline su*cidal.

[queer-ragnelle]

✏️ + 😭(and how do you overcome them? + ❓ if you could summarize each of your duologies with an overarching theme, what would it be?

✏️ What are your current WIPs about?

Dusk Eternal is a Romantic Suspense and Psychological and Body Horror duology from the perspectives of Ragnelle and Gawain. It evokes the narratives of The Wedding of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle, The Marriage of Sir Gawain, The Turke and Sir Gawain, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Lady of the Fountain, The Crown, the Vulgate, the Avesta, and The Shahnameh. Plot-bearing side characters include Gromer, Gaheris, Owain and Laudine, Morgan le Fay, Agravaine and Laurel, Beaumains, Lancelot and Galehaut, Amurfina, Pelleas and Ettarde, Kay and Bedwyr, and characters from Persian mythology including Arash the Archer, Simorgh, and Zal. Legacy Lost is a “Whodunit” Mystery, Monster and Psychological Horror duology from the perspectives of Lamorak and Agravaine. It evokes the narratives of the Prose Tristan, Geraint and Enid, La Tavola Ritonda, Le Morte d'Arthur, and the Vulgate. Plot-bearing side characters include Pellinore and Ursula, Lot and Morgause, Laurel, Tor, Gawain and Ragnelle, Aglovale, Gaheris and Lynette, Gareth and Lyonors, Mordred, Geraint and Enid, Palomides, Dinadan, Morgan le Fay, Tristan and Isolde, Kay and Bedwyr. Chivalry's Bond is a Conspiracy Thriller/Suspense and Monster Horror from the perspectives of Perceval and Elaine. It evokes the narratives of Parzival, Peredur, Culhwch and Olwen, Morien, and the Vulgate. Plot-bearing side characters include Ursula, Dindrane, Lancelot, Pelles, Brisane, Aglovale, Lamorak, Tor, Morien, Culhwch and Olwen, Ysbaddaden, Guinevere, Gawain and Ragnelle, Kay and Bedwyr. Misbegotten is a Coming of Age and Psychic Horror duology from the perspectives of Mordred and Galahad. It evokes the narratives of Alliterative Morte, Wigalois, Sir Libeaus Desconus, and the Vulgate/Post-Vulgate. Plot-bearing side characters include Morgause, Agravaine and Laurel, Lancelot and Elaine, Arthur and Guinevere, Gawain and Ragnelle, Gingalain, Lovel, Bors, and Lionel. The ending duology is... a Tragedy of everything mashed together.

😭 What are the biggest challenges writing your WIPs?

Maintaining momentum and consistency. It's very easy to feel like I put all my creative power into book 1 and then had none left for the rest because of burn out. I realize though it doesn't have to be perfect, it just has to be done. I'm determined to follow through and finish before I die. Back on the grind in 2025.

❓ If you could summarize each of your duologies with an overarching theme, what would it be?

Dusk Eternal: The horrors (our outer selves don't match our inner selves). Legacy Lost: The horrors (monsters are real and they know my secret). Chivalry's Bond: The horrors (religious trauma can manifest tragedy). Misbegotten: The horrors (submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known). End: The horrors (we tried our best but it wasn't good enough).

[biteyoubiteme]

(idk if you're gonna feel it, but I need to share it with someone 🥲)

recently kai gives me the strongest disney's hercules vibes... can't stop thinking about kai x reader where they dress as hercules and megara for halloween (lowkey, because kai is too shy to open much skin 🤧). yeonkai au with yeonjun as hades????

sorry, I love halloween, hercules and yeonkai 💔

I will make a confession that i’ve never seen the movie in full ;-; kinda sad bc I prob would love it (I was a full blown percy jackson fan for years) I did know a few songs because I had a disney princess sing-a-long dvd tho lol

but I see the vibes that would be such a cute couples (throuple) costume and especially when kai had blond hair and when yj had blue hair but also im so obsessed with the idea of kai wearing a golden laurel on his head that would look so good on him and I could see him being so shy trying to hide behind reader but failing miserably because he’s so tall but knowing how much reader loves halloween and got so excited to dress up together 😭🤍

im also currently thinking what I want them to wear in my fic lol it’s halloween party themed and im leaning towards the basic angel (kai) and devil (yj) theme with reader being like half angel and half devil

[bobbie-robron]

Current & Classic ED schedule, week 28 (2025)

CURRENT EMMERDALE

UK START TIME FOR DAYS AIRING: 7:30PM

07-Jul: UEFA Women’s Euro

08-Jul (10335, Writer Bill Taylor, Director Audrey O’Reilly): Joe is knocked unconscious by an assailant. Charity worries for a fragile post-op Sarah. Kim braces herself to tell Dawn that she has got a new man.

09-Jul: UEFA Women’s Euro

10-Jul (10336/10337, Writer Jo Maris, Director Duncan Foster) One hour: A woozy and disoriented Joe awakens in a makeshift hospital. Gabby puts Sarah in danger. Lewis puts in a stint in the cafe for Nicola.

11-Jul (10338, Writer Sarah Bagshaw, Director Duncan Foster): There is fear at Home Farm. Sarah and Cain seek further guidance. Nicola sees a new way of working.

CLASSIC EMMERDALE

1:20 PM 07-Jul: 24-Apr-2007 (4658), 25-Apr-2007 (4659)

1) Paddy is consumed with guilt when Rita invites him to a family dinner to salute his heroism and a past tragedy is revealed. Kelly pleads guilty then begins wedding planning to distract herself from the court case. David is contemplative toward Pollard. Grayson finds Hari injecting Boomer with vitamins or something else? 2) Gray is surprised when Rosemary stumps up £15K. Viv’s Christening theme choice are in conflict with others: tacky vs toned down.

1:40 PM 08-Jul: 26-Apr-2007 (4660), 27-Apr-2007 (4661)

1) Boomer’s racing doesn’t go as Hari expected. Rodney vows to reunite Val and her daughter Sharon. The christening costs are skyrocketing… what is Bob to do? 2) Rodney and Paul plot to bring Val and Sharon together works to a degree. A group of villagers focus on building floats for the pageant. Laurel’s mum will be arriving soon. The christening plans grow evermore grandiose.

1:40 PM 09-Jul: 29-Apr-2007 Welcome Doug Potts! (4662), 30-Apr-2007 (4663)

1) Hari is told by Grayson what to do to implicate the Kings in Tom’s death and uses Louise to back up the false story. Emily pitches in helping with the cleaning in readiness for Laurel’s mum arriving. 2) Doug and Hilary Potts arrival is not as smooth as expected for Laurel thanks to the Bishop then police paying a visit. Bob considers a loan but the cost of one… Rosemary won’t pay Hari until the King brothers are behind bars!

1:40 PM 10-Jul: 01-May-2007 (4664), 02-May-2007 (4665)

1) Ashley’s sudden departure has the Bishop taking over the christening. An error on Dawn’s new headstone loses money toward the christening. Laurel keeps vigil at the hospital over her parents. It a meal amongst Scarlett, Daz and Louise at the pub. 2) Nine godparents at the church, oh my! Bob goes into meltdown unable to various services for the christening. Matthew demands answers from Hari. Carrie wants Jimmy to stay away from Scarlett as his future is uncertain.

1:40 PM 11-Jul: 03-May-2007 (4666), 04-May-2007 (4667)

1) Jimmy plans to go on the run unbeknownst to others. A humiliated Viv lies to the villagers that Bob is away on business. Donna support Viv at home while Jamie tries to convince Bob to return. Laurel gets a temporary scare from Doug. 2) Jimmy and Kelly’s going on the run is stopped by Kelly’s change of heart. Word of Laurel’s parents’ crash reaches the village. Emily is concerned for returned Ashley’s welfare.

[threerattsinatrenchcoat]

Writer Interview

Tagged by the fantastic @beesht, @commander-krios, and @coreene!

(just realized I forgot to tag people ummmm @lolliputian, @aviatorasharak @bloobluebloo)

When did you start writing?

So long ago that I no longer recall when it was. I also like arranging and playing with words. It's a crutch for me; my brain often feels aimless and chaotic. Writing lets me lock down my thoughts so I can quit chasing them.Expressing myself face-to-face has always been a struggle; I hide behind screens, sunglasses and masks. I'm happiest when people don't know what I look or sound like, and writing is the easiest way to talk with people without my physical-ness getting in the way.

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

Love horror, adore it. I'm not super great at writing it (yet!).

I also love heists. I keep trying to write a heist. It is not going well.

Finally, I love mythologies and folklore. I'm currently really into American Indigenous (specifically Inuit and I just got a book on Latin American mythologies) and Middle Eastern (specifically Iranian). Or, at least what I can find in English, from a reputable source. I would love to write about characters from these (Esfandiyār! Sedna!) but I'm a white American who is neither a part of those cultures nor educated enough to treat the subject with the respect it deserves.

But I will talk about them and encourage other people to learn because they're very cool.

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

Haha, I specifically don't read while I'm writing so I don't emulate anyone, but creativity doesn't happen in a vacuum so..

My writing style and content were influenced by the authors I grew up on: KA Applegate, Terry Pratchett, Diana Wynne Jones, Terry Brooks, Sergio Lukyanenko, Neil Gaiman, Francesca Lia Blake, Anne Bishop, Terry Goodkind, Arthur C Clarke, Laurel K Hamilton. Some of those authors I was far too young to read, a lot I don't read or like anymore, but they definitely shaped my fascination with urban fantasy, people living normal lives in weird worlds, people finding the weird in normal worlds, horror and humor and how they fit together, how both are most effective when they're just reality taken slightly off-kilter, and how small any single person's perspective is.

I've also been on Tumblr for about a billion years and have the Tumblr/millennial accent and I'm too tired to change it. 

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

On my phone, swipe keyboard, usually while commuting or waiting in line or standing over the stove or late at night when I can't sleep. Writing isn't a priority in my life right now, so I squeeze it into all the empty spaces.

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

I wrote about this here under "recharging when I'm not feeling creative" and here under "where do you get inspiration", but short answer is taking a complete break from creating anything, slogging through whatever is blocking me or interacting with my community.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

Shifting identities and what defines a person. I was raised on the idea that the "soul" is a person's core unifying self. I'm fascinated by this concept because if you take away "soul" as an easy answer, then what is a person? What makes me the same person as who I was twenty years ago? As me, age 2 months? If I lost all my memories, am I still me? What if I only lose one thing, like my driving force, or a fundamental belief, or if I recover from trauma or receive treatment for a chronic condition? What if I was uploaded into a machine? 

Anyway, I'm rambling, but I think I probably assign my identity to experience: memory, skills, hobbies, achievements and failures, and those are the concepts I've been exploring a lot.

What is your reason for writing?

I get itchy otherwise.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

I like knowing the exact parts people like, so whenever anyone quotes part of a fic, I get excited. I also love hearing people's theories or if they noticed any Easter eggs or references. My writing is so self indulgent sometimes and meeting people who also like it feels like meeting people who would like me? (That sounds really pathetic haha but I'm leaving it because it's honest).

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

Funny! And hopefully a bit creative. 

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Finishing a piece before I publish it, I guess. Writers have a right to bail on a piece for whatever reason, even for no reason. Writers have a right to publish incomplete work. But, personally, I'm a little proud that I put out completed pieces. 

I also try to write in a way that's uncomplicated. I avoid using oversized words, complex sentences, too many pronouns or vague references. Keep things simple, you know? I want to write things that people can read when they're distracted, or only have time for a few paragraphs, or if they aren't great readers.

Usually when I'm reading my head is already fried and I don't have the time or spoons to get assaulted by a thesaurus.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?

I'm only influenced if I'm doing a piece for someone, or if I know a specific person will read it and I want to make them smile. Beyond that, it's all for me :)

How do you feel about your own writing?

It's a little trite, but that's okay. I love happy endings, so I aim for that. I also love the bizarre, absurd and ridiculous.

I do overuse this sentence format, where it's two clauses together. I'd like to fix that. And like all my paragraphs are three sentences, gross.

Anyway, I like it overall.

[cursorist]

I'm alive + Announcement and progress update

Hello everyone,

It's been...7 months, but I'm back. Fret not I haven't been sitting on my laurels and been working away diligently on my next game as promised.

Sorry if this was a long time between posts. The reason for this is I wanted to actually show something off when I would post next and in order to do that I had to learn how to draw, which takes a while. But now after 7 months I'm finally decent enough to share my vision.

But first the story blurb...

After not submitting an assignment with the “proper credit” you get jumped by your classmates, who have also been your bullies since high school. The resulting beating leaves you battered with a broken arm. Before it gets any worse a good samaritan intervenes and scares them off.

He brings you to the hospital and sticks with you from then on. He listens to you and is the first one to keep you company but something about him is off. When your bullies, in an effort to get you back in line, push it too far he offers a deal that changes your life…

Wayward samaritan (as I’ve decided to call it) will be a horror/thriller visual novel exploring themes of morality and how far one could go if they are pushed enough.

The following characters will be featured

A morality system will be implemented in the game that tracks what choices your character makes, the results of which will have a significant effect on the story.

Alongside that there will be a small character creator where you can create your own mc with completely customizable pronouns. The current customization options that are available you can see in the gif above (note that the red and hair options are selected separately in the game).

There will be the option for a romance subplot with K but it won’t be the main focus. 

The plan is to release this game chapter by chapter with the prologue and chapter 1 being the first to be released. I have already scripted out what is going to happen here and implemented over half of it in the game already. Currently the prologue and chapter 1 combined will feature 20k words, 10 cg's and some smaller ones but these numbers may grow if I feel it’s necessary.

I have no planned release date as like with As seasons change I’m a one person team so progress doesn't come quick. I’m hoping to get the first build out before the end of the year though but no promises. 

I know this game is very different from my previous one so if it's not up your alley that’s totally cool. I’m already glad people were interested enough in As seasons change to play it so don’t feel bad for not being interested. Anyways that’s about all I have to say. Below are images of some bg's, cg’s and a menu. When the time comes closer to the actual release I’ll post something again but until that time I will submerge myself back into the void and continue grinding away at this.

[hballegro]

earring post

i laid out all my earrings to see what i need more colours of so heres a comprehensive list of all my earrings [minus some studs that are just my initials and such]

bobby pin in lower left for scale

1 and 2:

rainbow chain and heart suckers

one of these was bought at a thrift store, the other online. the chains clatter so much when i move my head. i love them. i am tempted to eat the suckers every day even though they are plastic

3-6

simple silver hoops, pink tourmaline[?], dolphin studs, sapphire and diamond

the first was from my grandmother's jewelry box [she wanted to get rid of things], then the next was a christmas present from my mother, the dolphins were my first ever pair of earrings, and the last was a graduation gift from my mother [8th grade].

7 and 8:

laurels and blue hoops

the laurels were grabbed while thrifting, and the hoops were from my sibling for christmas one year after i said i wanted 'blue and goofy' earrings

9 and 10:

centaurs and scooters

centaurs were purchased from a little stand inside a thrift store, a small business. the vespas were a gift from my aunt for christmas after i said 'anything silly :]' as my theme

11:

annoying triangles

the topic of this post. easily the most obnoxious in terms of colour coordination. from etsy. so goofy. A+

12 and 13 [combo]:

flamingos and fake pearls

flamingos were a birthday/christmas combo gift from my bestie and i wear them both in the summer [flamingos] and in the winter [christmas]. the fake pearls were a bundle i thrifted after i went 'i need more pearls and more gold'

14-17:

REAL pearls, axolotls, blue + gold danglies, red + gold cuffs

real pearls were a graduation gift [highschool] from my mother. little salamander bros were a christmas gift from my mother. the danglies were a gift from a different bestie after a trip to greece and he realized he did not want them >:]. red cuffs were just me needing more red and getting myself a little christmas gift.

18 and 19:

skull vine and bedazzled skeletons

skull vines were from the friend that gave me the greek danglies for my birthday, and the skeletons were me going 'oh my god' and buying them for halloween cause cmon they're articulated and everything

20 and 21:

MORE ANNOYING TRIANGLES

curses you with triangles [bought online]

22-25:

silver pretty things, clockworks, hoops, more hoops

the clockwork stuff was a gift from my sibling this christmas. the other three were gifts from my grandma's jewelry box, and the 1 hoops having 3 was cause she had two pair but couldnt find the last one.

26-29:

VINTAGE TIME!! gold hoops, weird danglies, what the hell, and black cuff hoops

all from my mother's old stuff. all bought around the 80s. yes that is a paper fan with a screw, flower, and clock attached. i have no idea why.

30 and 31:

scary hands and bookshelf

one thrifted around halloween, the other bought for me for christmas by my sibling.

32:

cleavers

once again, christmas present, but from the OTHER sibling this time. worn most around halloween on combination with my freddy krueger sweater

33:

ANNOYING BELLS!!! :D

i bought these bells myself around christmas last year to be annoying on purpose [had a matching bracelet and necklace]. easily my LOUDEST earrings. i love them dearly. the bells are very pleasant and non-grating

MISC:

these earrings are either currently missing their partner or forever missing their partner.

the pink hoop will have its mate soon, i just cant find it. the little star will never have a mate, because i found it on the ground outside and stole it like a crow [after leaving it there a few days incase anyone came to find it]. everything else is vintage from my mother and was given to me as-is without partners.

now you have seen my earrings. you understand now that i am like this All The Time.

[imaginary-regret-608]

[Maryverse] - My Take on the Timeline, A 2-for-1 Universe and Magical Marys

Before I actually begin with what's been described in the title of the post, I wanted to give context for what I'm planning to do, as well as the project which I'm doing this for (as this is something that I've never done before, both and being Non-Undertale/Deltarune content).

Maryverse is a project that I'd recently talked about in my most recent Artfight-Based Post, where I'd given context for the currently-known plot 'where the three members of 'Catgirl at Heart' (Mary Rosemary, Sasha Tones and Skylar McMilliwood) have to compete against bands of different music genres to play at the Tower of Melodies in the middle of Kitty City!'

This theory originally began after I had made my Artfight attack for @marnielovesyouu on Artfight.

While working on the attack, I had found that the Main Character of the project, Mary Rosemary, was originally only described as an unnamed 'sona' with this image as the first example of what she looks like:

I suggested about how the Current Design of Marnie's sona was an AU Version of Mary, with the two versions being seen interacting with eachother in two separate times, and the unnamed Mary (who I've been referring to as 'Surrealist' because of how her Reference Sheet is presented, as well as something later explained) being the source of eventually having the two separate versions. 'Surrealist' does have her place within the timeline that I was able to make.

Because the title to this post is longer than most other, I would reccomend abbreviation to 'Choker Theory', as it was the differences in (including designs which had returned in the later stages of Mary's life) and using to make assumptions for when and what would be happening during those times.

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The youngest we've seen of Mary is at 10 years old as one of ‘the wee ones’, where Mary and Skylar were confirmed to know eachother as childhood ‘best friends forever’. Mary at this age has been described as sounding similar to Sheldon Cooper, or Milhouse Van Houten as an alternative suggestion from an Anonymous Ask.

The usual purple accent in Mary's hair was red during this time (which caused the nickname of ‘Bloody Mary’ after a dyeing incident that was later solved by Skylar's Parents), as this was also the time when Mary had chosen to announce her transition to her parents, Laurel and Valentina. The change from her Currently-Unrevealed Deadname from to Mary could also potentially be symbolized by the accents changing from red to pink.

Mary's school life isn't very well-known, other than it's at a time when she still wore regular, red glasses and had a triangular hairpin. It's also where she begins dating Skylar and first meets Sasha in Highschool, as well as going to a Digigirl convention known as ‘PIXICON’ (who Marnie ‘replaced’ with Starlite meaning that it's now probably a Space Girls-Themed Convention instead).

I've recently been thinking of Mary's Highschool having ‘Hairball High’ as a Headcanon Name to fit in with the other cat-based areas seen in Kitty City, and that it's where she would often play Peggle on the school computers (referencing the ‘evil bjorn’ art posted to marnielovesyouu's Tumblr Account on July 2nd of 2024 with Mary riding on top of Bjorn as he shoots lasers from his eyes), although ‘KAT COLLEGE’ is already something that exists separately. This time could also be when Mary learns more about Creepypastas and discovering the alternative meaning to her younger self's ‘Bloody Mary’ nickname, but that is another Headcanon Suggestion that I'd made (although it is somewhat based on an older idea from marnielovesyouu before ‘the wee ones’ had been designed about Mary being a creepypasta kid).

Her time at KAT COLLEGE has mostly been focused on developing plot points, with Skylar meeting Brittany, Coral and Megan, who turned Skylar against Mary for her being uncomfortably ‘weird and quirky’ when compared to who Skylar could be spending her time with. This time in Mary's life is when I imagine Mary first heard about Kitty City's Gay Bar, which currently doesn't have a canon name, but I've thought of it either being known as ‘The Purrdy Lady’ or ‘Catfight Corner’. She wouldn't reintroduce herself to Sasha at this point as he wouldn't be seen there yet, but Mary is there to take her mind off of Skylar's new “friends” after everything said by them about Mary had pissed her off (which is also based on Mary's recently-decided rule of how ‘she gets one piss per episode’).

Mary begins her job at a Hot Topic-Inspired Shop (which currently doesn't have a final name decided for it by Marnie) soon after leaving KAT COLLEGE, putting her people-pleasing tendencies to the unfortunate retail test, and it's where the idea for Catgirl at Heart is first thought of as a one man band. This would be where the name of 'Surrealist' would first be considered, with it being planned as a stage name for Mary to use during solo acts.

Although she eventually prioritizes lyric writing and being the band's guitarist/singer in present day, she's also shown to have experience with a microphone from when Mary can be seen holding one in the ‘All sold out? I have an idea!’ post from January 2nd, 2024 as she was simultaneously taking her shirt off (which was suggested through an Anonymeous Ask based on the tags of an earlier post which said about how ‘Apparently she wears a shirt sometimes’ from December 29th of 2023 where ‘She should take it off’ and ’what who said that’), as well as playing the piano and keyboard as other instruments, from what is later revealed from a sketch of her room, which is also possibly the case that ‘Surrealist’ is carrying on the second piece of art of her from June 15th of 2021. Because it has the keyboard inside that has only ever been seen inside Mary's room with her current design, it's likely that the keyboard is the primary instrument used to make covers of Video Game SoundTracks.

However, after an overwhelming day of work and many crumpled pieces of paper later, Mary revisits the Gay Bar. And two seats along, likely two seats down and leaning on her elbow for the additional coolness factor, was Sasha Tones. Mary was quick to fall in multiple contexts, making an ass of herself as she clumsily lands on her face. It took multiple visits, minor accommodation and bite-sized interactions, but Sasha was eventually the one to make it official as Mary's BoyGirlfriend and behind-the-scenes guy for Catgirl at Heart (which Mary had forgotten to specify because of her moments of infodumping across various niche topics).

After Catgirl at Heart is formed as the one man band it was initially planned to be, Mary eventually receives her first fanart. It's a simple sketch of herself being seen leaving hearts around her, but with more emphasis on the ‘catgirl’ element of herself when performing. Likely because of the band's name, Mary had also been given a visible fang, as well as cat ears and a tail. But what really brought everything together in a bundle of emotion and felicity was the message attached, with ‘I 🤍 U’ written in the upper-left corner of the page. This is why she was making music. Not just for herself, but for others also.

After seeing this, Mary is quick to tell Sasha about it, which eventually has the idea of Sasha possibly joining Catgirl at Heart as more than just a behind-the-scenes guy. Although I'm not exactly sure how Mary and Sasha would be written because of the differences between my Writing Style and marnielovesyouu's, but I think that the idea of Sasha becoming the drummer would be described through how fitting it would be to what he has already presented herself doing as a biker and professionally chilled-out badass. But with a surprising opposite to how their dynamic was in the bar scene, it was Mary mentioning how good it would feel to see the two being drawn together that had settled it. After that conversation, flattery finds its drummer, if flattery's name was Catgirl at Heart.

Mary has been confirmed to keep every fanmade present that she's ever been given, which is why I think that she could also later embody these details from her first fanart, and will let her known silliness shine at times to make her guitar cable look like a cat's tail.

Finally, although they have the least information available for them, there have been two future versions of Mary, which are a 22-Year-Old Future AU Version and ‘grandma Mary’. The Future AU Mary may not be canon, as marnielovesyouu has said that she will likely remain 20 after Marnie herself turns 20 (which she already has, and the was very impressive Fanart seen as a result of it!) because she doesn't want ro be ‘drawing grandma Mary on my deathbed’, but the idea of her ageing further is still a possibility.

22-Year-Old/Future AU Mary is the only one of the two being mentioned in this segment to have a design, which uses the second choker design from when Mary was only known by ‘Surrealist’ (which would've been after thinking of Catgirl at Heart based on My Take of the Timeline), as well a Jacket Design similar to Mary's from when marnielovesyouu was ‘MarnieSurr’ on Tumblr and Artfight in 2021 but with additional hearts seen across its sleeves.

Although it isn't as timeline-focused as everything else described, ‘grandma Mary’ implies that Mary will eventually have children and grandchildren, meaning that Mary's body is still affected by traits of Alexandria's Genesis (‘Women also do not menstruate, but are fertile’) despite her purple eyes now being caused by contact lenses.

(Anything that hasn't been added to this description is either still quite unclear in regards to its canonicity, something that has definitely been retconned, or ideas likely to be expanded on in the potential Maryverse TV Series, such as how the Battle of the Bands will be presented.)

Everything under the 'Read More' is to marnielovesyouu's other project, Luluverse, which is another one of marnielovesyouu's projects based on Magical Girl animes such as Madoka Magica.

For a smaller, bonus theory, I also thought about the possibility of Luluverse and Maryverse being connected to eachother. Lulu has been shown to be a fan of Catgirl at Heart, saying that ‘their music has helped me a lot through some tough times’, even having a picture taken with all three band members. Mary and Lulu have also been seen together in two other posts, which include ‘OC universe…. CROSSOVER!!!’ and ’Lulu meets her favorite artist’, with Lulu even being seen wearing Catgirl at Heart merchandise.

Both also have forests that relate to the story of the Main Cast before a transformation (Mary and Skylar used to play in the forest when they were younger at a similar time to when Mary announced her transition, and Lulu finds Jam Packet at an abandoned house in The Dead Forest before her hair becomes ‘spikified’).

There isn't as much to this theory when compared to My Take on the Maryverse Timeline (as that was what the focus of this post was meant to be with other ideas coming from the Timeline Take when researching these projects), unless I planned to expand upon the suggestion of Mary potentially having one of the rarer ‘ancient familiars’ that appear as being closer to animals in nature, such as the white ‘Birdy Birdy’ that Mary is seen calling over to her through whistling. that the jacket often worn by Mary is her magical girl outfit (similarly to how Lulu is with Jam Packet), which is also why she leaves hearts wherever she goes.

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I'm not sure whether Maryverse and Luluverse have hand anything similar to this made for them, and I've never done this type of content before, so I hope that you liked My Take on the events that have been publicly-revealed so far!

Even though it was nearly a week before everything to be final, I did enjoy getting to work on this and my previous Artfight attack and I hope that more people will be able to interact with you and your work, even if it was through a series of Anonymous Asks like I did!

Maryverse, Luluverse and all art by @marnielovesyouu

Choker Theory by @imaginary-regret-608

[gingerpeachtea]

🧭 & 🛠 for the ask game <3

(an ask game for procrastinating my wips)

HIIII :DDD

🧭An alternative title to your/one of your WIP(s)?

something's in your eyes was the fic's original title, but there was a brief period where i almost considered titling it achilles' heel (until reese called me one day and said bitch. don't. and thank god i didn't. it would be WAYYY too on the nose for reasons you'll see when i eventually post it. i 100% would've ended up hating it. reese forever!!!). before i came up w the title for smfst and immediately instantly fell in love with it, i toyed with the idea of making the title something themed around the lady of the lake :) i came up w the title "keep a leftover light burning" for laurel grief fic, but i already know that isn't going to stay. don't have a replacement yet tho!

🛠Is there a scene or anything in the WIP you are struggling with right now?

answered this here BUT forchies for u i love talking so!!!! i've been struggling with the beginning of laurel grief fic for quite some time. when i started writing it, i jumped right into the thick of Gareth Showing Up, with no clue of how they were going to get to the point where he Needed To Show Up. i have the phone call before written, BUT what i'm really struggling with is the before the phone call; establishing what laurel's life looks like from the pit of grief she's dug herself into. i don't know how much to delve into the Bad Day that precedes the phone call, seeing as it's just a building block to get to Gareth Showing Up. i also don't know if i've nailed the ending? because i'm not really sure what the arc is here yknow. while talking out my struggle with the beginning, i'm also realizing the reason behind the other struggle w this fic that i was going to bring up anyways: the famous (to me!) grief sex. LIKE. i was originally going to use it as a transition to the nightmare, and CURRENTLY i've decided to delve into it for Emotional Resonance but have it lead to a fade to black, and now i just. don't know!!! it's the exact same reason i'm having problems with the fic intro: there is no plot!!! there is just grief. once you're in the hole, it doesn't feel like A Hole Leading To Somewhere, it just feels like a hole. and i could take that aimlessness and give laurel an arc where she finds something to aim for, but this fic is just one night of grief. she starts aimless and ends aimless, and spends her time on the page searching for a thousand things, not quite knowing what. for a fic where the character spends all of it searching for something, how do i come up with a satisfying ending that isn't just she finds what she's looking for? maybe i'll make a point out of the dissatisfaction. wait okay. guys i'm hitting post i have to go cook

[gingermintpepper]

How’s Fields of Mistria? You mentioning it was the second time I heard of it, the first time being in passing, so I’m not too knowledgeable about the game.

AWWW THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ASKING!!

Fields of Mistria is SUPER fun, since there's not much to do in it after you've completed the first year right now, I've dedicated myself to breeding and collecting all the seasonal variants of horses so I can name them after the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse!

I also named all my barns after metamorphised lovers in greek myth because I have exactly one thought running through my head at any given point in time (Currently there's Crocus Coop where I keep my (gorgeous wonderful lovely adorable ouugh I LOVE THEMMM!!) blue chickens

Cypress Barn where I keep my wonderful cows (who have been with me the longest and whom I cherish immensely! I'm not sure if Autumn cows are possible but I'm definitely aiming for a barn of all red and autumnal cows for obvious reasons)

Minthe Barn where I keep all of my other large animals like sheep, alpacas and my very first beloved Chiron (black and white) and Iris (brown with spots) (the foal is Rigel) 🥺

And Hyacinthus Barn where I have a collection of small animals like rabbits, capybaras and my PRIZED DUCKS LEDA (the pretty blue and green duckie) AND CYCNUS (the pure white duck meant to mimic a swan!!) Even though it's technically a coop, I mistakenly labelled it a barn when I was inputting the name and I never changed it LOL

My farm is also named after THE metamorphosized lover, Daphne herself, so it's called Laurel Farm

And I'm planning for my Seasonal Horse barn to be named after the poplar since I quite like Leuke's story and I think she's fitting of housing the horses that will be the steeds of War, Pestilence, Conquest and Famine :)

Bonus: My house is still small and eclectically decorated, but keeping in theme with my farm, I do hope to go for a flower/garden theme

<33

[7grandmel]

Todays rip: 27/11/2023

Electromeme Adventures

Season 3 Featured on: SiIvaGunner's Highest Quality Rips: Volume AI

Ripped by ChickenSuitGuy, Jack the Ripper, Lil Hairline

Man, collabs of this scale just always make me happy. Be it fusion collabs, or just collabs of any sort, or just one ripper having fun - or somewhere between it all like this rip, its hard not to adore rips that just throw all caution to the wind for the sake of maximizing the volume of jokes. Electromeme Adventures is a fantastic celebration of Geometry Dash as a whole, and is easily the game's best rip on the channel.

Though I haven't kept tabs much with the game itself, Geometry Dash always felt like the sort of game that really embraced and rewarded the creativity and dedication of its users with its user-created levels. It feels sort of like the Friday Night Funkin' of the 2010s, if I were to put it one way - and Electromeme Adventures is but one of several thousands fanworks that have kept the game going for so long. The bar of quality is so immensely high given just how talented many of its level creators are, yet ChickenSuitGuy and company matched it with an excellent display of quality. It's such a classic Season 3 rip with jokes like Despacito and Sean Kingston ebbing in and out with jokes from the early days like Soulja Boy and Grand Dad - yet those old jokes never rest on their laurels, and are polished to an absolute sheen. Jokes intersect and blend with one another in absolutely insane ways - the vocals of Beautiful Girls and Boulevard of Broken Dreams will be alternating in harmony with one another, as the instrumental carrying over from 10 seconds prior is built on the drums used in We Are Number One - the amount of layers that joke stack to in Electromeme Adventures is frankly absurd.

Its the kind of rip that, even as I'm sitting here cross-referencing the wiki's list of jokes whilst listening to it in real-time, there are so many small things I'm still only just noticing hidden in the mix. Like, at about a minute in, the vocal sample of MatPat introducing the Game Theory channel seems to at first just be a silly form of beatdrop/transition - but the actual Game Theory intro theme then begins playing quietly in the background, arranged with samples from Scatman's World! None of the jokes are left-field turns or sudden new jokes either, it's a barrage of jokes and themes you're already familiar with yet overlaid with one another in absolute sensory overload.

The appeal of "meme mashup" rips like this such as, say, Memey Hell, does absolutely feel a bit limited in just how dense they are - you've given so little time to actually process a joke or appreciate a harmony before things move on, and I feel like the currently ongoing series of Fusion Collab do a better job letting individual ideas shine for longer. Yet few of those have been looped on my playlist for quite as many times - its impossible for me to listen to Electromeme Adventures just once at a time due purely to how much damn STUFF is crammed into it, and the excellence its all pulled off with. The finishing segment, melody-swapping the backing synth into The Flintstones before switching to Brain Power, really does just close the rip out in the most perfect way possible. Electromeme Adventures is SiIvaGunner operating at FULL Brain Power.