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sarahowritesostucky · 1 year ago

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📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 3620

Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, referenced childhood abuse and resultant mental health issues, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange

Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.

Trigger warnings: This story contains themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, childhood abuse, self-harm, and alcohol abuse.

Wait! I haven't read an earlier chapter of this fic! Story Masterpost

6. Somethin' with Bananas

Steve

Steve wakes up to Bucky spooning him, pressing his morning wood against his ass. He hums with his eyes still closed, enjoying the feeling. “Mmm, g’morning.”

Hands slide onto his hips. “Mornin’ Sunshine.”

Steve smiles. “Sunshine” is one of Bucky’s favorite pet names for him. Steve is rather fond of it too, after so many years together. His husband has a knack for making him feel special like that. “What’re you doin', Buck?” he warns softly, still smiling because he likes the feeling of being explored, even if they can't take this far right now because of—

“She left for work a while ago,” Bucky murmurs, the answer to a question that Steve hasn’t asked. Alone time doesn’t happen as much as it used to, these days. "Left a bunch of baking stuff out on the counter. There's a note threatening us with mortal peril if we eat any of her bananas."

"Hmm." Steve yawns deeply and wiggles his butt back against his husband's noticeable hardon. "Whas'she makin'?"

"Dunno. Somethin' with bananas." Bucky’s hand slides to the juncture of Steve’s legs. He palms the half hard line of his cock from over his briefs, massaging the bulge as it grows. Steve moans a little and tips his head back to Bucky’s shoulder, a wordless request for kisses. Bucky starts lavishing his neck with attention while his hand continues its slow work.

Steve loves moments like this. Early morning, the sun barely out and the world quiet, the bedroom air still and thick from sleep; easy, instinctual fucking; simple and not complicated, just the two of them loving on each other. He inhales a little sharper when Bucky finally slides his hand under the waistband of his underwear. “Yeah,” he whispers.

“Mmhm.” Bucky kisses his neck. “This what you wanted, Honey?” His hand is wrapped flush around Steve now, skin on skin. He strokes once up and down and gives a squeeze, starts up a slow, tight rhythm.

“Oh.” Steve bites his lip, eyes closed as he just feels what Bucky’s doing to him. “Mm. Mmhm. S’real good.” He shivers when Bucky’s thumb swipes at his cockhead, spreading the wetness around and pressing firm against his slit. “Fuck …”

“Always were a leaker,” Bucky says lowly. “You get so wet, Honey.”

“Buck,” Steve whines. He loves Bucky’s talk in bed but he’s never been able to handle it. It turns him into a pitiful mess, every time.

Bucky

Bucky just chuckles, knowing the effect he has on him. He’s Dominant. Winding Steve around his little finger comes naturally to him, and Steve can’t say he doesn’t like it. “You were making pretty sounds in your sleep,” Bucky says, murmuring the words in between kisses on Steve’s neck. “Moaning and moving your hips a little.” He demonstrates, pushing his own hips up against Steve’s ass. Steve makes an embarrassed, whimpery sort of noise that goes straight to Bucky’s cock, and he shushes him. “Shh, no. It was hot, Stevie. You were feeling real good in your sleep, huh?”

“Y-yeah.”

“What were you dreaming about?” Bucky presses his thigh forward, between Steve’s legs, crowding him that much closer. “Hm?”

“Her,” Steve says breathily. “I … h-her.”

“Mary?” Bucky grins against the skin of his neck. “Having dirty dreams about our girl, huh?”

Steve moans—whether at Bucky calling her ‘their girl’, or at the way his other hand is now reaching down to cup Steve’s sac, isn’t clear. Bucky gives a gentle squeeze and tug, then rolls the weight of his testicles in his palm. Steve, who’s always been keen on having his balls played with, moans louder and nods against the pillow. “Didn’t mean to,” he says, as if he needs to defend his character.

Bucky grins like a shark and nips his earlobe. “Course not. You just couldn’t help it, could you? She’s always there, moaning around bites of cream filled pastries, showing off her ass in those leggings—”

Steve groans.

“—Giving us attitude every day like she wants a spanking, but dropping so sweet by the end’a the night.” He can see pink spreading around to the back of Steve’s neck and shoulders now. His Stevie colors so easily. Bucky licks delicately along the shell of his ear and whispers, “Tell me. Tell me what you did to her in the dream.” Steve moans and doesn’t answer for a long while, maybe too distracted by Bucky’s hand that’s still stroking him slowly. Bucky stills, opens his hand and presses Steve’s cock up against his stomach. “Steve,” he warns. “Tell me.”

“... Wasn’t me,” Steve mumbles, embarrassed. “It was you. You were touching her, fucking her.”

Bucky’s guts tighten in arousal. “Oh?” he breathes. “You like thinkin’ about that? Like thinking about me laying her out? Her spreading her legs for me right here on this bed?” Steve groans and nods, whining impatiently and humping forward for more. Bucky chuckles and takes him in hand again, squeezing his shaft and fondling his balls. They’re tighter now, drawn up closer to his body as he gets more worked up. “So?” Bucky needles, when he still hasn’t gotten an answer. “Is that what you want?”

“Bucky, nngh, Yes, alright?”

“Mmhm.” He chuckles softly and nuzzles Steve’s neck, enjoying his husband’s flustered state. “But you know, I think I’d like to watch you.” He can just picture it: Steve’s muscled, strong body moving over her soft curves, his big hands holding her open gently—because everything Steve does is gentle—while he makes her cum on his cock. “Yeah. You like that idea, Big guy? Me too. I wanna watch this big fat dick—” he squeezes his fist on Steve— “plowing her sloppy, making her cum so good she even cries a little bit.” Steve whines again, and Bucky hums in agreement. “Mmhm. It’d be so hot, Stevie.”

Steve squirms against him in distress. “I, I’ve never … With girls I mean. I’m not … I’ve never …” he peters off, and Bucky’s got no idea what he’s saying.

“What?” He frowns and ruts his erection against the cleft of Steve’s ass for a little relief. “What’re you talking about, Baby? You’ve been with women before. College?”

Steve shakes his head against the pillow. “No, I mean I … I don’t know what to do. To make ‘em feel good. I’m … not good at it.”

Bucky actually stops what he’s doing. Steve grunts at the lack of touch, but Bucky just hushes him and pulls on his shoulder, urging him to turn over. “Hey. C’mere. Look at me.” Steve’s face is indeed colored pink when he turns to lie facing Bucky. His eyes flick up briefly, but dart away again, shy. Bucky’s heart squeezes. “Oh, Honey,” he says, bringing a hand up to cup Steve’s jaw. “Who told you that?” He thinks of murdering whatever coed bitch might’ve made Steve feel self-conscious.

Steve looks mortified. “Nobody did. Just … I could tell. The times I was with ‘em. I couldn’t make them, you know, cum.” He looks so ashamed as he admits it, and Bucky wants to grab him and kiss all over his entire face.

“Aw, Steve,” he coos. “Is that it? You’re nervous about being with a woman again? Not confident?”

Steve nods. He tucks himself against Bucky’s body and presses his face in his neck, hiding there. “Women are hard,” he mumbles. “I like ‘em, but it’s not easy.”

Bucky chuckles a little. “Yeah, that’s for sure. But it’s not that bad, baby. You just gotta know a few basics. Gotta take it real slow and feel them out, find out what makes her feel good. Every girl’s different. That’s the beauty in it.”

Steve grunts and ruts up against him, their cocks knocking together between their bellies. “Tell me?” he asks, eager and sweet. “Please, Buck? Tell me how.”

Bucky feels like half the blood leaves his brain, his dick throbbing anew. “Fuck,” he breathes, crazy turned on at the idea. “You want me to teach you, Stevie? Teach you how to get her crying? Dripping wet? How to touch her so good you make her cum?”

Steve shivers and nods, grinding his forehead into Bucky’s shoulder in embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah I want you to. Want you to teach me.”

Bucky pulls Steve’s head up to make him look at him. His face is pinched—embarrassed but wanting. Bucky curses. “Fuck. Yeah, yeah baby I’ll teach you how. C’mere.” He moves up the bed, pulling Steve’s meaty shoulders to get him to follow, directing him to sit in his lap, back to chest as Bucky props them up against the headboard. He spreads his legs wide to accommodate Steve’s bulk, wrapping his arms around him from behind. “My little overachiever,” he murmurs. “Such a Boy Scout, always wanting to be the best you can be.”

Steve huffs. “Don’t think they gave out merits for eating pussy,” he quips, uncharacteristically lewd.

Bucky barks out a laugh in delight. “Well pay attention, Sweetheart. You’re about to earn that badge.” Steve shudders against him, but he’s leaning back against Bucky, slumped just a little lower in his lap. He’s ready to listen, and Bucky’s fucking hot at the chance to tell. “First thing you gotta know,” he says, speaking delicately and smoothing his hands over Steve’s sides. “Is forget what you’ve seen in porn. They make that shit for us, not them. It’s all fake. No better way to make a girl miserable than to go pounding into her or whatever else.”

Steve makes a questioning noise, and God bless him, Bucky knows instantly that this is news to the big dummy. “But …” he hedges.

“No buts, Honey.” Bucky kisses his ear. “You gotta be so gentle. Always start soft, always go slow. Start that way and pay attention to her reactions.” He skims his fingertips up Steve’s ribs, tickling lightly over to his pecs and back down, making him gasp. “Yeah,” Bucky hums, “Just like that. She might be quiet at first, girls don’t moan all loud right off the bat. They don’t get worked up as fast as we do. They take time.”

Steve nods, panting a little as he listens to him. “W-what then?” he asks.

“Listen to her breathing, the sounds she makes. She’ll start breathing heavier when you’ve got her feeling good, start making little sounds without even realizing she’s doin’ it.” Steve looses a tiny whimper and Bucky grins. “Yeah, just like that.” He reaches down and finds Steve’s cock again, and god it’s sexy how wet his fella can get. He strokes him a few times, just languidly, letting the precum guide the slide of his fist. Not hurrying. Showing Steve what he means when he says ‘slow’.

“Oh,” Steve breathes, sounding gone for it.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “And then when she starts moving her hips?” He presses his crotch into the small of Steve’s back. “Just rubbing herself against you or humping up in the air a little? Oh yeah, that’s when she’s into it.” He brings one hand up to cradle Steve’s pec. “Girls are more sensitive here than we are,” he tells him. He’s looking over Steve’s shoulder now, eyeing up what he’s doing. He flicks his thumb over the nipple—so freaking small and petal pink where Bucky’s are darker. And he’s so responsive, the nipple pebbling up with hardly any effort on Bucky’s part. “Mmhm,” Bucky hums approvingly. “You want to try different things. You can just hold ‘em …” he uses both hands and cups the meat of Steve’s chest, giving a proprietary squeeze. Steve moans and Bucky smiles. “Yeah. But not too hard. Treat her tits like they’re something delicate, somethin’ special.” He makes the motion to Steve’s pecs like he would do to lightly bounce a woman’s breasts in his palms. “And Mary, she’s got smaller tits. A nice, healthy handful, just like you.”

Steve whines and squirms impatiently in his lap. Bucky glances down to check, and sees Steve’s cock; abandoned on his stomach, dark, and leaking. It’s so heavy and thick, the foreskin drawn halfway down the head, showcasing the shiny pink tip of him. Bucky curses softly. Fuck, but he wants to wring an orgasm out of that cock like ten minutes ago. But he forces himself to stay the course.

“When you use your mouth on her nipples,” he whispers, voice soft like velvet in Steve’s ear, “You can lick. Or nibble a little.” He mimics each option with a stroke and then a pinch of his fingers on Steve’s nipples, flicking out with his tongue to get the shell of Steve’s ear. “But I’ll tell you what: most of ‘em like it best when you suck.” He uses all five fingertips drawn together to pull gently at the peaks of Steve’s chest, and Steve makes a hurt, wanting sound. “Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “Suck her nipples. Then fit as much of her in your mouth as you can and suck that too.” He takes pity on Steve and reaches back down for his cock. Steve cries out, and Bucky gentles him. “Shh sh sh. Remember: slow.”

Steve groans, his tight hips flexing and pushing his cock up into the curl of Bucky’s fist. “Buck, please.”

“It’s not about you,” Bucky chides. “You’re a man. You get to cum so easy and all the time. You gotta help her get there, give her what she deserves.”

Steve sobs a little, so worked up from all the teasing, but he falls back into Bucky, relaxing against his chest and laying himself open for Bucky to continue. Pride and adoration for his man well up in Bucky at the show of submission. “Good,” he praises, giving an extra indulgent twist on the next upstroke. Steve’s foreskin moves with the motions, making soft, wet noises with all the precum he’s leaking. Bucky hums appreciatively. “Yeah, lookit that.” He draws his hand all the way up, tight, and then dips his thumb into the folds, rubbing into that wetness, against the sensitive head. “If you’re doing it right, touching her enough, she’ll be wet by now,” he says. “But you still shouldn’t go for her pussy yet. Not yet.”

“What … what else?” Steve asks muzzily, like he can’t think of anything else to do that doesn’t involve his dick getting jerked off or sticking it in a hypothetical pussy.

“Tease her,” Bucky says. “Run your hands all over her body, all over her soft skin.”

Steve sighs happily. “I like how soft they are. Smooth.”

Hearing Steve talk about what he likes about women makes Bucky’s dick throb, and he grinds it against Steve’s lower back for some relief. “Mmhm,” he agrees, moving his hands up and down the skin of Steve’s ribcage, his belly, grabbing on at his hips and giving a proprietary jostle. “Dig your fingers into her, gentle but insistent. Let her feel how much you love her body.”

“Now?” Steve asks.

“Not yet,” Bucky whispers.

“Fuck. Bucky.”

“Tease her,” he insists, ignoring Steve’s pleading. He slides his hands down Steve’s thighs and inwards, pulling them apart. Steve moans and spreads them wide. “Exactly,” Bucky says. “You want to touch her here. Run your hands all over, so close to where she wants it. Remember, if you’ve been doing this right, she’ll be wet by now.” He goes back and strokes the wetness along Steve’s shaft. “Sink down between her legs and kiss her thighs—you’ll smell it.”

“Oh my god.”

Bucky smiles, in love with his husband for how easily he comes apart under his care. He traces down to the base of Steve’s cock, making a vee with two fingers and rubbing the skin on either side. “Put pressure on her mound, really close but not touching where she wants it. Not yet.” His other hand slides down and delicately traces the seam of Steve’s sac. “Tease her, trace her folds. Get a little bit of that wetness and rub it around to make her even more sensitive. And then …” He blows gently on Steve’s ear. Steve moans. “Just like that. You want to wait. Don’t give her your mouth until she’s whining and shovin’ up at you for it.”

“Nngh,”

Bucky chuckles and circles the wet pad of his finger over one testicle and then the other. He nudges at Steve’s taut sac and whispers in his ear. “Push her lips apart.”

Steve is breathing hard through his nose, tense, his dick bobbing rock hard and angry in the air. Bucky has mercy on him and reaches for it, and Steve chokes out a sob of relief at only the slightest touch.

Bucky kisses his temple soothingly. “Shh. Here. Riiight here.” He holds the head between his thumb and fingers and starts jacking just the tip of him, foreskin tugging and gliding in that way that he knows feels amazing for Steve. “Right above her sweet spot, see? You rub on her like this, up and down, back and forth. Work the hood over her clit juuust like this.”

Steve makes a debased groan at the echo of what Bucky’s saying, and how he’s working Steve’s foreskin over the head of his dick. “Fuck, fuck,” he hisses.

“Yeah, you’re close. She’s soaked by now. You think it’s time to give her more?”

“Bucky. Yes, yes, please.” His hips are straining upwards but he lets his head loll back on Bucky’s shoulder, open for what he’ll do next. “Please,” he begs.

“Now this is important, baby, so pay attention,” Bucky says. “Some women like a mouth on ‘em down there, some don’t. Some do, but they have a hang up over how they think they look or taste or something.” Steve makes a sad noise at that, matching Bucky’s opinion that: yeah, women shouldn’t worry so much. Pussy is just generally fucking awesome. “Tell her how much you love it,” he says. “The taste of her, the shape of her lips. Make her feel pretty and wanted.” He’s fondling Steve’s balls anew as he says this, rubbing and rolling them, then cupping his whole palm over them and dipping behind to dig fingertips into his taint. “Come on, Stevie,” he goads, “Let me hear it. Tell me what you’d say.”

It takes Steve a few tries before he can pull enough of his brain out of his dick to rasp, “S’fucking gorgeous p-pussy. So … so wet. Can I lick it Honey, huh? Please lemme lick it. Wanna taste that sweet cunt.”

Bucky gasps, shocked and delighted at Steve’s dirty talk. “Oh, Stevie,” he groans. “Baby. Fuck, yes. I didn’t know you had it in you.” He wraps his hand fully around Steve’s cock and starts jerking him off fast, fast enough that it’s obvious he’s finally aiming to make Steve cum, and Steve chokes on a relieved heave of breath.

"Yes! Oh, thank you!”

Bucky attacks Steve’s neck with his mouth, biting and smearing spit and scraping his teeth over the wet skin. He growls as he watches his fist working furiously over Steve's red, hard dick. “Suck her clit while you fuck her on your fingers,” he rasps. “Tell her she’s a good girl, tell her to ride your face, grind down on your hand. Make sure she knows she’s allowed to let go.”

Steve cries out, guttural and loud like he always gets when his pleasure is cresting. “Bucky, Buck. Honey, oh. F-fuck, m’close.”

“Mmhm. Thaat’s it, Princess,” he says, pitching his voice just so and using that name so that Steve knows. Knows he’s talking to her.

Steve whines, his whole body tight and straining into Bucky’s grip.

“Curl your fucking fingers in her,” Bucky growls. “She’s close. Don’t slow down. Don’t even speed up. She likes what you’re doing now, so don’t you dare fucking change a thing.”

“Bucky!”

“That’s it, Princess, just like that. You’re almost there.”

“Fuck, fuck … ssshit …”

“Ride Daddy’s hand, fuck back on it. Good girl.”

Steve jerks and shouts, cock pulsing in telltale contractions, before searing ropes of come shoot up his stomach and all over Bucky’s hand. “Oh, oh, oh!” He grunts through it with gorgeous sounds, and Bucky’s so in love with the sight of it that he’s not roleplaying anymore when he purrs, “Fucking beautiful, Sweetheart.”

Steve slumps when it’s over, still panting from the pleasure. Bucky eases off, sets his wet and slowly softening dick gently against his stomach. He moves them, guiding Steve to turn over and lie out on his front. He shoves Steve’s legs together and straddles them, swipes his hand that’s covered in Steve’s release into the tight space between his thighs, wetting him up. He growls viciously, pent up and rock hard and ready to fucking cum. He ruts into the wet clench of Steve’s thick thighs, fucking him like he’s got a loose, easy cunt. “Fuck, baby,” he grits, close within a matter of minutes. He chases his orgasm and collapses onto Steve’s broad back when it hits, grinding in hard one last time and shouting loud and guttural with how goddamn good it feels. “Fuck! Ughn, f-ffuuck.”

He comes down heaving, panting against Steve’s skin. Steve is strong enough that he can roll out from under his weight, and he pulls Bucky into his arms and draws his head onto his chest. Bucky goes gratefully, happy to have Steve’s firm pecs as a pillow. “God, honey,” he breathes, wrung out. Steve makes a noise of agreement. They just lie there together, sweaty and spent, catching their breath for a long time.

“... Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“… You’re a good teacher.”

Bucky laughs and crawls up to kiss Steve on the mouth. “Yeah,” he says when they part. “But that wasn’t even the main event.” Steve looks confused for a second, before Bucky slyly clarifies: “You still gotta fuck her. And you know you want to make her cum at least twice.”

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aspiring-house-husband · 2 years ago

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one can only collect so much wealth before tempting the attention of a dragon.

the young prince was spoiled and beautiful. he wore gold in every bit of his body, hanging it across his shoulders, around his neck, dangling from his ears. suitors hoping for his hand in marriage, rivals attempting peace, lords vying good favor, all manners of people came from all over to present gifts of gold and glittering jewel to the prince. he accepted all favor, but he rarely repaid. he preferred the lords who has spoiled him, and made peace with the rivals who asked, but never accepted a suitor’s hand. it only garnered their attention more.

soon enough, his castle was drowning in gold. he kept careful stock of the golden jewelry he loved to adorn, but the gems and the coins and the clutter of gold simply got tossed into his treasury. he would spend time lounging about inside it, but that was it’s only purpose.

except, of course, for attracting a dragon.

it came in the dead of night amidst a storm, diving through the castle gates and lumbering through its halls. the prince was sound asleep in his own bed when the dragon arrived, and so the dragon found his treasury unguarded. he buried himself in the gold and settled, content with his new hoard.

and the prince discovered him the next morning. unimpressed by the might of the dragon, he demanded that the great beast leave.

but for the first time in his life, the prince felt true fear when the dragon pinned him down to the floor. Sharp claws pressed into soft skin, and the dragon’s hot breath fanned over the prince’s body. the beast’s mouth opened to reveal razor sharp fangs, and the prince felt cold chill settle in his body with assurance that he was going to die.

but instead, the dragon lavished his tongue over the prince’s neck.

“i taste gold on you,” the dragon said, his hot breath washing over the prince.

“my gold, that which you’re stealing,” answered the prince, only brave enough now to grab onto the dragon’s ivory claws.

“would i taste it within you, too, little prince?” the dragon had no heed for the prince’s anger, and his long fat tongue maneuvered through the layers of his clothes so that his teeth could follow and bare the prince beneath him.

“so small…” the dragon cooed, “so fragile. yet warm and luminous.” the prince could not reach around the dragon’s claws to cover himself, even as the beast’s breathing chilled the tracks of saliva and sweat running over his body.

“warm and luminous, like my treasure. my gold.”

“my gold,” the prince corrected, but he had no authority in his words. the dragon laughs as it’s great snout neared the prince’s thighs.

“all mine,” the dragon said again, this time sliding his tongue between the prince’s legs. “this gold, this castle, this treasure… and it’s prince. all mine.”

“no, i’m-“ the prince choked himself with a moan as the dragon’s tongue passed over him again, this time spending longer lavishing itself in his wetness, growing to match the dragon’s need. “i’m not, i’m- you’re- hah, you’re in my castle! mine!”

“shh, little prince,” the dragon soothes, his voice rumbling within the castle walls. “you’ll understand soon. you’re mine.”

the prince could not respond. the dragon’s voice was invading his mind, softening his defenses. his eyelids drooped as still he looked across his now bare body, quaking with need he couldn’t quite understand. while he watched the dragon’s snout as it shoved his thighs apart, he still was not prepared for when the tip of the dragon’s tapered tongue breached him. his back arched, even into the dragon’s claws, which retracted before puncturing soft skin.

still the dragon rumbled, vibrating deep into the prince and rippling through his mind. he could hardly think, could hardly feel but the thrusting tongue within him, exploring him, tasting him. he could not muster a warning before he came across the dragon’s tongue, and he could not muster a complaint when the dragon fucked him to sensitivity afterward. he could not move from the dragon’s claws, could not escape its tongue, even while he grew sleepy and his mind soft in the rumbling of the dragon’s voice.

“lovely little prince,” said the dragon, daintily lifting the limp prince from the floor. his hole dripped it’s wetness across his thighs, and the dragon licked over its fangs. cradling the prince, the dragon rolled to his side to reveal his own member, and he wrapped the prince up to his stomach. his cock was much too large for the tiny man, but should the prince’s soft thighs part far enough, the dragon could nestle his tapered tip just within him.

and so when the prince whimpered in his sleep, and slipped his soft legs over the dragon, and the dragon stroked himself and tasted the slick the prince had smeared over himself, he could cum into the prince, and leave him dripping much more than his own spend.

the prince was a new kind of spoiled, now. he never again had the need for praise from his kingdom, when the words of a dragon were enough to drip his mind out his hole, and he could train himself to take only a few inches more of dragon cock for the reward of filling up with warm dragon cum.

he would never quite feel whole without it again.

#dragon #dumbification #og #story #prince #historical #size

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thebarontheabyss · 3 months ago

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Happy Halloween to all dead and alive patrons of TBOTA! 👻🎃

Sharing another entry from the archive update if you haven't tried it yet—one that is just perfect for tonight. All other entries are available in the menu or during Chapter 4 of the game!

Have a spooky-but-fun holiday, and see you in the Abyss! 🖤

The Last Recordings of Ibaria Kell’ani

——————▸ Recording 001:

Finally, got this thing working.

My name is Ibaria Kell’ani. I’m a field agent of the Extrarealmic Exploration Institute of Civitas. I was taken hostage by inhabitants of realm C520, for reasons I still can’t figure out.

We were ambushed just a few miles from the gateway right after we descended into the valley. Everything happened so fast.

I… I don’t know where the others are.

When I woke up, I found myself in this chamber. No sign of my team, no sign of my captors—just cold stone walls and… silence.

Shit. I need to think.

——————▸ Recording 002:

An hour has passed since my last recording. Finally managed to calm down.

Let’s see… the important details.

So I woke up in this lavish room, not exactly what I’d call a cell. It’s... unsettling. The bed is large, almost too comfortable, with golden embroidered sheets and a flowing canopy. There’s a faucet in the corner, and a plate of fruit on the bedside table—perfectly arranged, by the way. Fresh, untouched.

Were I not a hostage, I’d give this place a five-star review.

There’s a large window overlooking the valley, and based on the view, I think I’m on the opposite side from where we landed. The elevation is dizzying. It’s way too high to climb down. I thought about making a rope from the bedsheets, but considering how far the drop is, I’d probably fall to my death.

So… let’s file that under Plan Z for now.

Oh, and the door to my room is wide open. Not locked. Not guarded. Just… opened.

I took a peek outside. There’s a huge corridor, stretching in both directions, but it’s too dark to see where it will take me. But I did see some ornate carvings running along the walls, the kind that would take lifetimes to craft.

What a strange prison cell. If that’s even what this is. I called out for my team, but the only thing that answered was my own voice, echoing back.

Nothing. No one. Just silence.

I think… I was hurt during the ambush. There’s a wound on my chest, right above my heart. I didn’t notice it at first—maybe I was in shock. But when I looked, someone had sealed it up. The stitching is crude, primitive. And yet, it doesn’t hurt.

In fact, it’s… warm to the touch.

I’ve been debating whether to leave the room. The open door feels like bait. Like part of some elaborate plan. This realm—C520—has already proven dangerous, and I’m not naive enough to believe my captors would forget to lock my door.

But it’s either that or the window. And I’m not ready to throw myself off a cliff just yet.

I’ll… I’ll keep you updated.

——————▸ Recording 003:

What is this place?

It took some self-convincing, more than I’d like to admit—but I did it. I went outside. Walked through the dark corridor, my flashlight shaking in my hand the entire way.

At the end of the hall, I found a sodden door. Behind it… there’s a worship chamber, or something that resembles one.

Oh, I should mention—my comm device. Still broken. Probably fried during the ambush. So, I’m left with my secondary recording device. It can’t do video, but I’ll keep doing these audio docs, so If anyone ever finds them…

You know, I should probably stop thinking about that.

Anyway, the chamber. It’s huge, like some sort of ancient monastery. Big statues, lined the walls, their faces obscured by time or maybe deliberate damage. I think they depicted warriors, or Gods–or both. Each statue was clutching something—heads. Humanoid heads, held like stone trophies in their cold hands. There were unlit candles scattered across the floor, and carvings covering the walls and ground. It all screamed of some kind of cult-like ritual space.

Wish Agent Joles were here. Her expertise in extrarealmic anthropology would’ve come in handy. I’m just a field agent—a grunt. I’m here to follow the experts, not to play investigator in a nightmare temple.

I wonder where the others are.

The chamber was cold, but the atmosphere was worse than the temperature. I tried to read the carvings, but without my comm device, I couldn't translate them.

There was no exit except for the way I came in, so after a while, I left. Honestly, the whole place gave me the creeps. Those statues… those heads. It felt like they were watching me as I walked away. I know that’s crazy. I know I’m probably just freaked out. But I heard rumours, about the things hiding in some of these realms.

Although, that won’t make sense, right? They scan every realm before expeditions. They check for dangers. And for safety measures, we had a whole squad of security guards. So… how did this happened, for Dominie’s sake? We were supposed to be prepared for some primitive inhabitants. What the hell happened?!

Sorry. Got carried away.

So, when I got back to my room, I downed some water from the faucet. I kind of hesitated before drinking it, but they wouldn’t poison it, right? I mean, there’s no point. They can do whatever they want to me. It’s not like a 5’4" field agent is going to pose much of a threat.

Actually, another thing I don’t want to think about right now.

I need to reassess. The sun—looks like it’s starting to set. I’ll head out again. Try to cover more ground.

Wish me luck.

——————▸ Recording 004:

Hello again. It’s morning already. I was so tired I fell asleep and forgot to record.

So… where do I start? This place is huge. And I don’t mean big in the normal sense—I mean *palatial*. A labyrinth of halls, corridors, and rooms. It took me more than two hours just to make a partial sweep, and I’m not even sure I’ve seen half of it.

There’s a throne room, of all things, sitting empty like its monarch left centuries ago. I walked past more than ten chambers—some grand, like mine, others more bare but still way too fancy to be normal cells. I found a grand hall, kitchens (complete with gleaming silverware and bowls of nothing), and long stretches of corridors leading to dead ends or locked doors.

All of it… deserted.

It’s like a whole kingdom got up and walked away one day, leaving everything behind. There’s no dust, no decay. Just vast emptiness.

No sign of my team, as well. Not a trace. Not a voice. The only sounds are my footsteps and my breathing. I tried the doors leading outside, but they’re all sealed shut, not even a lock or handle to work with. I think… the lock is on the other side?

After a while, I could feel another panic attack creeping up on me. But… I was too damn tired to let it happen. I didn’t have the energy to be scared anymore.

Instead, I stumbled back to my room, drained. The plate of fruit was still sitting there on the bed, so I ate the whole thing in one go. Honestly, I don’t even remember what it tasted like. It could’ve been cardboard for all I care. I just needed something in my system. Then, I collapsed onto the bed and slept.

When I woke up… the plate was full again. Back where it had been yesterday. Fresh fruit, arranged just as perfectly as before.

That’s when I lost it. I yelled—really yelled—until my throat hurt. Not because I was scared. No, I was pissed. Furious, actually. I don’t care what’s going on anymore. I don’t care what they’re planning or what they’ll do to me. I just wanted this stupid, endless suspense to end.

But no one came. No one answered.

No footsteps, no voices, no movement at all.

Nothing.

So here I am again, talking to this recorder like it’s a friend. I’ll… I’ll try another walk around today. There has to be something I missed. Maybe a door I overlooked. Maybe some clue that’ll help me make sense of this.

I can’t give up. Not yet.

My wound seems to be getting better. I mean, it’s not hurting anymore. Just… pulsing a bit. That’s weird, right? It doesn’t hurt, but it’s like there’s a heartbeat just beneath the skin.

I don’t know. It’s the least of my problems right now.

——————▸ Recording 005:

It’s been three days. I don’t think there’s a way out.

I’ve searched every inch of this damned place—every hall, every room, every shadowed corner. And as far as I can tell, the only real exits are the windows. I spent yesterday walking through even more fancy halls and ornate chambers, all just as grand and empty as the rest of this palace.

There’s also a garden, which… well, I have to admit was a nice break. I needed the air. But other than that… Nothing.

Every morning, the fruit plate on my bed gets replenished. I checked it this morning, waiting to see if someone would sneak in while I slept, but… no. No one. It’s magic. I saw it happen. The fruit just appeared, like it was summoned out of thin air.

That’s when I started thinking about Samir. If he were here, with his arcane knowledge, he’d probably be able to figure it out. Or at least, he’d have some theory. But Samir’s not here, is he? No one is. I’m alone.

Maybe someone managed to escape? Maybe all of them did. Maybe I’m the only one unlucky enough to be captured. Maybe… maybe the search parties are combing through the valley, following protocol, marking my absence on some cold, clinical report.

Either way, I need to be patient. I’m not in any immediate danger, right? No one’s tried to harm me, there’s food, there’s water, I’m not hurt… at least, not physically. I just need to keep my head on straight. Just be patient, Ibaria.

I had the strangest dream the other night. I was back in the chamber with the statues—the one with all those warrior effigies. It was snowing inside it—not just cold, actual snow falling from the ceiling. I remember watching it fall on those stone faces. And then one of the statues moved.

She was a woman, tall and armored, a warrior just like the others. But instead of standing there, frozen in place, she stepped down from her pedestal. She walked right up to me, took my hand, and kissed it. Her lips were cold. I could feel them, real as anything. And then she whispered, “It’s going to be alright.”

I thought about searching that chamber again, but honestly… I’m afraid to find her there.

I’m trying to stay focused, to keep some semblance of a plan.

So here’s what I’ve got:

- Plan A: Wait for rescue. Patience. Hope the Institute hasn’t forgotten me.

- Plan B: Try some of the locked doors. See if I can force my way through one of them. Maybe there’s something I missed.

- Plan Z: Jump out the window.

Let’s… hope it doesn’t come to that.

The wound on my chest is still there. It’s not hurting, but that pulsing sensation? Yeah, that’s still happening. Almost like it’s synced to my heartbeat. If I focus hard enough, I can feel it—this subtle thrum beneath the skin, warm, constant.

I can’t figure out if that’s a good or bad thing.

——————▸ Recording 006:

The others are dead.

It’s been two weeks since my last recording. Two weeks of silence. I had no reason to record. No purpose. I’ve just… wandered around this place. Lost, alone. Waiting, I suppose.

Until today.

I dreamed of her again. The woman from the chamber. She came to me every night, standing there in the snow, whispering things I couldn’t understand. But this morning… I didn’t wake up in my room.

I woke up in the chamber.

The cold stone floor was beneath me, and I could see my breath in the air, though I felt no chill. I bolted out of there, heart pounding in my chest. But something made me stop at the door. I turned back. I don’t know why. Maybe it was instinct, or maybe I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something I’d missed.

I searched the chamber again, behind the statues this time. That’s when I found it.

A door.

It was hidden behind a statue. The door was ice-cold to the touch, frost curling along the edges, but I didn’t hesitate. I pushed it open and stepped inside.

And that’s when I found them.

My team.

What’s… what’s left of them.

Their bodies were frozen in place, scattered across a huge, cavernous room. Catacomb-like, the walls were encased in thick ice, but I didn’t feel the cold. It was like the air had been sucked out, leaving only silence, death.

Their chests were split open. Not torn or clawed at—opened. As if something inside them had burned its way out. The skin around their wounds was charred, blackened, but the rest of their bodies were pristine, preserved in the ice.

I found the professor. Sylvia.

She was my mentor. I’ve known her for years. She always had this calm, steady look about her. But now… she looks terrified. Even in death, that fear is etched into her face.

But they weren’t the only ones in that chamber. There were others. Other bodies. Explorers, I think, judging by their clothing. But not just from Civitas. No… these people were from other realms. The styles of their uniforms, the equipment scattered around—it was all different. But their fate was the same. Chest opened, frozen in ice. Like something had devoured them from within.

And then, at the center of it all, a circle of bodies.

My captors.

They were arranged in a circle, lying in perfect formation, like some kind of ritual. All of them dead. I think they poisoned themselves. There was an empty bottle in the middle, the liquid long gone. It didn’t make sense, none of it makes sense.

And at the end of the room I found… her. The statue.

The bronze woman, the one from my dreams, her form still and cold. Covered in ice, just like the rest of the chamber. But there was something about her. She wasn’t just another statue. I could feel it. Like she was watching me. Waiting.

I ran. I couldn’t take it anymore. I bolted back to my room, slammed the door behind me, and collapsed on the bed, my mind racing.

Before I left the chamber, though, I grabbed something—Sylvia’s log. Her personal notes. I’ve been combing through them ever since I got back, trying to make sense of all this.

The final entry… it must have been written just before everything went wrong. It says: *“Someone has interfered with the gateway. We are in the wrong place.”*

I don’t think anyone’s coming for me.

——————▸ Recording 007:

It’s snowing outside.

The valley is white, pristine. It’s been snowing for two days now—relentless, endless. Everything is buried beneath it. The world is so quiet.

There was once an empire here. A pantheon of warrior-gods who ruled this realm. They waged wars—horrible, unending wars. So many dead. Gods and mortals alike. We’re so similar, aren’t we?

And she… she needed someone to save her. Someone to carry her. Not all mortals are capable, she told me. She needed someone who crossed the realms, absorbing void energy. But even then, some… can’t take the weight.

So she had to try, again and again.

I’m… I’m not in control of myself anymore. I wake up in places I don’t remember going to, sleepwalking through this palace. I feel tired all the time, like there’s a weight inside me pulling me down. But she said it’s alright. It’s all part of the process. The cold is everywhere now, but she says my warmth will sustain her.

I was just a field agent. I wasn’t special. I wasn’t important. But she told me I am. I will be. I was the only one who mattered. This place—it’s been waiting for me. All of it. The halls, the statues, my throne. Waiting for me.

To take back my realm.

To lead my people to victory.

To be the war, the snow, the cold.

The wound on my chest—it's healed now. It closed days ago. I feel stronger. Clearer. More… whole than I’ve felt in a long time. I thought I’d lost myself, but no. I came back through.

Thank you, for your sacrifice. It won’t be in vain. You gave me the strength I needed. The strength to do what must be done.

I will take back what’s mine.

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kiwi-backup · 2 days ago

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I don't hear enough people talking about Priest!Nanami...

[nsfw, Nanami drabble...]

...Whose faith has always been so unshakable...until a seemingly endless string of bad luck begins to burden him. It makes him question what he devoted his whole life to...what he has sacrificed all to a higher power he can't see with his own eyes. To spread the gospel as he swore to.

That is, before he finds an angel tucked away somewhere on the church grounds, injured and in need of help. He can't believe his eyes or his sudden turn of luck.

An angel...a messenger of God sent straight to him.

Just like that, his faith repairs itself, and he wastes no time lending the angel the help it needs.

While using soft tones, he tends to the divine being within the sanctuary of the church, hidden from any prying eyes. He knows his medical supplies are rudimentary at best, but the angel doesn't complain.

For one of the first times in his life, Nanami finds himself feeling almost...shy. Bashful, perhaps. It is an otherworldly being, of course, and seemingly the perfect vessel to test the strength of his faith.

Still, the angel is just as warm and tender as he would expect. With their wounds cleaned and the crisis averted, Nanami doesn't know where to go from there.

But he can't fight how fascinated he feels about it all.

The angel is beautiful...heavenly, to be more accurate. With long, silky hair, comforting golden eyes, and wings that look softer than anything on earth. They're...breathtaking.

Picking up on his curiosity, the angel slowly spreads one of its wings out, stretching to its full span in offering. Nanami is wide-eyed at first before reaching a careful hand out to feel those soft feathers for himself. There's a slight tremble to his touch while he marvels at the sensation, almost feeling like he's been blessed in every possible way.

He silently thanks God for the gift...for every reason to believe again.

And as he finds himself growing closer to the angel, getting lost in their endless beauty and grace, seemingly too curious about Earthly, human things to know any better, Nanami can't help himself.

He can't stop himself from craving their touch...craving something so deep and carnal that he's never had access to before.

Something in him knows it's wrong, but he can't help it.

After softly exploring the angel's lips, savouring every moment of pure pleasure, he can't stop himself from tasting more...

Down their chest as it moves innocently yet frantically while they endure his open-mouthed kisses, the smooth plains of their abdomen, down to the very center of their being.

Nanami lavishes the angel, unable to conceal that want as it surges through him, demanding to be appeased despite his position.

When he parts the angel's legs and finally pushes his way inside, every brick of Nanami's resolve crumbles completely, and he's overcome by the temptation of skin he always managed to conquer.

Something in the back of his mind tells him to stop...to beg both the angel and God for forgiveness, but feeling their warmth so thoroughly wrapped around him, he can't stop. Not when the angel is whining and keening for something it's experiencing for the first time.

Who would he be to deny such a divine being?

Nanami gets lost in the throes of it, pushing himself and the angel closer to damnation and impurity with every thrust of his hips—with every huffed breath and moan that escapes his lips.

He should stop. He should repent.

But the angel's wanton cries are too great to ignore...too enticing.

And the moment he finally comes...finally groans into the column of the angel's neck while gripping the small mattress beneath them, Nanami feels his soul ascending.

He finally knows what it means to feel and taste the flesh...to be corrupted by those bodily sins.

And even if he has condemned them both, Nanami can't find it in himself to regret it.

If he could be so easily tempted by one of the Lord's angels...was his faith ever intact at all?

He is just a man, after all...

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #nanami #nanami kento #kento nanami

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zinka-temp-name · 8 months ago

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Midas and Lorenzo are a monogamous couple in my main universe. Kado often flirts with them, much to Midas's frustration. But he respects that they're not interested in being romantically involved with him, and doesn't try to force anything on them. He just likes to flex his muscles, blow kisses, etc.

In an alternate universe, he ends up joining the relationship. Lorenzo is much more open to it early on, but it takes awhile for Midas to get on board. There's no cheating, as Lorenzo would never hurt Midas and be romantic with someone else if he wasn't okay with it.

But Kado eventually grows on Midas, and he can't help but open his heart to the charming vampire. He asks Lorenzo if he'd like to add Kado to the relationship, to which he agrees, but only if that's what Midas really wants. He does, and when they discuss this with Kado, he's absolutely thrilled to get his new boyfriends.

There's definitely still some playful annoyance towards Kado from Midas, but he does love the silly fool. They both have a soft spot for Lorenzo, who's a total sweetheart and doesn't like to see anyone fight. Midas can't help but get jealous sometimes when he sees Kado and Lorenzo alone together, but he's instantly brought over to be cuddled and kissed by them.

I hope to someday find a character for Kado to be with in the main universe, because he's one of my favorites and I hate for him to be lonely there. I'm just not currently interested in shipping him with anyone aside from Midas and Lorenzo, and while I love them as a poly ship, I still like Midenzo on their own. So having two different versions is nice.

I'll sometimes post things with Kado being a third wheel, and that can either be interpreted as the main universe, or the second one, but before he joins the relationship. Or even when they're all together, but Midas and Lorenzo are trying to have a moment alone.

#Fortnite #Fortnite Headcanons #Kado Thorne #Midas #Lorenzo #Kado x Midas x Lorenzo #Lavish Golden Explorer #Midas x Lorenzo #Midenzo #Kado x Midas #Lavish Gold #Kado x Lorenzo #Kadenzo

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beyralxoxo · 2 months ago

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{Amor Omnia Vincit-Lucius Verus Aurelius}

Chapter 3-Auream caveam gladioque: Golden Cage and the Sword

SUMMARY: Tillotama is met with her fate, the twin emperors gave her a chambers fit for and empress yet she knows it's nothing but a golden cage. And while she explores her new world, her soon-to-be protector is presented to the court and there he shows how great of a poet he can be.

PAIRING: Lucius Verus Aurelius x South Indian OC

WORD COUNT: 8,4 K

WARININGS: Death, Gladiator fights, a hint of mocked cannibalism (?)

As the towering gates of the palace closed behind them, the noise of the crowds and the procession outside slowly faded into silence. Tillotama found herself standing in a vast, echoing hall, the air thick with the scent of incense and myrrh. The grand chamber was unlike any she had seen before—its walls adorned with rich tapestries depicting Roman victories, while marble floors gleamed in the soft glow of golden light. It was both beautiful and foreign, a symbol of the empire’s opulence, and yet it was nothing more than a gilded cage for her to navigate.

The court had been granted their own wing in the palace, a gracious but unsettling gift from the twin emperors. Tillotama’s mind swirled with the complexities of the situation, but for now, the physical space was all she could focus on. The wide hallways stretched before her, leading into what would be her quarters in this strange city.

After a few moments of walking through the palace, they arrived at a large, ornate door, beyond which was a suite that would serve as Tillotama’s new chambers. The space was grand, adorned with velvet cushions, fine marble columns, and large windows that let in the soft, golden light of the afternoon sun. It was lavish and luxurious—but still, there was something foreign about it.

At the entrance stood a woman, older and dignified, dressed in rich Roman garments. The moment she saw Tillotama, she dropped to one knee, bowing deeply in respect.

“My lady,” the woman spoke softly, her voice warm but full of reverence. “They call me Pompeia Caesonia. I am the mistress of the chambers in this palace, entrusted with serving you and ensuring your comfort.”

Tillotama’s gaze lingered on her for a moment. Though the words were foreign to her, she could sense the sincerity in them. She turned her head toward Waarangan, her trusted translator, who stepped forward, ever calm and measured.

Waarangan spoke the words in her native tongue. “This woman is Pompeia, the one in charge of your chambers. She welcomes you, my lady.”

Tillotama’s lips parted in a small, soft smile as she gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. She had grown accustomed to her silence in these foreign lands, letting her actions speak louder than her words. She looked at Pompeia with a gaze that conveyed the respect she felt, even if she lacked the words to express it.

In her culture, a show of respect for an elder was often given through the act of touching their feet. With a quiet grace, Tillotama lowered herself slightly, her hands moving reverently toward Pompeia’s feet as she bent forward, the gesture humble and sincere. It was a sign of her respect, a silent acknowledgment of Pompeia’s position as both an elder and a guide in this new and unfamiliar place.

Pompeia, seeing this gesture, gasped softly in surprise. Her expression softened, and she instinctively reached out to stop Tillotama. “No, my lady,” she said, her voice trembling slightly with emotion. “There is no need. You honor me more than you know, but I should be the one taking the blessings from you.”

Waarangan, always attentive to the nuances of their interaction, quickly translated Pompeia’s words for Tillotama. He spoke gently, his voice carrying a calm understanding. “Pompeia says there is no need for such a gesture. She feels blessed by your respect, my lady.”

Tillotama’s face remained calm, but her eyes reflected her gratitude. She rose slowly, her hands folding in front of her in a more conventional gesture of respect. Though she could not understand Pompeia’s words directly, the sentiment was clear. This moment was an exchange of honor, a bridge between two worlds, and Tillotama’s heart swelled slightly with the quiet power of it.

Pompeia smiled at her, a warmth in her gaze that seemed to echo the respect and understanding shared between them. “The gods have certainly blessed you, child,” Pompeia said softly, a sense of awe in her voice. “To carry such dignity and grace…”

Tillotama met her gaze, her lips curling into a small smile. Though she did not speak the language, she had learned to communicate with her eyes, her presence. And in this moment, that was enough.

Pompeia, still gazing at her with a mixture of admiration and wonder, turned toward the chambers beyond. “Come, my lady,” she said gently, her tone filled with care. “Rest for now. The journey has been long, and you must prepare for the life ahead of you here. When you are ready, I will assist you in whatever you need.”

Tillotama inclined her head in a silent acknowledgment. She felt the weight of the moment—the quiet recognition between herself and this woman who, despite the distance between their worlds, had shown her kindness.

With a final glance at Pompeia, Tillotama entered the chambers, her court following behind her, and the doors closed softly, sealing her into this new chapter of her life. The palace felt both a prison and a sanctuary, but within its walls, she would forge the path that lay ahead. And no matter the challenges, Tillotama knew she would walk it with the same quiet strength that had brought her this far.

As the last of Tillotama’s court went on, Pompeia remained standing in the doorway for a moment longer, watching the woman who had arrived from a far-off land—beautiful, dignified, and brimming with a mystery that even the great city of Rome would not fully understand.

The doors to the imperial chambers swung open with a soft, heavy groan, revealing the luxurious space where the twin emperors awaited their esteemed visitor. The sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting a golden hue across the room, as though even the very air was aware of the significance of the moment. A faint sense of expectation hung in the air like smoke, thick and palpable.

Macrinus entered with his usual composed confidence, his sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on the two young rulers who sat on their thrones. A slight smirk curled on his lips, a knowing, almost imperceptible glint in his eyes as he took in the sight of Caracalla's impatient energy and Geta's more restrained presence. He could feel the undercurrent of tension, the simmering anticipation of a moment that would reveal much about both the woman they were eager to see and the power dynamics that were already at play.

Caracalla, his posture more dynamic and restless than his brother's, sprang from his throne as soon as he saw Macrinus, his enthusiasm practically crackling in the air. His voice, low and urgent, was the first to break the silence.

“So?” Caracalla asked, his gaze piercing and filled with expectation. “Did you see her?”

Macrinus chuckled, a sound low and amused, dripping with the satisfaction of knowing his control over the situation. He let the question hang in the air for a beat before answering, his tone measured but laced with an almost maddening calmness. “I did, your majesty,” he said, the words slipping smoothly from his lips. “Though, as is tradition, her face was concealed behind a veil. As your esteemed ambassador mentioned, her beauty, it seems, is something... reserved. Awaiting its proper moment.”

He paused deliberately, allowing the weight of his words to settle, savoring the palpable frustration in Caracalla’s eyes, which burned with the same impatience that had led the emperor to seek this moment of revelation.

Geta, ever the more cynical of the two, scoffed loudly, his eyes narrowing as he licked his bottom lip in an almost dismissive gesture. The exasperation in his voice was unmistakable as he leaned forward slightly, a hint of disdain coloring his words. “Have we not already waited enough?” he spat. “What more is there to know?”

Macrinus turned to him, his gaze sharp and calculating. His lips twitched into an almost imperceptible smile, as if savoring the very vulnerability in Geta’s frustration. This was where Macrinus thrived—manipulating the gaps in the young emperor's understanding, turning impatience into a weapon of his own.

"Ah, but your majesty, impatience often distorts the true value of what is to come,” Macrinus said smoothly, his voice tinged with a mockery that was both veiled and cutting. He held Geta’s gaze for a moment, watching the older twin’s irritation flare and then subside. “Patience... it's a virtue that can turn anticipation into something far more powerful than mere beauty. There’s a certain thrill in the waiting, don’t you think?”

Caracalla shot a glance at his brother before returning to Macrinus, his energy still restless, but with an edge of curiosity now sharpening his features. He seemed to weigh the words, though his patience was growing thin.

“That’s true," he muttered, the edge of his voice dripping with impatience. "We’ve waited long enough already, yet she remains hidden. The veil, the secrecy... What is it you’re really saying, Macrinus?”

The older man’s eyes gleamed with the faintest flicker of triumph. He knew this game, knew how to bend their curiosity into something far more potent. He took a step closer to Caracalla, his hand drifting gently to the younger emperor's shoulder in a gesture that was both familiar and possessive, as though to stake his claim in the conversation.

“The woman is no mere object of desire, Caracalla,” Macrinus said softly, his voice taking on a lower, almost conspiratorial tone. “She is the embodiment of something much more... intoxicating. Rome, as you well know, thrives on spectacle, on control. You will not simply be looking upon her face. You will be witnessing power—a performance that will make even the gods tremble. But, as with all great spectacles, it is in the anticipation that the power truly grows.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice now quieter, coaxing. “And for that... we must wait, my lord. For tomorrow."

Caracalla’s eyes glinted, his frustration now mingled with an undeniable fascination. His breath quickened slightly, a flicker of something deeper in his gaze. Macrinus had struck a chord—a perfect balance of teasing and promise.

“Tomorrow?” Caracalla repeated slowly, as if savoring the word. “She will perform tomorrow?”

Macrinus gave him a knowing smile, a flicker of something darker crossing his features. “Yes. Tomorrow, she will unveil herself—not just her beauty, but her power. And the moment she steps onto that stage, she will command the attention of Rome.”

Geta was silent now, his jaw clenched as he absorbed the information, his mind turning, calculating. But even he could not ignore the tension that had begun to rise in the room. The very air seemed to thrum with anticipation, charged with the weight of what would unfold. Macrinus was no longer just an adviser; he was the one pulling the strings, the master of this particular game.

“Power?” Geta asked, his voice sharper now, skepticism creeping into his tone. “You speak as if she’s a goddess or some oracle. Do you truly believe that? We’re speaking of a woman... a foreign one, at that.”

Macrinus turned to him, his smile widening just a touch—sly, knowing, dangerous. “Oh, she’s more than that, my lord. She is a goddess... but not of Rome’s making. And that, I think, is what will make her even more valuable. She carries with her the promise of something unknown, something Rome has not seen. And the unknown is always more dangerous than what is familiar.”

He stepped back slightly, letting the weight of his words settle, and for a moment, the room was quiet—thick with the tension of a promise still unfulfilled, yet tantalizingly close.

Caracalla turned his gaze toward the window, his thoughts clearly drifting, as if envisioning the moment when Tillotama would finally reveal herself. Geta, still quiet, appeared to be weighing the implications, his mind working behind his cool, calculating exterior.

Finally, Macrinus gave a small, almost imperceptible bow of his head, the corner of his mouth curling slightly. “Yes, tomorrow will be the day,” he said, turning to leave the room. “Rome will witness something... truly remarkable.”

As the door clicked softly behind him, the twin emperors were left in their silence, each haunted by their own anticipation. The tension that Macrinus had expertly built would remain, bubbling beneath the surface, until tomorrow when it would finally be released in a way that none of them would forget. Macrinus knew this—he had already planned it. Tomorrow would be a day for Rome to remember, and he would be there, watching, as the true game of power began.

While Macrinus played with power under the naive eyes of the emperors, Tillotama began looking around her new chambers.

The chambers were nothing short of breathtaking, a marvel crafted by the hands of excess. Marble ceilings soared overhead, adorned with gilded carvings that glittered in the sunlight spilling through towering arched windows. The walls bore frescoes of Roman gods and heroic exploits, while the floors, cool and smooth, were inlaid with mosaics that seemed to tell stories of power and conquest. The air carried a faint, sweet fragrance, as if even the breezes were curated for perfection.

Tillotama stood at the edge of the sprawling balcony, gazing out at the sapphire-blue expanse of the sea. Beyond the horizon lay freedom—or at least the life she had known before stepping into this gilded cage. Below, a massive bath sprawled like a miniature lake, surrounded by lush flowers and statues of Roman deities, their stony gazes both welcoming and imposing.

“This is a trap,” she said finally, her voice soft but certain. “A beautiful one, yes. But a trap nonetheless.”

Kinjal, standing with arms crossed near a column, was the first to reply. “We need to bless this place,” she said with her usual practicality, her sharp eyes darting around the room as though searching for hidden curses. “I can feel the evil eye on me already.”

Chanchal, sprawled on a chaise with the casual grace of someone entirely unbothered, let out a laugh. “You feel the evil eye on you everywhere, Kinjal,” she teased, twirling the end of her braid absentmindedly. “I think the evil eye must be madly in love with you by now.”

Kinjal’s glare was sharp enough to cut marble. “And I think it’s your constant chatter that draws it in. Did you ever consider that, oh wise one?”

“Wise and charming,” Chanchal quipped, undeterred. “Two things you could learn from me, Kinjal.”

Mataangi, who had wandered to the edge of the bath, dipped her fingers into the water. The ripples spread outward like silver threads on silk. “Say what you will about their morals,” she said dryly, inspecting the statues that loomed around her. “The Romans certainly know how to indulge. This place isn’t a trap—it’s a queen’s palace.”

Tillotama turned toward her, an ironic smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “If I am queen of anything,” she replied softly, “it is only of my own misfortunes.”

Bulbul, lingering by the balcony’s edge, had been quietly observing the world beyond when she gasped. Her wide eyes sparkled with a mix of curiosity and surprise. “Tillo,” she murmured, tugging gently at Tillotama’s sleeve. “Did you know there are men training down there? Warriors. So many of them.”

Kinjal’s brow arched as she exchanged a glance with Tillotama. “Warriors?” she said, her tone skeptical. “That’s... unexpected.”

Chanchal sprang up, her energy igniting like a spark catching dry kindling. “Move aside, Bul,” she said, marching to the balcony. “Let me see these men for myself.”

Bulbul stepped aside, stifling a giggle as she pointed toward the training grounds below. Chanchal leaned over the railing, her braid swinging with the motion. Her eyes scanned the grounds, widening as they took in the muscular forms of the gladiators below, their bronzed skin gleaming with sweat as they clashed swords under the midday sun.

“Well, well, well,” Chanchal drawled, a grin spreading across her face. “Glory to Shiva indeed. Would you look at that?”

Tillotama bit her lip, trying to suppress a laugh. “Chanchal Devi,” she said, her tone a gentle reprimand. “I thought you were the one most critical of Rome. Something about ‘barbarians and brutes,’ if I recall.”

Chanchal waved her hand dismissively, still leaning over the railing. “An opinion can always evolve, Tillo. I’m merely appreciating their... cultural contributions.”

Kinjal’s laugh was sharp and sarcastic. “Cultural contributions? You mean their muscles.”

“Muscles are part of culture!” Chanchal shot back, grinning shamelessly. “Besides, who am I to deny Rome its small victories?”

Mataangi shook her head, chuckling softly as she joined them at the railing. “Leave it to Chanchal to be conquered by sweaty men wielding swords.”

“They’re not just sweaty men,” Bulbul interjected, her voice quiet but sincere. “Look at how focused they are. The way they move—it’s like a dance.”

“Dance or no dance,” Kinjal muttered, folding her arms. “We’re still prisoners here, even if the cage comes with entertainment.”

Chanchal turned to her with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Oh, don’t be so dour, Kinjal. A little fun never hurt anyone.”

Tillotama stepped away from the balcony, shaking her head in amused exasperation. “One of these days, Chanchal, your ‘fun’ is going to get us all into trouble.”

Chanchal followed her with a playful smile, her hands clasped dramatically over her chest. “If trouble is my destiny, then I shall face it with open arms.”

“You’d better hope it’s not carrying a sword,” Mataangi quipped, her sharp tone earning a laugh from the group.

For a brief moment, the air was lighter. The tension of their situation, the uncertainty of their future—it all faded into the laughter they shared. The walls of the gilded cage still loomed around them, but within it, they found solace in each other. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. And as Tillotama glanced back at her companions, she allowed herself to hope that together, they could endure whatever came next.

The throne hall was a spectacle of grandeur, its marble columns towering like the trunks of ancient trees, and its floors gleaming beneath the shafts of sunlight that poured through arched windows. Caracalla and Geta lounged atop their gilded thrones, their expressions somewhere between boredom and faint curiosity. Around them, senators, courtiers, and a smattering of invited guests whispered among themselves, the air heavy with expectation.

Macrinus stood to the side, his hands clasped behind his back, the faintest trace of a smirk playing on his lips. He had arranged this moment meticulously, ensuring every detail served his designs. Senator Thraex, standing near the base of the dais, glanced toward him with an uneasy smile, but Macrinus gave no acknowledgment. His eyes were fixed on the twin emperors, watching their every reaction.

Thraex cleared his throat, raising his arms theatrically. “My emperors, esteemed lords, ladies, and noble senators! In honor of our illustrious guests and to stave off the shadows of monotony, I present to you the raw, unrelenting art of combat! Tonight, this hall will bear witness to the strength, skill, and determination of gladiators!”

Caracalla straightened slightly, his fingers drumming on the armrest of his throne. “Finally,” he muttered, loud enough for those nearby to hear, “something to make this day tolerable.”

Geta smirked, casting a sidelong glance at his brother. “If it doesn’t put you to sleep first.”

Thraex ignored the quip, his voice rising above the murmurs. “From my own stables, the unbeaten titan—Vincent!”

The heavy doors swung open, and Vincent entered to scattered applause. He was a behemoth of a man, his muscles straining against the simple tunic he wore. He carried himself with the confidence of someone who had faced death and won countless times. As he reached the center of the hall, he raised a fist, eliciting louder cheers.

“Looks like a bull,” Caracalla remarked with a chuckle. “I hope he doesn’t fight like one.”

“And to challenge him,” Thraex continued, his voice laced with forced enthusiasm, “a gladiator presented by the honorable Macrinus!”

All eyes turned as the second set of doors opened. A leaner figure stepped into the hall, his ocean-blue eyes scanning his surroundings. There was no posturing, no grand gestures—just a quiet, deliberate stride toward the center. His silence was disarming, his composure unnerving.

Caracalla leaned toward Macrinus, raising an eyebrow. “This is your champion?”

Macrinus inclined his head, his tone light but laced with intent. “Appearances can be deceiving, your majesty.”

Geta smirked, his interest piqued. “Let’s hope so. Otherwise, this will be over before it begins.”

Thraex gestured grandly. “Three rounds! Hand-to-hand combat! Let the gods themselves decide the victor!”

The tension in the throne hall thickened as Caracalla’s voice cut through Thraex’s response like the sharpest blade.

“Swords!” he demanded, his tone imperious and dripping with boredom-tinged cruelty. “We want swords. Let them fight to the death—no quarter to be offered or given.” He leaned back on his throne, a wicked gleam in his eye, his posture suggesting he craved bloodshed to break the monotony of the day. “Fight now.”

A collective murmur rippled through the gathered crowd. Even Thraex, who had hoped for a display of hand-to-hand combat to keep things relatively civilized, faltered at the young emperor’s sudden decree. He turned to Macrinus with a look that mingled unease with incredulity. Macrinus, however, offered nothing but an enigmatic smile, his gaze never leaving Caracalla.

The gladiators were promptly handed swords, their blades gleaming ominously under the sunlight streaming through the grand arched windows. The younger of the two combatants—the lean, blue-eyed challenger presented by Macrinus—accepted his weapon with a measured grip. His expression was one of grim understanding. He turned toward Vincent, his opponent, and attempted to reason with him, his voice low and urgent.

“Brother,” he began, his tone steady but imploring. “Let’s not kill each other for their amusement. This isn’t worth your life or mine.”

Vincent’s only response was a guttural growl, his massive frame advancing with menacing intent. He swung his sword in a brutal arc, the blade narrowly missing its mark as the younger man dodged. Vincent’s face twisted in rage, and the hall reverberated with the clash of steel as the fight began in earnest.

Caracalla clapped his hands once, a gleeful grin spreading across his face. “Finally! Now this is what I call entertainment!”

Geta, seated beside him, wore a more subdued expression, though his lips curved into a faint smirk. “At least one of them might survive. Unless your champion loses, Macrinus.”

Macrinus inclined his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Your majesty, survival is often determined by wit as much as strength. Let’s see if that proves true today.”

Vincent attacked with unrelenting aggression, his sheer size and strength making him a formidable opponent. He swung his sword with the kind of brute force that could cleave a man in two, but the younger gladiator was agile, sidestepping and parrying with remarkable precision. Each clash of their blades rang out like a grim melody, echoing in the vaulted chamber.

“Come on!” Vincent roared, frustration building as his strikes failed to land. “Fight me like a man!”

The younger gladiator’s movements remained calculated and defensive, his expression unwavering. “I fight to survive, not to prove myself to men like them,” he replied, his voice calm but resolute.

The exchange earned a ripple of laughter from some of the senators, but Caracalla leaned forward, his interest piqued. “He’s got spirit,” he remarked, turning to Macrinus. “You’ve chosen well.”

“Spirit alone doesn’t win battles,” Geta interjected, his tone skeptical. “But I’ll admit, he’s entertaining.”

As the fight raged on, the younger gladiator underwent a startling transformation. What had begun as a calculated defense—each movement precise and measured—shifted into an overwhelming onslaught of raw, unrelenting rage. His strikes, initially tactical, now carried the force of a tempest, the sheer ferocity of his blows silencing the once-roaring crowd.

Vincent, a towering man of muscle and brutality, began to falter. His earlier dominance now seemed a distant memory as he struggled against the unyielding barrage. The younger man’s sword became an extension of his fury, carving deep, bloody lines across Vincent's flesh. Each strike was delivered with devastating precision, leaving the larger man staggering, his strength sapped, his resolve wavering. The air in the grand throne hall grew thick with tension, the onlookers leaning forward in their seats, some unable to tear their eyes away.

The crowd’s initial cheers of bloodlust turned to uneasy murmurs. Senators whispered among themselves, their faces a mixture of awe and apprehension.

"Who is this savage?" one whispered, his voice barely audible over the hushed tension.

"Not a man—a beast," another replied, his tone reverent yet tinged with fear.

Macrinus, standing beside the emperors, allowed a sly smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. His sharp eyes gleamed as he leaned toward Geta, his tone casual but loaded with subtle malice.

“Strength comes in many forms, your majesty. Even in those we might initially overlook.”

Geta’s expression remained stoic, though his gaze betrayed a flicker of unease. He said nothing, his attention locked on the ferocious spectacle before him.

Caracalla, by contrast, was thoroughly enthralled. He leaned forward in his seat, his eyes alight with sadistic glee. “Look at him!” he exclaimed, his voice ringing through the hall. “Such fire! Such fury! This is what Rome craves—true strength, not hollow bluster.”

Macrinus’s smile widened almost imperceptibly. “Indeed, your majesty,” he said softly, his tone dripping with the satisfaction of a plan unfolding perfectly.

The younger gladiator’s relentless assault reached its climax with a brutal sequence of blows that left Vincent barely standing. Blood streamed from the older man’s wounds, staining the pristine marble floor beneath them. His labored breaths came in ragged gasps, his once-imposing form reduced to a broken shell.

A final slash tore across Vincent’s chest, sending him crashing to his knees. His sword clattered to the ground, slipping from his grasp as he clutched at the gaping wound. He looked up at his opponent, his expression a mixture of disbelief and resignation. Blood dripped from his lips as he struggled to speak, but no words came.

The younger gladiator stood over him, his chest heaving with exertion. His ocean-blue eyes, once calm and introspective, now burned with an almost otherworldly rage. He raised his sword high, poised for the killing blow. For a fleeting moment, the fury in his eyes seemed to waver, as if a fragment of humanity were struggling to reassert itself.

But the hall was filled with cries for death. The crowd’s bloodlust surged once more, drowning out any whispers of mercy.

Caracalla’s voice cut through the din like a blade. “Finish him!” he commanded, his tone dripping with glee. “Rome does not reward hesitation.”

The gladiator’s eyes flicked toward the emperor’s throne, then back to his opponent. Whatever trace of pity or doubt had surfaced vanished in an instant. With a guttural roar, he brought his sword down in a swift, decisive arc. The blade cut through flesh and bone, silencing Vincent forever. His lifeless body slumped forward, blood pooling around him like a dark, spreading shadow.

The hall erupted into chaos. Some cheered wildly, reveling in the violence, while others turned away, their faces pale with discomfort. Senators exchanged uneasy glances, their whispered conversations charged with the weight of what they had just witnessed.

Macrinus watched the aftermath with a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. The younger gladiator stood amidst the carnage, blood-splattered and victorious, his sword lowered but still gripped tightly. His gaze scanned the room, taking in the mix of horror and admiration etched on the faces of those present. There was no triumph in his expression—only a simmering, unrelenting rage that seemed to consume him whole.

The younger gladiator stood amidst the silence of the aftermath, blood dripping from his blade, his chest heaving with exertion. Slowly, deliberately, he released his grip on the sword, letting it fall with a metallic clang next to Vincent’s lifeless body. His blood-smeared face betrayed no triumph—only exhaustion, resignation, and a haunted look that seemed to fix on a distant point beyond the throne hall.

Applause shattered the quiet like a sudden thunderclap. It began with a single pair of hands—Geta’s—clapping with fervor as he rose from his throne, his face alight with a sickly enthusiasm.

“Remarkable!” Geta exclaimed, his voice filled with twisted admiration. He clapped harder, descending the dais with a gleam in his eye. “Truly remarkable!”

The audience hesitated, unsure whether to join in. Some senators clapped weakly; others exchanged uneasy glances. The younger gladiator, however, did not react. His gaze remained fixed on the ground, his shoulders heavy with weariness.

Geta turned sharply to Macrinus, his tone now congratulatory. “Macrinus, congratulations on such an acquisition.”

Macrinus inclined his head humbly, though his eyes sparkled with a calculated satisfaction. “I am honored, your majesty. My only wish is to serve.”

Geta’s attention shifted back to the gladiator. He stepped closer, peering at him with the curiosity one might reserve for an exotic animal. “Remarkable,” he repeated, his voice softer now, almost to himself. “From where do you hail, warrior? Speak!”

The gladiator did not respond. His expression remained impassive, his silence unyielding.

“I said, speak,” Geta snapped, his earlier fascination hardening into irritation. His demand echoed in the grand chamber, bouncing off the marble walls.

Before the tension could mount further, Macrinus intervened smoothly. “He is from the colonies, your majesty,” he said with a slight bow. “His native tongue is all he understands.”

Macrinus’s gaze flicked toward the gladiator, a subtle warning in his eyes. The silent exchange was almost imperceptible, but the young man’s jaw tightened in defiance. Against Macrinus’s unspoken command, he took a step forward, his bloodied figure cutting a striking silhouette in the flickering torchlight.

His voice, hoarse but steady, broke the silence. “The gates of hell are open night and day. Smooth is the descent and easiest the way.” His lips curled into a bitter smile as he continued, his tone growing softer, almost wistful. “But to come back from hell and to view the cheerful skies—in this, the task and mighty lies.”

A hush fell over the hall. His words hung in the air like smoke, heavy with meaning. The crowd, accustomed to blood and spectacle but unprepared for poetry, stirred uncomfortably. Geta’s smile faltered, his earlier cheer replaced by a pensive frown. For a brief moment, the weight of the words seemed to pierce through his shallow bravado, stirring something he couldn’t quite grasp—and didn’t want to.

Macrinus seized the moment, his tone light but deliberate. “Vergil, your majesty,” he said with a small smile. “A poet whose wisdom endures.”

The younger gladiator’s gaze shifted to Macrinus, their eyes locking in a brief, charged moment. Then, with visible effort, he lowered his head, as though the act of bowing were heavier than any blade he had wielded.

Caracalla broke the tension with a bark of laughter. Rising from his seat, he strode toward the scene, clapping his hands once in mockery. “Poetry!” he exclaimed, his voice dripping with amusement. “How unexpected! By the gods, I was prepared for brute savagery, not eloquence.”

He laughed again, his shoulders shaking as he circled the gladiator like a predator appraising its prey. “Very clever,” he said, his tone shifting to one of rare approval. “My goodness, Macrinus, you’ve outdone yourself.”

Macrinus, ever the sycophant, dipped his head in deference. “To amuse you, my lord, is my sole desire.”

Caracalla smirked, his amusement genuine. “You’ve done more than amuse. I was so bored, yet this... this is something worth my attention.” He gestured toward the gladiator with a lazy sweep of his arm. “What a paradox—a killer with the soul of a poet.”

Macrinus let out a low, measured chuckle. “Such contrasts, your majesty, are what make life in Rome endlessly fascinating.”

Geta, regaining his composure, turned his gaze back to the gladiator. His earlier unease was gone, replaced by the cold weight of imperial disdain. “We are amused,” he declared, his voice sharp, each word delivered with a pointed finality. He stepped closer, locking eyes with the younger man. “We are amused,” he repeated, his tone now almost a challenge.

The gladiator held Geta’s gaze, his face unreadable. For a long, tense moment, neither man looked away. Finally, the gladiator inclined his head ever so slightly, a gesture that was neither submission nor defiance—only acknowledgment.

Satisfied, Geta turned sharply on his heel, ascending the dais once more. “Well done, Macrinus,” he said without looking back. “Let us hope your... gladiator... continues to entertain.”

Macrinus bowed low, his face a mask of humility. But as he straightened, his eyes followed the gladiator with a glint of triumph. His plans were unfolding perfectly, and he knew the next act would be even grander.

The gladiator was then led by Macrinus into the small, stone bathhouse. The room was simple, the rough stone walls and dim light casting shadows in every corner. Steam rose from the water, and the air was thick with the scent of earth and sweat. The gladiator sank into the bath, the hot water a rare moment of relief, allowing him a few minutes of peace after the chaos of the arena.

Macrinus sat nearby, his eyes observing the young man with a calculating look. He produced two golden coins from his robes and set them gently on the stone beside him, the sound of the metal clinking against the surface oddly loud in the quiet room.

“You fought well today,” Macrinus said, his tone neutral, but his eyes assessing. “But you were lucky, too.”

The young gladiator, water dripping from his body, lifted his gaze and sat up a little straighter, wiping the wet strands of hair from his face. He met Macrinus’s eyes, but his voice was soft, tinged with something that might have been weariness or understanding. “The lines you recited. You didn’t learn that in Africa, I know that.”

The gladiator’s lips twitched slightly, a faint smile. “Good verse travels far.”

Macrinus clicked his tongue, his gaze never leaving the young man. “Who taught you poetry?”

“A captured Roman officer,” the gladiator replied with a shrug, his voice flat but not without a trace of irony. “I was posted as a guard over him. He used to tell us tales to pass the time.”

Macrinus tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “And what became of this prisoner?”

The gladiator chuckled darkly, his eyes briefly flicking down to the water. “Well… we ate him. As barbarians do.”

Macrinus’s lips twitched, a quiet laugh escaping him. “As barbarians do,” he echoed, clearly entertained by the casual brutality in the young man’s tone. “Where were you born?”

The gladiator’s expression hardened as he looked up again, his voice cutting through the tension. “Why does my past matter if it’s my future to die in the arena?”

Macrinus’s smirk deepened, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Your fate has already been decided.”

The gladiator’s brow furrowed, his posture stiffening. “You’re going to kill me now?”

Macrinus chuckled, the sound almost too casual. “No. Worse.”

The gladiator blinked, confusion flickering across his face. “Worse?”

Macrinus’s gaze grew sharper, more deliberate. “I’m going to let you live.”

A beat passed, and then Macrinus leaned forward slightly. “The emperors have received a gift... and because of your performance today, they’ve decided to let you guard it. To become its protector.”

The young man frowned, his brow furrowing even further. “A guard?” His voice held disbelief. “And what am I supposed to be guarding?”

Macrinus straightened, brushing a hand over his robes before answering. His voice was laced with quiet authority, as though the matter was already settled in his mind. “A woman.”

The word hung in the air between them, thick with implication. The gladiator’s frown deepened, his body still, but his eyes narrowed with the weight of the question he didn’t ask. Guard a woman? Was this some cruel twist of fate, some mockery of freedom? His fate, it seemed, had only shifted from one cage to another.

The young man looked down, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He exhaled sharply, as if trying to release the frustration he felt. Macrinus didn’t speak immediately, simply watching him with that unreadable gaze that had become so familiar in their brief exchange.

"What’s your name?" Macrinus asked after a beat, his tone neither kind nor harsh, but carrying a strange sense of finality—as though the question had been a long time coming.

The gladiator clenched his jaw, a flash of hesitation in his eyes. He thought for a moment, then finally relented. "Hanno," he replied, the name barely escaping his lips, as though the very utterance of it was a burden he couldn’t quite bear.

Macrinus’s lips curved into a small, calculating smile. "Hanno," he repeated, testing the name on his tongue. “Do not forget,” he said, his words measured and deliberate, each one wrapped in a cold edge. “Even if you will be this woman’s loyal guardian, you are my property.”

The gladiator’s expression remained hard, but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes—resentment, perhaps, or a simmering rage at the absurdity of it all. To go from warrior to mere keeper of someone else’s prisoner—it was a mockery of everything he’d fought for, everything he had survived.

Macrinus studied him for a moment longer, and his voice softened ever so slightly, though it held no sympathy. "Enjoy your new life," he said, the words dripping with irony. "You’ll find it’s just as hard to escape from as the last one."

Hanno said nothing, but his gaze, now fixed on the water, held a darkness in it that spoke volumes. His fate had shifted—but it had not improved. The chains were still there, perhaps just wrapped in a new form, but just as inescapable.

Macrinus took one last look at him, “I will send for you in a time and you will meet with your…new fate” and he then turned to leave, his footsteps echoing in the silence. As the door closed behind him, the only sound left in the room was the gentle ripple of the water—and the weight of a future that felt as heavy as the stone walls that enclosed it.

The cold stone floor beneath Hanno’s feet was a familiar discomfort, but today, with each step toward the unknown, it felt heavier. He was led through the corridors of the palace, shackled by more than just the chains on his wrists. Every stride was a reminder of the new role that awaited him, the role Macrinus had so generously decided for him.

Macrinus walked beside him, his usual air of smug detachment taking on a more insidious quality as he spoke. "When you see her, keep your gaze on the ground," he said, voice light, as if offering a casual suggestion. "The emperors believe that until they have seen her beauty themselves, no one else can. Think of it as... a sacred privilege. No one else gets the honor of truly witnessing her unless they say so."

Hanno did not reply, his thoughts swirling with confusion and resentment. What was this? He was a gladiator, a warrior forged in blood and sweat, yet here he was, expected to kneel at the feet of some noblewoman whose beauty was apparently so sacred it had to be concealed from the world. He clenched his jaw, his gaze fixed resolutely downward, though his mind churned with questions. What did it even mean to be her guard? What was she like? What had he done to deserve this absurd fate?

Macrinus was still talking, unfazed by Hanno’s silence. "She doesn’t know the language," he added with a smirk, looking at Hanno sideways. "As if you'd have much to say to her anyway, but just in case you’re feeling chatty, best keep your tongue to yourself. Speak only when spoken to. Think of it as a very... one-sided conversation."

Hanno fought the urge to respond. Oh, this will be fun, he thought bitterly. Guard a woman who doesn't even know the language, trapped in some gilded cage like an animal on display. I’m the lucky one, aren’t I?

As they neared the chambers, they were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a woman—a formidable figure who strode into their path with the confidence of someone who had lived a thousand lives in the halls of power. Pompeia. Her eyes were sharp, calculating, as she assessed the two men with a single, penetrating glance.

"Macrinus," she said, her voice laced with suspicion. "What is your purpose so close to my lady’s chambers?"

Macrinus smiled, a perfect mockery of politeness. “Ah, Pompeia,” he greeted her, his tone syrupy sweet. “You know the emperors. Their infinite wisdom and gracefulness have bestowed upon our dear lady a loyal protector—an unyielding guardian, if you will.”

Pompeia’s gaze slid over Hanno, scanning him from head to toe with barely concealed disdain. She let out a quiet sigh, almost as if she was humoring him. “An amusement, they seek, I see.”

Macrinus held up his hands in mock surrender. “Nothing of that sort, I assure you. Quite the opposite, in fact. He is here to serve, nothing more. Don’t we all serve in this great empire of ours?”

Pompeia, clearly unamused by his theatrics, narrowed her eyes but said nothing for a moment. Hanno stood still, his muscles tense, his thoughts a tangled knot. His mind wandered to the absurdity of it all—his fate now dependent on the whims of the emperors, the same men who had turned him from a free man into nothing more than a pawn on their board. He tried to suppress the anger that burned in his chest, but it was difficult.

Pompeia finally spoke, her tone resigned. “Very well then. All of you go, and you,” she pointed sharply at Hanno, “come with me.”

There was no room for hesitation, no choice but to comply. Hanno’s heart pounded in his chest as Pompeia turned, leading him toward the chambers. Macrinus flashed him a smirk that could have been mistaken for sympathy—if sympathy was a weapon. “Don’t worry,” Macrinus called after him. “You’ll find your place in no time. Remember, you’re a servant here. You have one purpose and one purpose only: to protect. Don’t get any other ideas.”

Hanno barely heard him. His mind was a storm of unanswered questions and dark thoughts. Protect? He still wasn’t sure what that even meant in this world of endless power games and shifting allegiances. What kind of protection did she need? What did she think of him, this stranger assigned to guard her? Was she another cruel twist of fate, or was there something more to this strange new role?

Pompeia led Hanno through the labyrinthine halls of the imperial palace, each corridor grander and more opulent than the last. The marble floors beneath his feet were cold, but they shimmered with gold accents, and the air itself seemed to thrum with the weight of centuries of power. Everywhere he looked, his eyes were assaulted by the splendor—velvet drapes, gold-leafed statues, intricate mosaics depicting gods and emperors in eternal victory. The scent of incense, thick with myrrh and frankincense, mingled with something sweeter, more elusive—a rare flower from some distant corner of the empire. He could not place it, but it only added to the dreamlike atmosphere that surrounded him. Every step deeper into the palace felt like he was drifting further from the world he knew, from the dirt and blood of the arena, into a realm of pure opulence and power.

They stopped before a grand door, the wood heavy and dark, carved with scenes from myth: gods in motion, heroes locked in eternal battle. Pompeia pushed it open, and the sound of the door creaking seemed to echo in the silence, as though it were ushering in some long-anticipated event. The room that lay beyond was like a vision from the gods themselves.

It was a world of silk and gold, where every surface gleamed with luxury, as though the very air shimmered with wealth. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, their designs vivid and intricate, depicting scenes of royal banquets, noble hunts, and gods bathed in light. Heavy curtains swayed gently in the warm breeze that filtered through unseen windows. The room was alive with color, with the flickering light of candles that danced in the shadows. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and something sweeter, intoxicating in its exotic beauty.

At the center of the room, four girls—young women, really—sat in quiet conversation, their laughter like the soft tinkling of bells. At the sight of Hanno, they immediately rose to their feet, eyes wide with curiosity. Soft gasps filled the air, their voices lilting and musical, the words flowing in a language he could not understand. Each sound, each murmur, felt foreign to him, intensifying his sense of alienation. He felt as though he were intruding into a world far beyond his own understanding.

His gaze flickered from one girl to another, but it wasn’t until the curtains at the far side of the room parted—slowly, deliberately—that his eyes were drawn to her.

Her.

It was as though the rest of the world fell away, the vibrant tapestries, the girls standing in hushed awe, the very air itself fading into nothingness. She stood before him, bathed in the soft golden light that seemed to halo around her, as though she were more than a woman, more than flesh and bone. Her beauty was not merely physical, but seemed to radiate from within—something pure, unearthly, untouched by the world’s cruelty.

Gods… Hanno thought, his breath catching in his throat. He felt as though the ground beneath his feet had cracked open, and he was falling—falling into her, into her gaze, into something greater than himself. She was... perfect. There was no other word for it.

His gaze traveled over her, unable to resist the pull of her presence. She was so delicate, so graceful, that it felt like looking at something impossibly rare. Every inch of her—her skin, smooth and golden, the way the light seemed to caress the curves of her form—was like a work of art, sculpted by the gods themselves. Her hair cascaded around her shoulders in waves of dark silk, and her eyes, though distant, seemed to carry an unspoken weight, an ancient knowledge that set them apart from the rest of the world.

How can someone be this... this pure? Hanno wondered, his mind reeling as he drank in every detail. She doesn’t belong here. She doesn’t belong in a world like mine.

His heart began to thud in his chest, each beat louder than the last, echoing in his ears. A strange sensation rose in him, something both foreign and familiar, a recognition of her that went beyond mere sight. She was not just beautiful—there was something in her that called to him, a silent invitation, a summons to something deeper. He could not explain it.

But as his gaze lingered, something in him shifted—a cold knot of fear tightening in his stomach. His eyes had wandered too far, had lingered too long. She was—too much. The fear of dishonoring her, of tarnishing the sanctity of this moment, washed over him in a rush. His body stiffened, and instinctively, his head dropped. His gaze snapped downward, ashamed, as though his very presence had soiled the purity of the room.

His heart felt as though it was sinking, as though the weight of her perfection could crush him beneath it. His knees, trembling with something like reverence and terror, begged him to fall, to kneel before her in an offering. But his mind—his broken, soldier’s mind—held him firm. He had no right. No right to look upon her, no right to feel this, to want this.

Pompeia’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and clear. "My lady?" she asked, addressing the figure in the center of the room.

It was as if the world returned to him, the sound rushing back into focus. Hanno dared to lift his eyes, but only just enough to see her expression, to catch a fleeting glimpse of her reaction.

She had been watching him, her gaze steady and unreadable, though there was something in her eyes, something like… recognition. As if she knew him, as if she had always known him. Hanno blinked, the sensation unnerving him more than he cared to admit. He quickly averted his gaze, eyes once again fixed firmly to the ground.

Pompeia’s voice softened, her smile curling into something almost secretive. "This is Lady Tillotama," she said, her tone heavy with pride. "The pride of the Indian soil."

Hanno didn’t need the introduction. The moment his eyes had met hers, the moment she had stepped into his world, he had already known her. The weight of her presence, of her gaze upon him, had already branded itself into his soul. There was no need for words. She was everything.

As Tillotama watched him step into the room, her breath caught in her throat. There was something about him, something that called to her in a way she couldn’t explain. He stood tall, solid—yet there was an air of hesitation about him, a wariness she could not place.

When her eyes met his, it was like the entire world shifted. Time seemed to slow, the hum of the palace, the soft murmurs of the girls around her, all faded into nothing. All that remained was him. His eyes—dark, deep, and full of something unspoken—held her captive, and in that brief moment, she felt an overwhelming sense of recognition. She didn’t know him, not truly. But she knew him in a way that bypassed language, bypassed everything.

Could it be? she thought, her heart fluttering with a strange, unfamiliar excitement. Do I know him? Have I always known him?

Her heart quickened as she stepped closer, drawn to him by some invisible force. She didn’t understand it. She didn’t even know if he felt it too, but in the depths of her chest, there was a certainty, a knowing.

It was as if the gods had woven their fates together, even before this moment. She couldn’t explain why—why this man, this stranger, should affect her so—but she felt it, deep inside her. He was here for her, and she could already feel his presence, like a promise made long ago.

#gladiator ii #lucius verus #gladiator movie #lucius verus aurelius x south indian oc #paul mescal

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moonselune · 7 months ago

Note

Hello again! I am the person who asked about isobel and dame aylin, I dont mind if you do the request separately or poly. Moon girlies rise up!

poly, immediately poly, definitely no self insertion here, this definitely did not cause a minor crisis in what I want in life

Moon Lesbians x reader | All ours

You found yourself spending more and more time with Isobel and Dame Aylin. It began with shared meals and quiet conversations under the stars, moments filled with laughter and the warmth of genuine companionship. You never expected these interactions to turn into something more, something deeper. But as the days turned into weeks, the connection between the three of you grew undeniable.

One evening, you were sitting by the campfire, the flames casting a golden glow over Isobel's serene face and Dame Aylin's fierce yet tender gaze. You were recounting a particularly humorous tale from your adventures, and they both leaned in, their interest evident. As you finished your story, Aylin reached out, her hand brushing yours.

"You have a way with words," she said, her voice low and filled with admiration.Isobel, sitting on your other side, smiled softly.

"And a way with hearts, it seems," she added, her eyes sparkling.

You felt a rush of warmth at their compliments, but there was something more in their eyes, something that made your heart beat a little faster. Before you could fully process it, Isobel leaned closer, her lips brushing your ear as she whispered, "We've been talking, Aylin and I. And we both feel… something special with you."

Aylin's hand tightened around yours, and she nodded. "We want to explore this connection, if you're open to it. Together."

Your mind raced, but your heart already knew the answer. You nodded, unable to keep the smile from your face. "I would love that."

From that moment, the three of you were inseparable. Isobel's gentle touch and Aylin's protective embrace became your new normal. Nights were filled with tender kisses and whispered stories, mornings with shared smiles and intertwined hands. It was a relationship built on mutual respect and deep affection, a perfect blend of warmth and passion.

However, one day while you were in a nearby town gathering supplies, a stranger approached you, his eyes lingering a little too long, his words dripping with flirtation. You tried to brush it off, but you could feel Isobel and Aylin's eyes on you, their jealousy palpable.

Back at camp, the tension was thick. As soon as you were within the safety of your tent, they closed in on you, their expressions a mix of possessiveness and affection. Aylin was the first to speak, her voice a low growl. "Who does he think he is, trying to flirt with you?"

Isobel stepped closer, her hands gently cupping your face. "You belong to us," she said softly, but there was an undeniable edge to her words.

You couldn't help but smile at their jealousy. "I'm yours," you reassured them. "Only yours."

Their tension melted away, replaced by an overwhelming need to show you just how much you meant to them. Aylin's lips found yours in a possessive kiss, her hands roaming over your body, while Isobel's touch was softer, but no less insistent.

They took turns lavishing you with affection, their touches and kisses a silent promise that you were loved and cherished. Aylin's strong arms wrapped around you, her lips trailing down your neck as she whispered, "No one else can have you."

Isobel's hands were gentle, her fingers tracing patterns on your skin as she kissed you deeply.

"We'll always protect you," she murmured. "Always."

The night was filled with their love, their possessiveness a reminder of just how deeply they cared for you. You felt safe, cherished, and completely adored. As the dawn broke, you lay between them, your heart full. Isobel's head rested on your chest, her breaths even and peaceful, while Aylin's arm was draped protectively over you both.

In that moment, you knew that this was where you belonged. With Isobel and Dame Aylin, you had found a love that was fierce and tender, protective and all-consuming. And as long as you were together, nothing could ever come between you.

I LOVE THESE LESBIANS GODDAMN GIVE ME 20 OF THEM - Seluney xox

#dame aylin bg3 #dame aylin x reader x Isobel thorm #isobel thorm #dame aylin #aylin x isobel #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate tav #baldurs gate iii #bg3 tav #bg3 isobel #nightsong #isobel thorm x reader x dame aylin #moon lesbians #moon lesbians x reader

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liminalpebble · 1 year ago

Text

Stray: Part 10 and Epilogue

Masterlist link

Stray: Part 10

Loki and Frigga sat across from each other in her private parlor. The younger prince was tapping his foot and fiddling with his hair nervously as he asked, “Are you sure she'll be okay? This must all be so overwhelming for her.”

Frigga smiled placidly and reached out her hand to hold her son's, stilling his restless movements. “She'll be more than fine. They'll take very good care of her. You have my word.”

Frigga let the silence settle for a moment before she said. “I'm glad to meet her. Surprised, but glad nonetheless. I can see why you are so taken with her. She has a good heart...a grateful heart.”

Loki sighed, trying to hide the depth of his feelings in front of the one person whom he could never fool. “You've met many of the men and women I'd grown fond of over the years. Is this so different for you?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant as he eased back into his chair, crossing his long legs, and stroking a finger pensively over his lips.

Frigga nodded, “For you, yes. It's very different. Or rather, you are very different. It's never been anything...real...before, has it? I've never really seen you in love before.”

“What makes you think I'm in love?”

“Love...real love...makes us all spill open a little, and I can see it. She has melted some of that ice around your heart. I didn't think it possible.”

“So you've been watching me, Mother?” he said with a smirk, which Frigga mirrored.

“Perhaps, a bit. I thought it best to let things unfold naturally. But I think the time has come to involved myself. Come with me.”

He followed her to a corner of her study, to a golden chest, where she reached in to lift out a glowing golden apple. “Do you love her, my son? Do you want a lifetime with her? Our lifetime...surpassing her own.”

He took a deep fortifying breath. “I do. So much...so much that it feels like a sort of insanity, a madness. Now that I've known her care and companionship, I can't imagine the remainder of my life without her.”

Frigga grinned and her eyes welled slightly, “Then offer her this. Help her become one of us. Help her learn and explore everything your curious minds crave. Have your adventures with your beloved for eons to come.”

Loki smiled, but just as quickly, it faded and he looked down, eyebrows furrowed with worry. “But Mother, what if she says 'no'? What if she refuses me...now or centuries from now? What if I don't deserve her? What if...”

Frigga put a finger to his mouth to silence him, “Loki, that is how love works. You risk, and you trust and you doubt and you fear, for the sake of another person. It's not a tournament to be won. It's a leap of faith.”

Without any further words, but with tears in both of their eyes, they embraced each other tightly as the prince whispered to his mother, “thank you.”

------

Loki found his human in lavish chambers, adorned in a fine Asgardian gown, and charming half a dozen ladies in waiting with your disarming demeanor. You were twirling around in the voluminous dress with a big smile, like a little girl. You were startled and blushed a little when you realized he was standing there.

“Whew! You scared me! I didn't hear you coming.”

He chuckled, offering his widest, most charming smile. His heart was bursting out of his chest at the mere sight you. “Apologies, darling. No one ever does. You look absolutely ravishing, my lovely princess,” he declared as he spun you around in his arms. He set you down lightly then held both of your hands in his.

You gave him a worried look. “What...what's wrong. Have you been crying?” you asked gently, holding your warm palm to his cheek.

“Yes. Yes I have, but they are tears of the greatest joy. I have to ask you something very important.”

He gestured the ladies away, leaving the two of you alone. You nodded, and felt the breath stop in your throat. The world came to a stand still as you wondered what he was about to say. Loki's hand gleamed green then a radiant flawless golden apple appeared in his hands. “I want to offer you a bite of this apple. If you eat of it, you will have a life as long as mine, become a goddess by my side for ages as we traverse the universe. I can't imagine a life without you...without your love and kindness and cleverness and care and your laugh and the look of joy and gratitude in your eyes when you I've pleased you. I love you...so much. Will you do me the honor of spending eternity with me?”

Giddy excitement shot up like a rocket within you, making your cheeks piping hot and bringing tears to your eyes as you met his intense ones of aquamarine. “I...I don't deserve this.” was the first thought that escaped your lips.

“Darling...you deserve all of this and more,” Loki said, pulling you close to kiss you warmly and softly, holding your face in his careful elegant hands. “Please, be my princess.”

“Yes...yes....yes! I love you, too. Yes,” was all you could say, breathing out the words over and over again as you nodded vehemently. Loki interrupted this stream of affirmation by meeting your lips again, taking his time to taste you. It would be your last kiss with him as a mere mortal.

When you finally took a bite of that otherworldly golden apple, it was the sweetest fruit you had ever tasted; almost as sweet and divine as the destiny ahead of you, almost as sweet and divine as the god holding you.

----

Epilogue

It was a gleaming bright white December morning in Seattle. Rather than rain, ice had dominated every inch of the terrain and snow glistened off the buildings. It was so cold, you thought, but at least it was sunny for a change. As you stood on the balcony of the most luxurious hotel the city had to offer, you were grateful to have this as your final memory of your city (at least for awhile). The sun was shining on you, as bright and fresh as your new life.

In another part of town, a small apartment stood clean and empty, ready for the stories of someone else's life to fill it. A polite letter and the final month's rent were dropped quietly into the landlord's mailbox. All your beloved books, records, and anything else you wanted to hang onto was tucked away, safe and sound, in what Loki called his “pocket universe”. You considered just letting go of everything you owned, pondered the appeal of a blank slate, but Loki dissuaded you. He begged you to keep your records. He wanted to dance with you to the soundtrack of your love's origin story over and over again. He could be sentimental that way.

It felt good to tie up loose ends. You made sure a gracious letter of resignation made its way to Mr. Mullen. Although Loki insisted it was far more polite than what that worm deserved, you were determined to take the high road, and he loved you all the more for that.

The last loose end was your favorite to tie up, and you did so with a big golden ribbon. Janet found a gift and an envelope tucked under the cash register that morning; her name gracing the front in elegant calligraphy. The note was a simple one.

Janet, you are always worthy. You are so young, and I know you're afraid and uncertain, but you will grow and do great things. I know it. I've run off with my prince charming. I hope to see you again someday. All my love. P.S. The gift is something to keep you warm.

Janet read it with tears in her eyes, then she opened the package to find a soft blue scarf. She held it tightly against herself. She was a little startled when her first customer of the day asked her a question, and hurried to dry her eyes.

“Oh! Sir, I'm so sorry! How can I help you?”

She looked up to see the largest man she had ever seen smiling brightly at her as his stunning blue eyes met hers. “I'm so sorry, dear lady. I hope you're not in distress. I wonder if you might aide me in selecting a 'tie'.”

He nodded his head of long blonde hair and took her hand to kiss it.

Janet's eyes went as wide as they could go in shock, and then she giggled uncontrollably, thinking, Jeez, maybe Henry does have a brother after all.

----

Loki stepped lightly over to you as he adjusted his tie and smoothed out the crisp lines of his black suit. “Almost ready, darling?” he asked in his dulcet baritone, as he came up behind you to kiss your bejeweled neck.

“Almost. Can you help me with this zipper?” You asked, giving up your struggle with the very smartly tailored traveling dress. It was a dream of soft royal purple that hugged all of your curves well (which delighted your prince). You'd swear he helped you pick out the ones with zippers in the back just so he had an excuse to do this.

Loki came up close behind you and kissed your cheek. As he deftly slid the pull all the way up he said, “Of course, but you know I enjoy sliding you out of this oh so much more.”

You both let out a mischievous chuckle then kissed sweetly, sighing with satisfaction. He helped you into your pea coat, hat and gloves, before donning his own. Opening the hotel room door for you to exit ahead of him, he said with his biggest dimpled grin, “Ready?”.

You nodded and took his offered arm. “Yes, but where are we going?”

As your polished dress shoes clicked down the hallway side by side, Loki slid his other hand in his pocket, holding tightly to a tattered green loop of leather with his name written on it. He felt his heart warm as he said, meeting your eyes, “Wherever you'd like. The sky's the limit, my love.”

@averagetmblrusser @primrosesposts @fruityfucker @arunabrak @mischief2sarawr @ladyofthestayingpower @acidcasualties @unlucky-number-13 @goblingirlsarah @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokihiddleston @chokeanddagger @lokischambermaid @lokisgoodgirl @marcotheflychair @smolvenger @alexakeyloveloki @littlespaceyelf @little-wormwood @loopsisloops @joyful-enchantress @eleniblue @loz-3 @the-haven-of-fiction @sweetsigyn @muddyorbs @icytrickster17 @holdmytesseract @thenerdyoldersister @thedistractedagglomeration @sailorholly @coldnique @peaches1958 @infinitystoner @peachyjinx @mischiefmaker615 @jennyggggrrr @tripleyeeet @itsybitchylittlewitchy @mochie85 @huntress-artemiss @madi0987 @buttercupcookies-blog @annoyingsweetsstranger @anukulee @aesonmae @angelofasgard16 @salempoe @n3rdybirdee

End Note: My dear sweet readers, I can't thank you enough for all of the love and comments and sharing and feedback. And a big thank you to @mischief2sarawr for the idea request. I fell into this story because I really really needed some softness and love and fluff right now. I hope those of you who read this in need of the same thing have found that comfort too. Sending you all of my love and gratitude, Peb.

#loki fanfic #lokitty #D.B Cooper Loki #loki fluff #pre-Thor 1 Loki #loki x reader

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redheadspark · 1 year ago

Note

hawuuu don't mind my last one cause someone else did the same prompt with the same character so just change it to 11. "i wasn't blushing! it was hot out." "it is literally snowing outside as we speak are you joking." With Druig still

Thank u and happy new year

A/N - HAWUU! I love this request for him since he would be in denial and all ;)! Thanks for requesting this, dear friend!

Give It

Summary - Druig was afraid to give his heart away for the longest time. Maybe it was time for a change

Warnings - Mostly fluff

“Wow,”

“Never seen snow before, Druig?”

Druig glared at Kingo as he chuckled. The fresh fallen snow over the small London park was enough to make Druig look around in wide-eyed wonder. It was vastly different from the Amazon, the hot sticky humidity against his skin and the blazing sun on the back of his neck. He was used to the tall trees, the plenty of wildlife around him that would screech day and night, and even the rolling mountains and again river outside his little shack. Those 500 years away from the rest of the world were a protective bubble for him.

But London? That was wide-eyed for the Mind Controller.

The small park they were at was right outside of Kingo’s London flat, a lavish penthouse he just bought months before to stay in while he would shoot a movie. After it was decided to go out to find other Eternals in other parts of the universe, the group wanted to make a pit stop in London to say goodbye to Sprite and Kingo, and for Thena, Makkari, and Druig to see London and all its glory. It seemed tempting, though Druig was a creature of comfort. He would rather stay on The Domo, but knowing the rest of the group, a small stop in London was not a bad idea.

In fact, it was your idea.

Knowing that it was going to be snowing, you wanted to see the city covered in snow before you would be stuck on a ship with the other three. You loved the snow yourself, having the ability to control and manipulate water and ice with the tips of your fingers. It was no wonder when the group separated 500 years ago, you went off traveling to the North and explored some of the color elements of Earth. You landed in rural Russia, having your own cabin out in the middle of the woods. The group found you cutting down your own wood, thinking of you more like a lumberjack and in your natural element of the dead winter with freezing winds and almost below temps. But to you, it was home.

Sersi and Sprite had an apartment not too far away, the rest of the family went over to visit and see before they found themselves at a local park. Thena was perched on a park bench, enjoying the small peace not too far away and admiring the fallen snowflakes that were dancing in her golden hair. Druig was watching from the side, still in his black leather jacket and boots that were winking slightly in the snow and a small shiver was licking up his spine. He couldn’t help but shiver, not used to the cold himself, and was never a true fan of it. Inwardly, he was mentally glad they would be on the Domo with controlled temperatures soon.

Laughter was heard over to the left, Druig looking to see a snowball fight broke out with some of the group. Makkari, Sprite and you threw snowballs at each other, almost seeming like childcare yourself. Sprite was literally the only child, laughing her head off as she threw a massive snowball at you, but you dodged it with ease before launching back at her. Druig couldn’t help but watch, and if he was honest, he had his eye on you for some time.

But of course, being away for 500 years he thought those feelings were buried and no longer irrelevant. He had a small crush, that was for certain, and it lasted for quite some time back in the earlier days on Earth. Druig admired how raw you were, the stubbornness you had in the way you fought and the way you defended yourself. Your spitfire soul and the natural beauty you had in your cheeks and curves made him entranced.

Makkari called him a “Lovesick Puppy” a few times, but he would only shove her and let it roll off his shoulders. He ignored the side comments from the others, thought he would stay up at night, and wondered what it would be like to be with you. Would you even think of him the way way? Doubtful, though you were cordial with him all the time and always confided with him with your own insecurities. Not to mention you would stand up to him when the others, mostly Ikaris, would put him down and make him feel less than he was. You saw goodness in him, and Druig never knew that you cried when he walked away all those years ago. He never knew you had feelings for him and found him not only handsome, but kind and filled with a powerful urge to serve and help.

Neither of you admitted to the other.

Now, after saving the world and bringing peace to the very species that they protected for centuries, the feelings were coming back with both yourself and with Druig.

“You can’t use your speed, Makkari!” Druig heard Sprite chastise Makkari, whom was throwing out three snowballs back to back to back. You laughed as you grabbed some fresh snow next to your foot, making snowballs as fast as you could before Makkari slammed one into your forehead. Sprite roared in laughter as Druig smiled, seeing your face etched in snow and a wide grin on your face. He didn’t notice Sersi walking over to stand next to him, her kind smile as she watched Druig look on.

“You should tell her,” Sersi said to Druig, who looked over at her within a second with an asked brow.

“Tell her what?” He asked, Sersi only giving him a knowing look that an older sister would give. Your giggle rang in the air, both Druig and Sersi looking as you tackled Sprite to the ground and tried to get some snow down her backside. Kingo was taking pictures on his phone, though his face was then hit with a snowball thanks to Makkari and he ran off after her to retaliate. Druig’s eyes were on you the whole time, both you and Sprite sitting on the snow ground and laughing so hard tears were seen in your eyes.

He was a coward for so long in not saying how he felt, how he imagined what it would be like to have you in his life. He dreamt of it at times and daydreamed during most of Ajak’s meetings or on his patrols late in the night. Druig faced Deviants before, and facing the celestial Tiamut himself was intimidating. But he knew deep down that the scariest thing that he would ever do in his Immortal life, was telling you he liked you.

More than liked, he loved you.

“ ‘ Nobody has ever measured, even poets, how much a heart can hold’.” Sersi quoted to Druig with a gentle nudge of her shoulder against Druig’. Druig snorted as he looked at her.

“Who said that?” He asked in sarcasm, Sersi rolled her eyes.

“Mark Twain. That’s not the point!” She said as she pointed her finger at him, “You should say something before you regret it. And it’s quite obvious in how you’re looking at her! You were blushing a few minutes ago when she asked you a question!”

“I wasn’t blushing! It was hot out!” He tried to argue.

“Back in my flat it was, It is literally snowing outside as we speak, are you joking?” She asked him, seeing him about to roll his eyes as she laced their arms together, “Druig, for as long as I have known you since we’re been on his planet, I know deep down you have a massive and empathetic heart. We all see it and love it, especially her. You shouldn’t waste it, you should give it. Give it to her, Druig.”

She gestured to you, who was helping Sprite, Kingo, and Makkari make a Snowman together in the middle of the snowy meadow. Druig couldn’t help but smile, knowing deep down that Sersi was in fact right. He loved that about Sersi, her kindness and empathy for everyone around her was infectious and something he wished he had himself. But he also had to wonder if she knew all this time of his feelings for you, or if the others knew. They had to have known, and if they did they never said anything to neither you or Druig.

In the end, it was up to the pair of you to make it happen.

“Come on, Druig! Unless you’re scared!” Kingo was teasing him as he was getting a few snowballs ready. Makkari, yourself, and Sprite were behind him, already ready for a second round of a snowball fight and waiting for Druig to join. Druig look over at you, seeing the flushness in your cheeks and how you too were filled with a sense of joy and happiness in such a simple love for snow. Perhaps he would be brave, make the denial go away, and give his love to you.

He carefully reach down to take some snow in his hands, the bitter cold ice against his pale fingers made him shiver as he made a ball and cocked his hand back.

He was ready. Game on.

The End

January Prompt Session

#druig x reader #druig x female reader #druig x y/n #druig x eternal!reader #druig fanfiction #druig fluff #eternals #fanfiction #writing #barry keoghan #druig #marvel #the eternals #marvel cinematic universe fandom #marvel cinematic universe #marvel mcu #mcu phase 4 #mcu fanfiction #mcu

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bunnyboo77 · 1 month ago

Text

Geta,Caracalla x Original Character.

In the lavish palace of the Flavian dynasty, where the sun’s rays painted the marble floors with golden hues and shadows whispered secrets long buried, Rose stood trembling. She was both a treasure and a captive, caught between the intoxicating allure of emperors Geta and Caracalla—identical in appearance yet starkly different in their desires.

Today, they had dressed her in a gown of shimmering gold that hugged her curves, accentuating every contour of her body. Jewels cascaded from her neck and danced around her wrists, catching the light like scattered stars. Despite the opulence, she felt more exposed than ever, her heart racing as they eyed her with smoldering intensity.

“Look at her,” Geta murmured, his voice smooth as silk, yet laced with an undertone that sent shivers down her spine. “She is our radiant rose, crafted for our eyes alone.”

Caracalla stepped closer, his presence enveloping her, a dark cloud of obsession. “Every inch of you is ours to explore, Rose. You should feel honored.”

The possessiveness in their voices ignited a fire within her, a strange blend of fear and undeniable attraction. “I am just a girl…” she whispered, trying to summon some semblance of protest, but it came out weak, almost pleading.

“Just a girl?” Geta scoffed, his gaze hungry. He moved closer, the heat radiating off him as he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “You are so much more than that. You are our muse, our flame. Don’t you see? You set our souls alight.”

Rose shivered at his touch, the warmth of his fingers sending bolts of electricity through her. She hated how their words made her heart race, how they thrilled her against her will. “Please, I—”

“You what?” Caracalla leaned in, his breath ghosting over her skin like fire. “You want to be free? To escape? You would deny us this exquisite pleasure of having you? You should know by now that such thoughts only deepen our need.”

Her pulse quickened as they closed in on her, the air thickening with tension. “You don’t understand!” she gasped, trying to maintain some distance, but her body yearned for their touch. “I feel trapped!”

“Trapped?” Geta’s voice was low, darkly seductive. “No, my darling Rose—this is not a prison. It is a sanctuary, a place where you are adored beyond measure.” He leaned closer, and she could smell his musky scent, intoxicating and primal. “You are our very own marble statue, designed to captivate our senses. Our joys, our passions—they are all tied to you.”

They took turns stepping closer, invading her space until she could feel their breaths mingling with her own. Their obsession twisted around her like ivy, choking yet alluring. The line between terror and desire blurred as they regarded her, their gazes raw and ravenous.

“No!” she cried suddenly, panic erupting within her. “I won’t be your trophy! I am not just…an object for your amusement!”

Laughter erupted from both emperors, a sound that sent chills through her. Caracalla stepped forward, his face mere inches from hers, the intensity in his eyes simmering dangerously. “Oh, Rose, you do not comprehend the depth of our affection. You have ignited something primal within us. We crave you, body and soul. You belong to us—the sun and the moon in our universe.”

Geta’s gaze was fierce, burning with dominance. “And we will show you what it means to be loved by emperors. Let us strip away your hesitation until you breathe our names like an incantation.”

With those words, Rose felt an involuntary shiver run down her spine. A part of her wanted to fight, to scream, while another part hungered for the dark intimacy they promised. The air around them pulsed, thick with unfulfilled desire, as they closed in around her.

“Let me go!” she pleaded, though she could no longer ignore the heat pooling deep within her, responding to their magnetic pull.

“In time, you will come to understand,” Caracalla whispered, his lips brushing against her neck, igniting her skin. “Our love is intoxicating, all-consuming. You will learn to crave the darkness we offer.”

Rose gasped as Geta captured her chin, tilting it upward. “We are not merely twins, sweet Rose. We are two halves of the same desire, intertwined in obsession. You will learn to surrender, to let us consume you.”

“That sounds dreadful,” she retorted, though her voice quivered. And yet, something in her stirred at the thought—a tantalizing rush of surrender that sent delightful tremors through her body.

“Dreadful?” Geta echoed, amused, his eyes glinting wickedly. “Or exhilarating? Perhaps you are a rose that yearns for the darkness, the very thorns that protect you.”

Before she could protest further, Caracalla leaned in, capturing her lips with his in a heated kiss. The taste of him was overwhelming, a storm that raged inside her. She felt herself melting against him, her body betraying her resolve as passion ignited.

With a growl of frustration, Geta took hold of her waist, pulling her close as he joined the embrace, their bodies molding around her. For a moment, she was lost in their heat, drowning in the fervor of their touch. Their desires clawed at her, demanding submission, and she realized she was teetering on the edge of a precipice.

“Accept us,” Caracalla whispered against her skin, his lips trailing tantalizingly down her neck. “Embrace the chaos we offer. Give in to what you feel.”

“Do not fight,” Geta murmured, brushing his lips against her earlobe, igniting a fire within her that threatened to consume her will. “Let us teach you what it means to belong completely.”

As their hands roamed over her, setting her skin ablaze, Rose felt an awakening—a dark need entwined with fear and longing. This was their world, and she was caught in its web, a prisoner and a queen, both terrified and enchanted.

Perhaps there was a part of her that craved this obsessive love, this dominance they bestowed upon her. As the emperors pulled her deeper into their embrace, each heartbeat a promise, Rose understood that the line between pleasure and pain, freedom and captivity, was a fragile thread woven in the tapestry of desire.

“We will break you,” Geta promised, his eyes gleaming with a feral hunger. “But when the dark clouds lift, you will rise anew—a queen born of obsession.”

As their kisses deepened, leaving her breathless, Rose succumbed to the tempest within her, aware that she had walked into a beautiful, perilous trap where pleasure and pain intertwined, forever binding her to the twin emperors she both feared and craved.

#story #fanfic #obsessive love #possesive love #original character #gladiator caracalla #gladiator geta #gladiator ll #gladiator movie #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #emperor geta #emperor caracalla #geta and caracalla

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under-the-aspen-tree · 1 year ago

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A Moth To You (Chapter 1 - The Realms Delight) Aegon II x (Bastard Velaryon) Reader

Series Summary: After a year travelling abroad, you have been called home to Kingslanding by your mother, Rhaenyra. Turns out your family has grown in your time apart.

Word Count: 2.7k

It was the warmest day you had seen thus far on your travels and the southern sun was beating hard against the foliage that covered you. Your linen dress lay still in hot waves against your body and sweat was already beginning to dampen your skin at barely noon, but the gentle Pentoshi breezes brought scents of sweet berry and cinnamon from the local trade towns that made the morning heat more than bearable.

It was over a year into your travels, and though you had adored the glimmering snowfall of Winterfell and the brilliant greens of Oldtown, Pentos was by far your favourite destination. Perhaps it was because the Free Cities were naturally so far from your reach, or that their customs were much lazier than your own, but you found yourself more than content to sit in these lavish lands for the rest of your days. The concept of laying upon sun-hardened sands, eating soft grapes and sipping sparkling wine filled your heart with yearning but, as always, duties always lay in wake.

"It is too hot a day for you, Princess," the voice awoke you from your pleasant daydreams, but not frustratingly so. Reluctantly, you lifted your heavy eyelids to find a man hunched over you in silks as fine and yellow as the sun above. You cracked a tired smile.

"Illestrio," You cooed, shifting your arms to pull yourself into sitting as he knelt beside you. "What brings you to these gardens?"

Illestrio was the fine son of the Lord kind enough to take you and your grandmother in. Rhaenys wasn't immediately besotted at your yearnings to explore further than Westeros, desiring your tour to be restrained strictly to the lands of your birth, but had eventually come around to the idea. The Pentoshi Lords and Ladies seemed more than happy to take in the blood of the dragon, delighted with the sights of your beasts, but Illestrio's father had a long history of trade with your grandfather, Corlys, and was the first to offer you lodgings.

It was only chance that had brought you so close to his son, not only in age but also in habit. You both shared a love of music, adventure, and fine wines, and he had been more than happy to be your escort through the trading towns of Pentos. He had shown you the most lavish of spices, drinks, and scenery and, in return, you had become his royal armpiece. It was by far the most comfortable of positions you had ever held.

"I was looking for you, Princess," Illestrio flashed a white grin before offering you a hand, making to stand. "Your grandmother has requested your presence in her chambers."

You stilled a groan, bundling your skirts up as you clasped his golden hand, feeling the warmth tingle from his adornment of thick rings. In the few months you had spent in Pentos, you had gained a healthy glow to your usually pale skin, but it was nothing in comparison to the years of relentless Summer that the Pentoshi had endured. "Is there any particular reason she has given for disturbing my morning?" You said cheekily.

"I'm afraid not," He smiled, leading you back towards his father's estate. "Let us hope it does not take long. I was hoping to show you the wonders of the pink lakes this afternoon."

Rhaenys' chambers were close enough to your own that it wasn't ever difficult to wander the maze that was Illestrio's home to find her. It was certainly a lavish estate, built up of polished white stone and marble with grand windows that overlooked their gardens and gold trinkets wherever one looked. You were certain their wealth amassed your own by a long stretch, and Illestrio's father loved to show that in every way he could find. On your first day in his manor, he had presented you with a solid gold box encrusted with rubies containing jewellery so fine the chains trickled through your fingers like water. You had never been one for extreme displays of wealth, but you couldn't deny that you loved the simplicity of your life here. Back home in Westeros, even with your family name and the luxury that came with it, you were looked at with a level of scorn. Your dark hair and eyes earned you the rumour of bastard, along with your brothers, and whispers never failed to reach your ears when walking the corridors of the Red Keep. Here, however, your dragon and single thick lock of silver hair were enough to be treated like more than royalty - more akin to the gods the Valyrians were often compared to.

When you knocked on your grandmother's door, you knew the news could not be excellent. Usually, when you two met, it was for fruits and sweets in the gardens or a tour of the orchards, never alone in one's chambers. Rhaenys was sat with her back to you, facing out towards the window where she had a view of the stoney mountains in the far distance. Her black hair shone brilliantly in the afternoon sun and her thick silk gown gave her the silhouette of someone much younger than her years. Even despite your time in the Free Cities, and the many gifts of traditional dresses and shoes your hosts had provided, she still chose to dress in your own Westeros customs.

"Sit," She said, not turning to face you, keeping her eyes locked on the terrain before her. You did so, not failing to notice the trunks that piled up in the corner of the room. You pursed your lips for a moment before walking towards her.

"Grandmother, how are you?" You smiled politely, shaking off the concern for her travelling possessions as you made yourself comfortable in a plush chair opposite her. She did not respond immediately, but her hand slipped from her goblet and towards a small piece of parchment sitting on the table between you both. She pushed it towards you.

"Is everything alright?" You frowned, snatching up the stained paper and drawing your focus to the slanted writing. Your mother's writing.

"I am afraid our time travelling has come to an end, Princess," She said, finally turning her gaze to your own. "Your mother has requested our presence in Kingslanding, and it is perhaps long overdue."

You spluttered at her words, quite unladylike, as you read the words again and again. "But.. we've barely seen it all yet. What reason could she have for sending us home?"

Rhaenys pursed her lips. You knew she was not opposed to returning to Westeros. You remembered the promise you made when she agreed to the trip over a year ago. 'I will do as you wish, and you shall see the world, but once we are done you will resume your duties faithfully.'

You had agreed of course, thrilled at meeting your wishes of adventure, but you had been putting off the idea of returning for some time now, convincing Rhaenys time and time again to prolong your stay in Pentos for as long as possible. Despite adhering to your wishes, you knew your grandmother missed Driftmark, where you had left your Uncle Vaemond and cousin Baela to defend her home while Corlys fought in the Stepstones.

"Our travels are completed, my child. It is time to resume our duties in Westeros."

You could see in her eyes that she felt for you, but that the decision was made and final. Rhaenys knew you wouldn't object, keen to your word, but that you would mourn for the life you were living in Pentos.

"How long before we go?" You averted your eyes to the landscape, twisting the satin gold of your necklace.

"We leave at sunrise in the morn. I would suggest you set your affairs in order." You almost missed the gentle wink she sent you, and a wave of melancholy washed over you at the thought of alerting your friend to the sudden change of plans.

______

"Tomorrow?" Illestrio's face was a mask of shock and fury from where he stood at the entrance to your chambers, thick brows drawn together as he regarded you. You had wanted to break the news to him on your afternoon visit to the pink lakes, or perhaps in the shade of the pergola outside over honey wine and lemon cakes. But you had too much to pack and too little time. Your trunks were thrown open beside your bed, filled with your possessions and a few trinkets you had amassed during your tours, most gifts from the man before you.

You did not pause from your packing, only granting him a sideways glance as you gathered your life within your hands and put it all in cases. Would these fine dresses ever see their homeland again?

"My mother has demanded it, I have no choice." You said softly, busying yourself. You were afraid that if you stopped for too long, and stared into those doe-like eyes and golden skin, your resolve would shatter. "We always knew the day would come."

"But not so soon," Illestrio protested, stepping forward to take hold of your arm. "I thought we would have much more time together. There are so many places I have yet to show you."

Places you would never get to see. Hot tears suddenly stung your eyes and you had to blink furiously to push them aside as he forced you to look at him. At his thick curly hair that he could never tame, as his pouted lips and slender nose and perfect cheekbones. He shifted his hand to take hold of your cheek as the other ran through your hair, fingers slipping through the silver segment. You noticed he did this a lot, separating the strands from the deep brown and staring at them as though bewitched. He did not look into your eyes, simply regarding the white locks.

"Stay," He whispered.

You took his hand into your own, thumbing a thick golden ring on his first finger. "I can't."

"You know what your mother wants, Princess." His gentle tone was turning into a pleading and you had to tilt your head down to stare at his chest. "You know what your duty is to her house."

"It is my house too," You reminded him, but you knew what he spoke of.

"Then ignore her. Forget those fat lords in Westeros. Marry me tonight." The suggestion had you looking up in shock, wide-eyed.

"You cannot be serious."

The steel glint in Illestrio's green eyes answered for him. You had enjoyed your time with him here, of course, and you would be a fool to ignore the stirrings in your chest that came whenever he approached, but you thought you were both aware of where this would end. You made to speak, but he cut you off.

"Would you be happy in the tower of some old man, bearing his children, sitting at his table? The prize possession of an idiot who hasn't a care for you but for your name?

"You would be happy here. Winter does not touch us the way it does Westeros. You would live out your days warm and happy and carefree." He was bargaining now, trying to convince you. You did not need convincing. If you could, you would accept the offer in a heartbeat.

"Illestrio," You shook your head, holding out your palm to caress his cheek. "I have always known I would marry for my house. I am a princess and I have a duty to my houses and the realm to marry for position."

"And what of Saera Targaryen?" Illestrio countered, looking at you with hardened desperation. You baulked at the comparison. "She abandoned her duties and lived out her life in Lys."

"Saera was practically exiled," You reminded him, frowning. "She resorted to the ways of a whore to escape her duties. Do you wish for me to have the same remembrance? The whore of Velaryon?"

"You would not be a whore," Illestrio huffed. "You would be my wife. You would be happy."

You pulled away. The conversation was going nowhere and you could see that now. No amount of reasoning could persuade Illestrio from his stance, and none could move your own. You had always hated the idea of being a political chess piece, but it was who you were born to be.

"I will leave at sun break," You informed him, brushing tears from your eyes as you turned back to your packing. "I would appreciate it if you could see me off."

Illestrio was silent for a moment, but you could feel his eyes like steel daggers boring into your back. "When your husband takes you on your wedding night, remember this. Remember what you could have been while staring into his eyes."

You whipped around, outraged at his words, but he was gone before you could face him. Your lip wobbled, fury turning your cheeks red and hot, but nothing could be done. You let out a single shaky sob as you threw the linen garment you were holding into your trunk before turning to the vase of wine on your table and pouring yourself a goblet-full.

The morning brought light northern breezes through the dockyard, sending spirals of sand whirling beside the waters. With the sun just barely setting the sky alight, you would have quite liked to spend your time wandering through the local towns rather than blinking sleep from your eyes as you waited beside the ship that would carry you home. Rhaenys was having words with Illestrio's father, who looked quite furious to see his son was yet to make a farewell appearance, and the crew was traipsing on and off the boat as they readied it for your leave.

When the time came, Illestrio's father, a large man with a heavy moustache on his upper lip and clothes so expensive and colourful he reminded you often of a court jester, took you into a heavy hug before kissing the back of your hand.

"Thank you for the gift of your presence in my estate, Princess," He smiled. "I hope to see you here again."

You smiled tightly at the words, curtsying lightly as you were forced, yet again, to hold your tears at bay. You would not mourn this man whom you scarcely knew, but you would mourn his home. "Thank you, my Lord, for offering your home to us. This past month has been the happiest I have known."

The man lit up proudly at your words, puffing out his great chest and smoothing the bright blue silks he wore against his body. "You are most kind, Princess."

The ship rocked gently as the waters turned from black to violet silver in the sunrise. Gold sunlight bore heavily as the sky turned a clear and gentle blue, reflecting the heat-stained houses of Pentos as you took sail. Even as the ship took up speed, turning Illestrio's father into a colourful blob and then to nothing in the distance, you could not turn your watering eyes from the city you had grown to love. You didn't want to turn your back on it, towards the fate that awaited you in Kingslanding, for you feared that if you looked away you would soon forget the Pink Lakes and Cinnamon breeze if you did not spend all your willpower on committing the sight of Pentos to memory.

You didn't want to go home. You wanted this, this lifestyle of luxury beside Illestrio, trying to teach him Valyrian and laughing at his strange accent when he failed to pronounce the words. You wanted to stare at his gentle hands as he traced out the letters to his own alphabet, more interested in his hands than the words he was speaking.

Rhaenys joined you as you bore ever further from the lands, dark hair swaying gently from the tower of plaits she had spun it into. You broke free from your contemplations, but continued to stare out towards to silhouette of the city.

"You will not be forgotten here, Princess." She reminded you. "These people did not know Rhaenyra, but they knew her name."

You did not face her as you pondered her words, turning your head slightly to show you were listening. "From Winterfell to the Free Cities, they all call you the Realms Delight."

#Aegon #Aegon Targaryen #Aegon x reader #Aegon Targaryen x reader #Aegon II #Aegon II Targaryen #Aegon II Targaryen x reader #Aegon II Targaryen x You #House of the dragon #Hotd #Hold fanfic #asoiaf #Velaryon Reader #Bastard Reader

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