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radawaycunt · 5 months ago

Text

Bacchanalia

Also on AO3

Pairing: Lucius Verus Aurelius x Fem!Reader

WC: 2.2k words

Summary: At one of Rome's debauched celebrations to the god Bacchus, you and a handsome, masked stranger have a little celebration of your own.

Warnings: MINORS DNI this fit is 18+, smut, porn with no plot, implied orgy (it's happening in the background somewhere lmao), masquerade type setting, oral (m and f receiving), shenanigans with wine, fingering, unprotected p in v (you better not try this at home), creampie, swearing, aaaaand I think that's its but lmk if anything else lol

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The atmosphere was heady, perfumed with sweet violet, myrtle, and the musk of sweat-slick bodies. The air was thick and smoky with incense, giving the vast room a dreamlike quality. The warm flicker of candlelight casted long shadows of writhing forms on the walls, moans and other sounds of ecstasy drifting to your ears as you passed by a couple of curtained siderooms.

Still, nothing really seemed to pique your interest enough to get involved. At least, not yet.

It wasn’t your first Bacchanalia, so you already knew what to expect, but you were even more thrilled at the fact that everyone was wearing a variety of different masks. Even the naked servants carrying trays of wine did not show their faces. Pleasure did not always need a name, after all. Without it, one could be whoever they chose, if only for a few hours.

Your mask was meant to represent Diana, lunar goddess of the hunt. You walked slowly and deliberately through the halls of the estate, doing exactly that, except you weren’t entirely sure what you were hunting for.

You passed an archway that led to the gardens and saw a couple of lovers playfully chasing each other in the moonlight, wearing the faces of nymphs and satyrs. You huffed with amusement, leaving your empty cup on a passing servant’s tray and continuing on your way.

Your eyes skirted past Jupiter who was clearly trying to get your attention, but his disappointment was short-lived as Juno came to lead him away. You sighed, following an instinct that led you down another hallway across the atrium.

And suddenly, rounding the corner, you saw a stag at the other end of the hall – or at least, a man who wore the mask of one. The two of you seemed to spot each other at the same time, freezing on the spot. Time seemed to condense into just that moment, while you assessed one another.

He was tall and statuesque, built like the beautiful Adonis. He wore a loose, artlessly draped toga, revealing most of his lean, muscled torso. The thought of him wrapping those strong arms around you, lifting you or wrangling you into different positions, immediately came to mind. As if he could sense your thoughts, he smiled, an eager invitation to make fantasy into a reality.

You huffed once again in amusement, curiosity finally overtaking you. Like you, he didn’t seem to be accompanied, but that was all the better in your eyes. Something about him seemed to stir your greediness, unwilling to share the bounties of your hunt.

You pantomimed retrieving an arrow from a quiver at your back, notching it to an invisible bow and drawing it back, then releasing it with a splay of your fingers. He reeled back as if struck, clutching the imaginary wound on his chest and falling to his knees. Your chin was raised triumphantly as you stalked towards him, looking down to see a pair of crystalline eyes staring back at you through the holes in the mask.

There was a spark of mirth in them, reflecting your curious desire. You grabbed his bearded chin with one hand and leaned in, your eyes drawn down to the slight heave of his chest. A smirk pulled at the corner of your lips.

“Got you now,” you said, voice low. “Come with me, my trophy.”

You turned to lead him away, glancing back flirtatiously as you let your tunic slip off your shoulder. He scrambled to his feet, following behind as you searched for an empty side room. You beckoned him into the first one you found, slipping inside, and he took some wine from a passing servant before joining you.

The room was darker than the hallway, with only a few candles illuminating one side of it. You let your tunic fall to the ground just as he entered, warm light flickering over your skin. He stood there for a moment, stupefied at both your beauty and your boldness. He felt himself the tribute to an actual goddess, blood already boiling even if he hadn’t even touched you yet.

He approached, raising the cup of wine to your lips so you may drink. His free arm snaked around your waist, pulling your body flush against his. Instead of drinking some himself, though, he raised the cup above your heads and poured the rest of the wine on both of your chests. You gasped, taken by surprise, and he tossed the cup aside carelessly.

He buried his face in the crook of your throat, licking the droplets that had spattered there as you pulled at his toga, clumsily undoing it. His eager tongue lapped at your clavicles and sternum, moving down to the swell of your breasts. But before he could get there, you pushed him back only to get your mouth on him, too.

The wine tasted even sweeter on his skin, especially when you heard the soft little moan in his throat. Unable to resist, you bit one of his pecs, tongue swirling around his nipple. He sucked in a breath, kicking aside the fabric of his toga as it fell to his feet. He gently tugged your head back by your hair, his lips meeting yours ferociously.

You weren’t sure if your head swam from the wine or the kiss, but you submitted to it all the same. His arms enveloped you once more, his tongue dragging over yours, eliciting a soft mewl from you. You felt a sort of frenzy overtake you, the impulse to devour him whole threatening to consume you. Especially as there was a rather pressing distraction between you, bumping against your navel.

You cupped him in your palm, smiling against his lips as his breathing hitched. “Someone’s excited.”

“H-how could I not be?” he rasped, head tilting back as your lips went back to his chest. “Who else can say they’ve been ravaged by the fierce Diana herself?”

You chuckled, flattered at his words. “No one, of course.”

You left a trail of searing, open-mouthed kisses leading downward until you were on your knees in front of him. You kissed one hip bone and then the other, repeating the teasing process with his thighs. His erection pulsed in response, demanding attention. In the low candlelight, you could see a glistening bead of precum on the tip of it, lightly smearing near his belly button.

You flattened your tongue and licked the underside in its entire length. He shuddered, thigh muscles clenching as he resisted the urge to guide your head. You teased the tip with a few kisses, swirling your tongue around it and tasting his arousal. You gripped the base as you took it in your mouth, his deep groan nearly giving you goosebumps.

One of his hands hovered just behind your head as it bobbed up and down, taking more and more until you could feel the tip at the back of your throat. He murmured expletives, his eyes screwed shut. But before he could get too close to the edge, the muscles of his lower abdomen already tense, he pulled you back by the hair as he bent to kiss you.

His tongue invaded your mouth, tasting traces of his precum. Given the mess you’d been making of him, a debauched string of saliva connected your lips as he pulled back slightly to look at you. You grinned, biting your lip, your hand still stroking him. He placed a hand over yours to keep it in place, drawing in a long breath.

“Not like this,” he husked, caressing your cheek with the back of his hand. “Let me have my turn.”

You slightly tilted your head to one side and nipped at one of his fingers playfully. You could feel your own arousal drip onto the floor, more gathering between your thighs. The least he could do was help clean you up.

“Come here, then,” you said, rising.

You had him sit on the floor, his back against the wide couch on the other side of the room. You drew closer, practically cornering him, and propped a foot on the edge of the couch by his head. You enticingly slipped your fingers through your slick folds, feeling his hot breath against your cunt as he lifted his head.

“Fuck,” he groaned, tongue tracing your inner thigh, followed by his teeth. “Sweeter than wine…”

“And there’s more where that came from,” you rasped, fingers threading through his hair so you could press his face against your cunt.

He lapped you up with gusto, using lips, and tongue, and teeth to savor you properly. He gripped your leg for support, keeping you in place at the same time. Your head tipped back as a moan was wrenched from your throat, your hand keeping a tight hold on him. Absently, he stroked the head of his cock ever so slowly, keeping himself teetering on the edge. But he wanted to save it for the best part, when he’d be buried deep inside you, your bodies melding into one another.

Your hips rocked back and forth against his face, seeking the added friction. He moaned against you, feeling like he could stay there for hours, drawing out your honey and worshipping you. Quick little flicks of his tongue against your clit make heat spiral upwards from your navel, your legs beginning to tremble.

You held onto his head as a choked sound escaped you. You gushed on his tongue as you came, a few more erratic drags of your hips to fully ride it out. Your cunt clenched around nothing, achingly empty, but not for much longer. You were still dazed when he decided to take over control, grabbing you by the hips and turning you around to bend you over the couch.

One of his hands pressed your head against the mattress, keeping your hips hiked up. You leaned into his touch as you felt him palming the swell of your ass, making you squeal a little as he bit the supple flesh. He teased the entrance of your cunt with the tips of his fingers, humming pensively.

“Seems like you’re more than ready for me…” he purred, a teasing edge to his tone. “Shall we try it out? Hmm?”

You could only nod desperately, hips wiggling as he pulled back to situate himself behind you. He dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in your slick, and lined himself up with your entrance.

“Nice and slow,” he said, pushing inside. “That’s it. Oh, you see how you’ve got me? How I’m aching for you?”

You gripped the cushion under you, nearly overwhelmed by the delicious stretch that bordered between pain and pleasure. He felt impossibly deep at that angle, hitting a spot that had your eyes rolling to the back of your skull.

“Gods,” you mewled, voice tight. “You’re so big.”

He chuckled, the sound melting into a low groan as he kneaded your ass with his hands greedily, spreading you to get a better look at his cock sliding inside your cunt. “And yet you’re taking me perfectly well.”

He was in no rush at first, keeping his thrusts shallow until you grew more accustomed to him, enjoying the velvety warmth that enveloped him. You pushed your hips back to meet his thrusts, his grip on them tightening. He was trying hard to stave off his growing pleasure, but you felt so good that he knew he wouldn’t last too long. He murmured praises as the snap of his hips became faster, obeying your pleas to go harder.

“Give me another one,” he pleaded in return, leaning more of his weight on you, pinning you down. “I want to feel you properly this time.”

You didn’t have much choice but to take it as he pounded into you, rough, feral noises escaping him every time he bottomed out inside of you. Your teeth sank into your forearm as you came apart a second time, dark stars dancing across your vision.

He husked an encouraging ‘there we go, there’s a good girl’ close to your ear as he felt you clenching around him, pulling him along into oblivion. He stayed buried to the hilt on his last stuttering thrust, his grip on your hips bruising as he filled you with his spend.

His hand rested on the back of your neck like a mark of ownership, his cock twitching once more at the imagery. But you both needed to recover your strength first, and so he collapsed on the couch as you rolled over onto your side.

You looked at each other for a moment, sharing a soft, exhilarated laugh. He pulled you closer, one arm draped over your waist. In any other instance, with anyone else, this sort of intimacy with a complete stranger would seem off. But there was something about him that made it feel almost natural, and therefore you welcomed it.

“Who ravaged who, in the end?” You joked, making him chuckle once more.

“Let’s call it a tie for now,” he said, fingers tracing your back. “After all, we still have plenty of time to decide who the real victor is.”

You huffed, tracing his lips with your thumb. “Something tells me you think it’s going to be you.”

“Well, if there’s one thing you should know about me,” he said, nipping at your thumb. “It’s that I don’t like to lose.”

“Oh, is that so?” You countered, pushing him onto his back and grinning like the cat that got the cream. “As it happens, neither do I.”

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#lucius verus x reader #lucius verus smut #lucius verus x you #lucius verus fanfiction #gladiator fanficiton #gladiator smut #lucius verus #x reader #minors dni

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echantedtoon · 4 months ago

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Jealousy

When Zeus takes interest in your pantheon being a goddess of beauty, a certain God of the Dead gets protective hearing about many of the old God's spicier exploits.

(Adding in some real Greek Pantheon lore here. F/r stands for Fake Religion to go along with the story.)

@colourstreakgryffin

The next round of fighting would've been starting up soon whenever that may be, you weren't really very interested in fighting for, with, or against anyone else really but a few other of your acquaintances and friends were trying to get picked so you only really went to cheer them on and maybe meet gods from other pantheons with similar situations to yours being the goddess of love and beauty from where you were from.

You did happen to meet one goddess of similar stature to yours. A goddess by the name of Aphrodite from the Greek Pantheon. She was as beautiful and kind as the rumors around her had said and in turn she offered to introduce you to more God's from her pantheon. Seemed fairly innocent to you. Diana, goddess of the moon and hunt, was also very kind. Dimitir was also very kind being the sister to Zeus,one of the very well known gods for the rounds of fighting and that's how you were somehow introduced to the older God himself.

"My, my! Who do we have here! Aphrodite have a daughter she never told me about?~", the older God teased giving you a wink to which you giggled in turn.

The sight of you talking to Zeus had caught the attention of one god in particular who hummed under his breath and raising a brow curiously. "You know I'm surprised you're not more concerned about your lover speaking to Zeus all alone."

The eyes gestured to one figure of tan skin and more desert styles clothing to suit the archetype of the scorching hot sand dunes and scarce waters. Of course the usual peppy God didn't seem to take notice of the slight concern directed to him by the Buddha and was more nervous happily sinking his fangs into a giant turkey drumstick in his hands, one of the many, many, MANY food items provided by the hosts for the giant recent victory celebration. The delicious taste of tenderized meat slowly cooked with spices melted in his house deliciously as he turned back to Buddha cheeks full with a curious hum.

The other God sighed in turn. "I said I'm surprised that you're perfectly alright with letting your lover speak to Zeus all by her lonesome." Slowly picking up a goblet of wine, he took a few sips. "Really, Anubis. I knew death was your entire reputation but I had no idea you were deaf to your surroundings as well."

The jackal God said nothing but took a bigger bit of the turkey leg nearly finishing it before leaning back to stretch his neck and peer through the crowd of God's past Cernunnos and Gaia speaking of how they mold the earth for their followers' crops to yourself and Zeus still speaking of something. ... Before he shrugged and turned back to continue eating his meal.

"Seebs mwine ta me," he said between bites making Buddha sigh again next to him.

"How could you go THIS long without hearing the stories? Hers is always telling everyone she who'll listen."

"Listen to what?" He finally scarfed down the rest of the turkey before kicking his lips and reaching out for a giant pitcher of wine.

"Zeus has a rather.. Let's just say flirtier reputation amongst women both mortal and God alike."

"Huh?" Anubis tilted his head not unlike a curious pup blinking at him.

"The mortals refer to that kind of reputation as him being a womanizer, Anubis. As in a man whom loved women so much that he'll go around loving LOTS of them. Many lovers as some might say."

A glass shattering sound went off in the jackal god's mind. Eyes blown out wide open and that wide smile frozen on his face as Buddha just sipped his wine watching the wheels turn in that head of his. Slightly amused by the expression he had on his face.

"Your lady dearest is Y/n right? Goddess of love and beauty from the F/r Pantheon? She is rather lovely. Oh, yes. Many a man would try to woo her. I'm sure Zues would be no exception for that given his...'liking' for beautiful maidens."

It was then a growl went off from the God of Death's throat and the table likely shook from how abruptly he shot up to his feet with a feral look in his eyes. "Would you please excuse me for a moment?"

"By all means."

He wasn't about to get between an angry god and their target..Well at least not until he was chosen for the next round. You however were unaware of the angry man quickly approaching you from behind as you discussed what your temple looked like with Zeus who seemed very interested in what the F/r temples of worship were like and what duties your priests and monks had to run said temples. It was all boring talk really but the old god seemed to find interest in it.

You nearly jumped out of your formal dress when suddenly a sharply clawed hand wrapped around your shoulders and pulled you against an otherwise overly smiling face. "Hey my lil scarub! My beautiful flower! My absolutely wonderful love! I had no idea you'd be here too! WHAT A COINCIDENCE!!"

You finally looked up at who was holding you. "Anubis."

"Hello my darling!" He then proceeded to pepper your face in a rapid fire of multiple kisses before nuzzling his cheek to your head. "I missed you SO MUCH! And I love you SO MUCH!!"

"Um.." your brow rose at the odd behavior. "I love you too."

"Oh. Hello, Anubis," Zeus greeted politely, "I didn't know you two knew each other."

"Yep! We'll be a couple a thousand years now on our upcoming anniversary which I never forget! She's the only gal for me anywhere!" You rose a brow higher noticing the oddly very strained smile on his face. "And I know I'm the only guy for her! We were thinking about getting married soon you know!"

"Oh. You are?"

"We are?" You were taken by surprise as he nodded.

"We were thinking of having two ceremonies. One in her temple and a traditional Egyptian wedding ceremony back where I'm from! We haven't finished the details yet. Oh that reminds me, I brought my dearly beloved something." A goblet of deep red wine was suddenly held up to you. "A drink for you! The wind here's delicious!"

"Oh..." You slowly took it still feeling confused about what was going on. "Thank you. You know I ran into Diana earlier. She mentioned that all the wine for this banquet was made by Dionysus. He's the God of Wine from your pantheon isn't he?" You asked giving Zeus a look as Anubis glared in anger.

The old god nodded. "Indeed. He grows the grapes himself in his followers fields and then adds his own special touches to them. You should try one of his new fancy margaritas! They're to die for!"

"Well then I'll be sure to thank him when I meet him."

"OOH! SPEAKING OF THE GUY!!" Anubis suddenly put a hand above his eyes as if scanning the horizon. "I think I see him over there talking to Mother Nature!" You helped as both hands grabbed a hold of your shoulders and shoved you along almost making you spill your drink. "Let's go thank him right now! See ya, Zeus! Bye!"

As you were forced to quickly walk away from the older God you heard your liver growling annoyed and mumbling things under his breath such as 'womanizer' and 'mine' and you thought you heard 'no one's getting past me'. Eventually you dug in your heels enough to make him stop feeling your resistance.

Turning around you gave him a look. "Ok. What's going on?"

His golden eyes looked side to side. "What what?"

"You know what I'm talking about." A hand gestured to where you were just taken from. "Why were you acting all rude to Zeus and strange? I thought you were trying to get picked for the next battle."

"I am! And I am not!," he defensively declared crossing his arms with a pout with puffed out cheeks and his fangs poking out from his upper lips. Honestly he looked more cute than threatening. "I was merely protecting my beloved from becoming the next scandal Hera talks about!"

"Scandal? Hers? What are you-.." It was then it dawned on you. Turning your head back to the older God, you spotted Zues speaking to who you think was his niece Persephone. "Oh. I get now. But you didn't have to be so overly dramatic about it. You just could've said you were uncomfortable with me talking to him."

"It's not you talking to him I'm worried about! It's HIM trying to get sneaky around you!"

"Alright. Now I really get it." You reached out to tap his nose. "You're jealous."

A surprised dog like noise escaped his throat. "Jealous!?"

"Yes, Anubis. Jealous. J. E. A. L. O. U. S. Jealous." You smiled amused. "But that's ok. You're cute when you're jealous and protective like that."

"I'm not jealous!" He pouted harder. "And I'm not overreacting either! Buddha told me all about it and I'm just doing my duty so don't you make fun of me!"

You couldn't help giggle at him. If he had puppy ears they'd probably be pinned back annoyed by your giggles but he looked happy to be called cute. "Ok. Whatever you say. But I must know the answer. Who's my good boy?"

His answer was immediately. "ME!! ME!! IM THE BEST BOY!!"

********

#record of ragnarok #record of ragnarok x reader #ror anubis #record of ragnarok anubis #anubis x reader #ror anubis x reader

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brucewaynehater101 · 7 months ago

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I have a really soft and cute au for Lesbian Janet that could work in any universe but I think works best in the Young Justice TV Show Universe.

See, everyone gets really confused when Tim talks about his Mom, sometimes referring to her as Mama. Tim thinks that using two different titles like that should make it Obvious that he has Two Moms but well. The Bats may be Super Geniuses but they are still Idiots. Tim is also an absolute Mama's Boy with Both his Moms. He loves them both So Much.

Oh, where is Jack you ask? He doesn't actually exist. He's the fake name and personality that Tim's Mama came up with and used Magic to disguise as so they could get Legally Married For Tax Benifits. Also to get his Mama a legal identity. Why would she need one of those? Well... as was mentioned, Tim's Mama has Magic with a Captial M. This by extension means Tim is Magic With A Capital M as well. Totally has nothing to do with Janet and his Mama sculpting him from clay and breathing life into him. Woes of pregnancy who? Not Janet that's for sure.

Also Tim does Not tell anyone that he has Magic and he doesn't show it off. The only reason the Bats found out about it is because Tim came to a meeting with Bruce and Diana went "you. Your Magic is Familure but I don't know from where." And Tim was sweating while saying, "Magic? What magic??" And after getting questioned by Diana and Bruce he Caves and tells them a half truth, "fine. I was made from Clay, like you. My Mom didn't want to go through the struggles of Childbirth but still wanted a child. Instead of adopting like any sane and rational person, she made a deal with a God or Godess. I don't know all the details but she owed them something in exchange for Me. I do know the debt has been paid already though."

The debt was simply a tea spoon of blood for the ritual and A Kiss. Janet over paid the second part by a lot.

As for how Janet met and wooed A Goddess? Well, she was on a dig in Greece when her boat she was using to get to another island was caught in a storm and washed up on a different island. The Goddess was expecting violence or anger at being stranded, perhaps even Sorrow. But no, Janet took one look at the Temple in the distance and was pushing past her saying she needed to get to the Temple because it's clearly in *amazing* condition and could bring So Many insights into Ancient Greek culture and building practice. For the first time in decades, as this Random Woman ran her hand along a pillar and started rambling about the design and what the type of collums were called, Circe felt herself blushing.

CIRCE?!?!?

FUCK YEAH.

Anyways, this is absolutely adorable. Fuck. I would love an entire fic of Janet. Here's a general plot line:

Janet hasn't ever really been interested in romance. She's tried dating a few guys in high school for appearance sake, but she usually broke the relationship off when they became too affectionate.

This is when others started referring to her as "cold." She wasn't, but few people got close enough to her to listen to her rambles about ancient civilizations, archeology, and sociality impacts of culture. She enjoyed other stuff, but nothing quite lit her up like those topics did.

In college, she did find and make a few friends with similar interests. This is where she figured out she was into women and not men. The relationships lasted longer, but she was single by the time she graduated with her bachelor's.

Her master's ends up as some sort of work study where she travels the world. She's more invested in her studies and work than relationships at this point. She enjoys learning about people's lives and cultures but doesn't seek out more than friendship.

I'm not sure if Janet has already or is working on her doctorate by the time she ends up lost on an island (or really how archeology even pays bills).

When she arrives on the island, there's a beautiful woman there as well. Janet notices this, but doesn't give a flying fuck in comparison to the architecture.

And Circe? Finds herself amused and confused by this woman who, although is into women, doesn't care about Circe's looks. Janet just keeps asking questions about Circe's life, the temple, the plants, the culture, etc. It becomes endearing watching her work late into the night with her research.

Janet is so enthralled in all that is going on that she doesn't notice Circe's continuous flirting. It's so fucking frustrating for Circe, but makes her unbearably fond as well. Janet starts to consider this drop dead gorgeous woman a close friend of hers as they "work" late into the chatting about ancient Greece, their past experiences, and their lives. Janet, who has some experience with romance but not much, even flirts back. After all, women call each other beautiful all the time and hold hands and shit. Surely Janet can platonically cuddle with her friend while Circe compares Janet's eyes to the night sky.

It's only when Janet is ready to leave that she realizes that she's willing to give up everything she's worked for, all of her findings and education, to have more time with Circe. Janet is in love with her best friend.

Also, Circe is able to get a fake ID as "Jack" due to magic and Janet's connections

#janet drake #dc au #thank you for the ask!!!!#lesbian janet drake #hc autistic janet drake

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flwrkid14 · 22 days ago

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Hiii, so I read your “Tim and Jason: Caught Between Healing and Fear” and was wondering if you could potentially make a part 2 where perhaps lady shiva or ra’s or literally anyone decide to step up and parent this boy. Maybe even wonder woman so it’s like Jason’s favourite hero stepping up to parent his replacement. Anyways take your time, and I love your writing!

hi anon!! thank you so much for the ask! your idea was so beautiful and honestly sent me into a full spiral while writing! I should probably mention though—it ended up going in a slightly different direction than what you originally had in mind. I still included Diana! but it’s not exactly centered around her parenting Tim.

if you'd still like me to write that specific take, I totally can!! but for now, here’s what came out of this particular burst of inspiration. I hope you enjoy it anyway <3

There are things that shatter you quickly—like glass against pavement. And then there are the things that wear you down slowly. Quietly. Like water eroding stone.

Tim Drake was never shattered. He was worn down.

Chipped away piece by piece, until all that was left was someone efficient. Polished. Sharp-edged and palatable. A boy shaped by silence and long patrols, by missions without backup and rooms that went still the moment he entered.

A ghost in a house of the living.

He doesn’t complain. (That would make him the problem.) He doesn’t ask for more. (That would make him ungrateful.) He just… endures.

He’s good at enduring. Has been since he was thirteen and taught himself not to cry when the manor door locked behind him. He became something useful. Something necessary. Something that could be left in the dark and would still come back intact.

But even tools wear down.

—

The others don’t notice. Or they pretend not to.

Bruce talks to him like a mission report. Dick squeezes his shoulder and calls him “kiddo,” like that’s supposed to mean love. Damian sneers and snaps, but that’s always been his way.

Jason is the one who watches. Not when Tim’s looking—but when he thinks he’s alone.

Jason, the prodigal son. The miracle. The boy who returned from the dead and was finally, finally embraced.

Tim had held the family together after Jason died. But he wasn’t the one they were willing to fall apart for.

—

Diana finds him at the Watchtower. He’s staying late. He always stays late. It’s easier to sleep here, where the walls don’t whisper with memories.

She sits beside him quietly. Says nothing for a long time.

And then:

“I have seen many kinds of loneliness, Tim. Yours feels like a punishment.”

And maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s all it’s ever been. A slow, self-inflicted sentence. A punishment for not being enough—for not being Jason. For not being the dead boy they mourned and celebrated and welcomed home with open arms, while Tim was asked to quietly step aside.

“I’m not the one who died,” he says, and it sounds more like an apology than anything else.

Diana flinches. She hadn’t realized how much pain was buried in his silence.

“I know,” she murmurs. “That’s the cruelest part, isn’t it?”

She stays. Offers tea. A moment. A kindness not wrapped in expectation. She doesn’t tell him to rest. She doesn’t ask him to open up. She simply sees him, and chooses to remain.

The next time Diana comes, she doesn’t come alone.

Jason follows a few steps behind her. Shoulders tense. Hands stuffed in the pockets of a worn jacket. He looks like he doesn’t want to be here—and like he wouldn’t be anywhere else.

Tim’s already halfway out of his chair.

“Diana—”

“She thought maybe we should talk,” Jason says before she can. His voice is rough. Not angry. Just… uncertain. “Or… sit in the same room. I don’t know. She’s good at talking. I’m just here.”

Diana doesn’t say anything. She gives them both a look, then leaves the room with the kind of grace only someone raised among goddesses could manage.

The door clicks shut.

And for a long time, Jason says nothing. Does nothing. Just leans against the wall like he’s been there forever, like part of him has been—watching from the corners, always at a distance.

Tim hates how exposed he feels. How vulnerable. Like Jason can see it—that hollow place inside him, the one that used to burn and now just… echoes.

Jason finally speaks. Quietly. Gritty.

“I used to think no one could be lonelier than a dead kid in his own house.”

He doesn’t look at Tim. Doesn’t need to.

“But then I saw you.”

Tim doesn’t respond. His throat feels thick. Heavy.

Jason goes on, voice low. Honest in a way that hurts.

“You were always there. Every time. Back straight. Hands steady. Doing everything right. Holding shit together when no one even thought to ask.”

He pushes a breath through his teeth.

“And I kept waiting for someone to see it. For someone to see you. But they didn’t. Not really. They still don’t.”

His voice breaks a little around the next words.

“They love me now. Even after everything. They found a way to hold space for me. They reached back and pulled me in.”

He finally looks at Tim. And his expression is something close to haunted.

“But you were already standing there, weren’t you? You never left. You just... got good at being invisible.”

Tim turns his face away. But it’s too late. Jason’s already seen the way his jaw clenches, the way his shoulders fold inward like a closing book.

“You’re not the one who died,” Jason says softly. “But you were the one they let fade.”

Tim doesn’t mean to speak. Doesn’t even know the words are coming until they’re out:

“I tried so hard to be what they needed. And it was never enough.”

Jason swallows. His voice drops even lower.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s the part that broke me too.”

Silence stretches between them. But it isn’t cold. It’s not empty either.

Jason pushes off the wall, and before he goes, he adds—gentle, like something sacred:

“They made room for me. But you… you’re still making yourself smaller.”

Then he leaves. Quietly. Like he was never really supposed to be there at all.

And Tim stays in the silence. Not alone. Just seen.

For once.

#thanks for the ask <3 #tim drake #jason todd #diana of themyscira #emotional damage?#he’s not the one who died but he never stopped disappearing #i cried while writing this ngl #I hope you like it!! and if not then ur totally allowed to yell at me lmao #the formatting for this feels weird so just ignore that pls

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quinnophile · 3 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 - 𝐕𝐈

pairing. emperor Geta x original character

synopsis. The wedding day is upon her, and Diana has a lot more to worry about than marrying a stranger.

warnings. mdni/18+, non-graphic smut, (general) violence, misogyny, infidelity, forced proximity, discussions of producing an heir, mental/physical abuse, forced marriage

word count. 6.5K

notes. My soft spot for Caracalla is really fucking obvious in this chapter

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 7

The morning sun streamed through the open archways, bathing the marble floors in soft golden light. The air was warm, carrying the scent of fresh lavender and citrus from the gardens below. Diana sat still as gentle hands worked over her, warm water cascading down her skin. She had been bathed before, of course, but never like this—never with oils so rich, never with rose petals scattered across the surface like offerings to a goddess.

The women from the previous night flitted about her, their voices a constant melody of chatter and laughter. They bustled with energy, lacing fine silks, smoothing out folds, fastening pins into her braided hair.

Diana responded when she could, offering small smiles and nods, but her mind was far away.

One woman, a little younger than the rest, noticed. She placed a comforting hand on Diana’s shoulder. "It is a lot to take in," she said softly. "But you are a vision, my lady. Rome will adore you."

Diana offered a small, grateful smile. "Thank you."

The woman’s praise lingered in the air as the doors swung open. Several guards stepped inside, carrying ornate boxes—gifts from her soon-to-be husband.

Gasps of delight filled the room as the boxes were opened, revealing an abundance of golden jewellery—thick cuffs inlaid with rubies, delicate chains of opals, rings glittering with deep emeralds. The women eagerly adorned Diana, piece by piece, until she felt the weight of the gold building upon her like an unspoken burden. Each necklace draped across her collar, each gem carefully placed, only added to the growing pressure, as if she were being anchored to her fate. When they fastened the bracelets around her wrists—one etched with the blazing sun, the other with the pale glow of the moon, symbols of the gods who watched over Rome—she could not shake the feeling that they were not ornaments, but shackles.

Finally, the kind woman lifted a mirror, its handle embedded with mother-of-pearl. Diana hesitated before taking it. She had expected to see a stranger staring back at her. But as the flickering light caught the gold, casting a soft glow across her skin, she looked... regal.

For the first time since arriving, a sliver of confidence settled within her.

Then, the doors opened again.

Lucilla entered, her face pale, her hands gripping the fabric of her dress.

Diana straightened. Something was wrong.

"Leave us," she commanded. The women hesitated, looking to one another. They had spent the morning fussing over her, treating her as if she were a precious doll to be adorned and displayed. But now, at her order, they obeyed.

Once the doors shut, she turned back to Lucilla. "What is it?"

Lucilla stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You must stay calm."

The warning only made her heart pound harder. "Lucilla."

She hesitated before exhaling shakily. "Acacius will not be at the wedding."

Diana blinked. "What?"

“There has been an arrangement.” Lucilla took another step forward, her words heavy with hidden meaning. ”He has been sent back to war."

The words struck Diana like a blow. Her breath caught, her hands curled into fists against her lap. “No, this must be a mistake. Surely-”

"It is already done."

The air in the room felt too thick. Her heartbeat roared in her ears. "He wouldn't leave me," she whispered.

Lucilla grasped her hands tightly. "He did not choose this. You know that."

Diana's breath came faster, panic creeping up her spine. He had promised—he had promised he would be here. That no matter what, he would stand by her side. And then, the reason for it became obvious.

"They did this on purpose," she muttered, her voice shaking with anger.

Lucilla squeezed her hands. "Diana, listen to me. You must not let them see you break. You are stronger than them. Stronger than all of them."

Diana closed her eyes, swallowing against the lump in her throat. When she opened them again, they burned. “Why does it feel like we keep losing?"

Lucilla said nothing. Instead, she reached inside the folds of her cloak, withdrawing a package wrapped in fine cloth. "He had wished to pass this on to you himself."

Diana’s hands trembled as she took it. Slowly, she unwrapped the fabric, revealing a letter and something heavier—a large, handcrafted book.

She recognised the worn leather of its cover.

Her breath hitched.

Fingers shaking, she unfolded the letter first.

My dearest Diana,

By the time you read this, you will already be adorned in gold, standing at the threshold of a life neither of us wished for, but one that you must now claim as your own.

I had thought hoped that I would be there, standing amongst the crowd, watching as you walked forward with all the grace and fire that has always set you apart. But fate is unkind, and what I hope for is not to be. It is not my place to question the powers that be, and yet, my heart aches knowing that when you turn to search for me, I will not be there.

But, my Diana, know this: I have never been prouder of you than I am in this moment. I have seen you stand in the face of fear, of duty, of expectation—and never once have you faltered. You have proven yourself to be strong in the most desperate of times. And now, when all eyes are upon you, I know you will hold your head high, just as you always have.

I cannot offer you my hand in these next steps, but I can give you something else. Something that belongs to you, and always will has.

Your mother made this for you, long ago. She wanted you to have it when you were ready, though I doubt she imagined it would be on a day such as this. Still, I know she would have alway wished for you to carry a piece of her. To remind you of who you are, and where you come from.

No matter what happens, Diana, do not forget that. You are not simply the woman they dress in gold and veil in silk. You are not merely the bride of an emperor. You are the daughter of a woman who loved you beyond all things. And you are the light of a man who would move the heavens for you if only he had the power.

If you ever doubt yourself, think of me; think of the quiet nights we spoke of the stars beneath the cypress trees, of the lazy afternoons spent chasing fireflies, of the laughter we shared when it felt like the world was still ours… and know that wherever I am, I am always thinking of you.

With all that I am,

Your loving father

Diana pressed the letter to her chest, as if she could hold her father through the ink and parchment alone.

Lucilla knelt beside her. "Look inside," she murmured.

Diana carefully opened the book, her breath catching as she flipped through the pages.

There were sketches—her mother’s hands, her smile, the flowers she used to weave into Diana’s hair. Alongside them were notes, recounting days long past. They were memories her mother had recorded, small moments Diana barely remembered but now felt as if they had been returned to her.

Interwoven with them were tales of gods and goddesses, the stories her mother had whispered to her as a child. Words of strength, of defiance, of love that endured across lifetimes.

Then, pressed between the pages, she found more flowers. Some were delicate, their petals fragile with time. But one stood apart—the edges crinkled but its colour still rich.

Her mother’s favourite.

Diana exhaled shakily. “Will you help me?”

Lucilla smiled softly, taking the flower that she had plucked from the pages, and carefully tucking it into a delicate braid in Diana’s hair.

As Diana closed the book, something slipped free—a small parchment, fluttering to the ground.

She bent to pick it up, but a knock at the door startled her. The kind woman from before peeked her head in.

"My lady," she said gently. "It is time."

Diana glanced at the parchment in her hands, then quickly slipped it back into the book. She handed it to Lucilla. "Keep this safe for me. Until I can hold it again."

Lucilla clutched it to her chest. "I will."

Diana took one last breath. Then, she rose, and stepped forward into the unknown.

———

The temple was silent, save for the flickering of torch flames and the murmurs of priests preparing for the ceremony. Outside, the streets of Rome pulsed with celebration—laughter and song filling the air as the empire rejoiced. But within the grand temple, only two voices stirred.

"You must be still, brother," Geta sighed, adjusting the clasp of his cloak as he watched Caracalla fuss over his tunic for the tenth time. "The entire empire watches today, and you stand here wringing your hands like a boy waiting to be called upon by his tutor."

Caracalla barely heard him, twisting the golden cuffs on his wrists before moving to adjust the laurel crown atop his curls. "Do you think this is too much?" he muttered, glancing at his reflection in one of the polished bronze shields set along the temple wall. "Perhaps I should have worn the heavier laurel—the one our father favoured?"

Geta scoffed, pushing the memories of that man to the back of his mind. "I think if you keep adjusting it, the gods themselves will grow impatient."

Caracalla ignored him, instead turning his attention to Dondas, who sat perched upon a nearby pedestal, watching with a knowing gleam in his eyes. With a flick of his tiny hands, the monkey reached out and tugged at the small silk pouch that held the wedding rings.

"Not for you, friend," Caracalla chuckled, tapping the creature lightly on the head. "These are sacred—meant for Diana and me by divine will. Jupiter himself has blessed this union, Geta, I know it. Do you see how the stars aligned last night? The gods—"

"Yes, yes," Geta interrupted, waving a hand. "The gods themselves have arranged your wedding, I know. Now act like a man Rome can follow, and stop fiddling with everything."

But just as Geta finished speaking, a light clinking sound filled the air.

Both men turned in time to see Dondas holding one of the rings between his tiny fingers. And before either could react, the mischievous creature popped it into his mouth—and swallowed.

For a moment, there was utter silence.

Then—

"No!" Caracalla gasped, lunging forward. "Dondas, you little beast—" He stopped, eyes wide with panic as his hands trembled. "That was my ring. A perfect match to hers—" His breath hitched, his face paling. "She will hate me. The gods will curse me."

Geta rolled his eyes. "The gods will not curse you over a ring-eating monkey."

Caracalla was already unraveling. His hands flew to his curls, tugging slightly. "I cannot go out there empty-handed. It is a symbol! What if she thinks it means something ill? What if the gods—"

"Enough," Geta said firmly, gripping his brother’s shoulders. He held his gaze, steady and grounding. "If a simple ring is all that stands between you and divine favour, then take mine instead."

Caracalla blinked as Geta pulled one of his own rings from his hand—the very one their father had once given him. A thick gold band, marked with the emblem of their lineage. Without hesitation, Geta pressed it into Caracalla’s palm.

"It is still a part of our blood," Geta said, his voice softer now. "Diana will not know the difference, only you will. It is a bond, just the same."

Caracalla stared down at the ring, his fingers tightening around it. He exhaled slowly, some of the frantic energy leaving him. His brother always did manage to calm him down. Then, as if nothing had happened, he grinned. "You always were the clever one."

Geta smirked, adjusting Caracalla’s laurel crown one last time. "And you always were the foolish one. Now, stand tall. Rome does not want a boy at that altar—they want an emperor."

Caracalla squared his shoulders, rolling the ring between his fingers once more before slipping it into the pouch. As he did, Dondas let out a small chitter, licking his lips, utterly unbothered by the trouble he had caused. Caracalla shot him a look but chuckled nonetheless.

He took one last deep breath before turning toward the temple doors. The hush of the waiting crowd settled over them.

It was time.

———

The great doors of the temple were thrown open, and the scent of incense and fresh flowers filled the air. Outside, the streets of Rome roared with celebration, the people gathered in drunken revelry, eager for a glimpse of their new empress. But within these walls, where the gods watched and history was being written, a heavy silence hung, thick and suffocating.

Diana stood at the threshold, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her heart pounding against the golden cage of her wedding attire.

The gown was heavy—purest white silk embroidered with threads of gold, the fabric pooling at her feet like liquid sunlight. The flower in her hair remained untouched, its fragile petals a quiet rebellion against the opulence that threatened to swallow her whole.

For a moment, Geta almost wished she would turn around. Walk away.

But she didn’t.

She stepped forward. A thousand eyes followed her every movement. The senators, the noblewomen, the dignitaries from distant lands—each one a witness to her fate.

She did not look for Acacius.

She already knew he was not there.

Instead, her gaze flickered upward, toward the man waiting at the end of the aisle.

Caracalla stood tall, draped in red and gold, the laurel crown gleaming against his sun-kissed curls. He did not fidget, nor did he pace. His dark eyes burned with something fierce—pride, triumph, awe. He looked at her as though she were the pride of the gods themselves, sent down from Mount Olympus for him and him alone.

Geta swallowed hard.

His doubts clawed at him.

He had spent years knowing his brother’s affliction, knowing the madness that lurked within him. Diana did not know it yet. And when she did—would she still walk forward with such grace?

But then Caracalla smiled.

A bright, boyish grin that softened all the sharp edges of his madness.

And Geta said nothing.

He bit his tongue, forcing away the words that threatened to spill. Caracalla was happy. If nothing else, he had that.

When she reached him, she braced herself for the moment their hands would meet. But before she could steel herself, a familiar chittering sound filled the quiet air. Dondas.

The little monkey perched nearby, watching her with bright, curious eyes. Caracalla leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “He has been waiting to see you again.”

The unexpected words, so absurdly gentle, broke through the tension.

Diana glanced toward the tiny creature, who twitched his tail in what could only be excitement, and despite everything—the ceremony, the weight of Rome upon her shoulders—her lips curled into a small, fleeting smile.

Caracalla exhaled, something softening in his expression as if he had been waiting for that smile.

The high priest began the rites.

The ancient Latin verses rolled through the temple, binding them in words as old as the gods themselves. Diana’s chin remained high, her expression faded, but her fingers twitched at her sides. The weight of the moment pressed against her, yet her resolve did not waver.

She turned slightly. Her eyes found Geta.

Unlike the others in the temple, he did not glance between them. He did not lower his gaze in reverence to the gods or the emperor.

He only watched her, his expression unreadable, but unwavering.

The words of the priest continued, filling the air with their solemnity. When it was time, Caracalla spoke first. His voice was steady, but filled with something more—something close to reverence. “I take you, Diana, as my wife. Before the gods and Rome, you are mine.”

Diana inhaled deeply, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She did not hesitate. “I take you, Caracalla, as my husband.”

The high priest lifted the golden cord, binding their hands together in an unbreakable bond.

Caracalla’s grip tightened.

Then, without warning, he pulled her toward him.

The kiss was firm, decisive—not one of cruelty, but of a man who truly believed he had won the favour of the gods themselves. He was not drunk, nor was he careless. He was triumphant.

Diana barely had time to react before he pulled away, a boyish grin ghosting his lips.

The high priest stepped aside, and Geta moved forward. The temple seemed to still as Diana, unbidden, lowered herself into a bow before him. A gesture of respect. Of understanding.

Geta hesitated, just for a moment. Then, he lifted a golden wreathed crown—delicate, intricate, shimmering in the candlelight. With measured movements, he placed it atop her head.

A quiet murmur rippled through the gathered crowd. She was no longer just a bride.

She was an empress.

Geta turned toward the gathered Romans, his voice strong and unwavering. “Behold your emperor and his bride,” he declared, his words carrying through the temple. Then, with a pause, he added with careful precision, “Hail the new empress of Rome.”

The crowd erupted.

Diana did not flinch.

Instead, she stood beside her husband, adorned in gold and crowned in fate, as Rome welcomed its new ruler.

———

The halls of the imperial palace roared with celebration.

Golden torches cast a warm glow over tables laden with fruit, roasted meats, and amphorae of the richest wines in Rome. The scent of spices and honeyed delicacies filled the air, mingling with laughter and the lilting notes of flutes and lyres. Senators, generals, noblewomen, and foreign dignitaries drank and feasted, their voices rising in jubilation for the empire’s new empress.

Diana sat beside Caracalla, her golden laurel catching the candlelight. She wondered how long it would take to grow accustomed to the weight of it.

Her goblet was never empty, wine constantly poured by eager attendants who wished to honour the new union. She sipped carefully, ignoring its bitter taste as she tried to enjoy the warm sensation that ran through her body. Her mind still dazed from the day, but she forced herself to smile, to laugh when appropriate, to appear as the empress they now all expected her to be.

Dondas leaped onto her lap, his tiny hands grasping at the folds of her dress. Diana startled before breaking into soft laughter, her fingers stroking the monkey’s silken fur.

“He missed you,” Caracalla murmured beside her, his voice laced with amusement.

Diana glanced at him. He had been watching her, his gaze uncharacteristically warm as he observed her playing with the little creature. For a moment, he did not look like an emperor or a conqueror. Just a man pleased by the sight of his wife’s joy.

“He seems a loyal companion,” Diana said softly, scratching under Dondas’ chin.

Caracalla’s lips curved into something almost gentle.

“You will have others now,” he said, reaching for her hand, his fingers warm against her skin. He squeezed lightly before lifting her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles.

She tried not to tense.

His affection was unfamiliar, his touch commanding but not unkind. He admired her, adored her even—if such a word could be used for a man like him. But admiration was not comfort, nor was it understanding.

Still, she swallowed her nervousness and let him hold her hand.

Through the night, some of Rome’s most powerful men approached to offer their congratulations.

Senator Thraex graced them with his presence, his usual smirk present as he toasted their union with a wink in her direction. “A dangerous woman for a dangerous man,” he mused, attempting to make her smile. “Rome will never be the same.”

Then came Gracchus.

His approach was slower, more deliberate. His eyes, wise and searching, softened when they met hers.

Diana straightened.

“You wear the crown well,” he said gently.

She let out a quiet breath, something tight in her chest loosening at his words.

He leaned in slightly, voice just for her. “If ever you need counsel, or a voice of reason in the madness of power, you know where to find me.”

Diana swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat and nodded. “Thank you.”

His fingers lingered briefly on her shoulder before he stepped away, lost once more to the revelry.

Caracalla, ever pleased by the attention, kept her close, his hand resting possessively on her thigh. He wanted all to see. Wanted them to know she was his. She was beginning to understand—her husband was not a man who shared.

But he was not the only one watching her.

From across the hall, Geta reclined lazily on a couch, a goblet of wine in his hand.

Women surrounded him—courtesans and concubines vying for his attention, their laughter bright, their hands eager. And yet, despite their efforts, his focus drifted.

Diana knew better than to acknowledge it, but she felt it.

He was watching her.

Acacius’ absence burned at the forefront of her mind. Never more than now had she longed for his watchful gaze. Her knuckles whitened as she brought the goblet up to her lips to take another sip of wine.

She would not let herself think of him, in fear she would say something she would regret.

Geta approached sometime later, his gait steady, his expression unreadable.

Caracalla grinned at his arrival, raising his goblet. “At last, you come to honour your brother and his bride properly.”

Diana exhaled slowly, steeling herself.

Geta’s eyes flickered to her, then back to his brother. “I thought it best to let you bask in your triumph before intruding.” His lips quirked. “Though I must say, it is quite a sight—Rome’s fierce emperor tamed by a goddess.”

Caracalla only laughed, clearly unbothered. “It is no taming, dear brother. She comes to me willingly, don’t you, amica mea?”

Diana did not answer immediately.

Instead, she let her gaze settle on Geta, holding it for a moment too long before finally offering a slow, careful smile.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Willingly.”

Something dark flickered in Geta’s eyes, gone as quickly as it came.

He raised his goblet. “Then I offer you both my sincerest congratulations.”

Diana lifted her chin, her composure unwavering. “How kind of you.”

His gaze lingered, too knowing, too sharp.

“Though I must admit,” he continued, swirling his wine lazily, “it is a shame that our esteemed general is not here to celebrate.”

Diana’s grip on her goblet tightened.

Caracalla, oblivious to the tension that had suddenly thickened between them, merely scoffed. “The general is where he is needed. He should be proud to serve his home. His absence is no concern.”

“Of course,” Geta mused. “Still, one would think his most cherished companion would mourn his absence more.”

Diana’s nails pressed into her palm.

Geta knew exactly what he was doing.

It took everything in her not to react, not to let him see the fury building beneath the surface.

She smiled instead, the expression forced and bitter. “Perhaps we should toast instead—to loyalty, to honour, to the empire.”

His lips curved. “Indeed.”

He lifted his goblet, but his eyes never left hers as he drank.

Diana swallowed the rage burning in her throat.

Then, as if sensing the tension, Geta raised his glass once more, his voice carrying through the hall.

“To the newlyweds,” he announced, drawing the attention of the room. “May your union bring Rome strength. And may it bring Rome’s future.”

The words struck her like a blow.

For the first time, the weight of her new reality crashed upon her.

An heir. Of course. It was expected of them. Of her.

Her breath faltered, her world tilting slightly.

Caracalla, pleased, pulled her closer, his hand warm against her waist. “A future indeed,” he murmured, his voice rich with promise.

The feast continued. Laughter, drinking, music.

But Diana barely heard any of it.

She barely had a moment to collect herself before a delicate hand clasped her wrist, dragging her into the crowds of people.

She gasped, stumbling slightly as Lucilla yanked her into a quieter alcove. The older woman’s bright eyes were wide, brimming with emotion, and she clutched Diana’s hands tightly.

“You have done so well.” She spoke quietly, a warm smile spreading across her features. “The definition of regality.”

“Thank you.” Diana smiled back, finally feeling a small comfort at the familiarity. “You taught me well.”

Lucilla laughed at this, before seemingly catching herself. “I must warn you.” She whispered urgently, her fingers squeezing.

Diana blinked. “Warn me?”

Lucilla’s lips twitched. “About tonight.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Oh.”

Heat crawled up Diana’s neck, her stomach flipping violently. Of course. She had known, in theory, what was expected of a wife on her wedding night, but no one had ever told her what to expect. No one had prepared her for what was to come.

Lucilla, ever observant, smirked at Diana’s widening eyes. “Oh, don’t look so stricken. You’d think I was about to send you to war.”

“In some ways, it is a battle,” Diana muttered under her breath, rubbing her temples. “I don’t—I’ve never—”

Lucilla burst into laughter, the sound drawing a few curious glances from the nearby guests. “By the gods, you truly have been taught nothing.”

Diana scowled. “Forgive me for not being well-versed in the subject of marital duties.”

Lucilla sighed, looping her arm through Diana’s. “It is not as terrifying as you imagine.”

Diana gave her a withering look.

“All men are the same in the dark.” Lucilla continued, undeterred. “When I was your age, I had to bed a man I barely knew. It was over before I even had a chance to panic. Boring, really.”

Diana groaned, rubbing her face.

Lucilla laughed lowly, patting her back. “You’ll be fine, I promise. Just—drink more wine, and pray to Venus for patience.”

Diana eyed the goblet in her hand before promptly downing its contents in one long gulp.

“That’s my girl.”

———

Across the room, Geta leaned against a marble column, watching his brother carefully. Caracalla, still revelling in his triumph, was grinning, his eyes bright with satisfaction.

“She is magnificent, isn’t she?” he mused, swirling the dark liquid in his cup.

Geta glanced toward Diana, who was now laughing with Lucilla, her golden crown slightly askew. A strange knot tightened in his chest, but he ignored it.

“She is,” he admitted.

Caracalla exhaled. “I have never been happier, brother. We have finally been blessed with peace.”

For a moment, Geta hesitated.

Caracalla was rarely like this. He had spent his life battling—whether with the Senate, the servants, or even within his own mind. But now, as he looked upon his new wife, he was almost boyish in his joy.

Geta felt something bitter settle in his throat. If only he could share in that joy.

Instead, a darker thought plagued his mind.

“You should be careful with her,” he said carefully.

Caracalla scoffed, setting down his goblet. “Careful? You sound like one of those boring old men.” He eyed the senators mingling in the background.

Geta ignored the jab. “Forget it.”

Caracalla rolled his eyes. “If this is about Antonius, it wasn’t my fault—”

“It is a sickness,” Geta interrupted, voice low. “And it is dangerous.”

Caracalla tensed. “You worry too much.”

Geta exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to grab his brother by the shoulders. “Your men and women grow ill, Caracalla. They waste away. I have seen it myself.”

His mind flickered to the concubine who had barely been able to rise from his seat. His skin had been ashen, his limbs trembling with unseen agony.

Caracalla’s jaw tightened. “She is not some common concubine,” he snapped. “She is a goddess.”

“That does not make her immune.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Caracalla’s face. “You think I would hurt her?”

Geta hesitated.

Caracalla scoffed, shaking his head. “You insult me, brother. Do you doubt my ability?”

Geta cursed inwardly. Not this.

Of all things, Caracalla’s pride was the most fragile. The idea that Geta doubted his strength, even in the marriage bed, would only fester in his mind.

“I do not doubt you,” Geta said carefully. “I only wish for her- well- for you, to be happy. If you truly care for her, you will be cautious. Otherwise you will find she disappears just as soon as the others.”

Caracalla narrowed his eyes.

Then, to Geta’s dismay, his brother smirked. “You are jealous.”

His blood ran cold.

“You seemed to enjoy speaking with her,” Caracalla continued, his voice teasing. “And she seemed quite fond of you before.” He nudged Geta’s arm. “Perhaps you are unhappy I reached her first, hm?”

Geta forced a laugh, though it felt like poison on his tongue. “Do not be ridiculous.”

Caracalla chuckled, entirely convinced of his own jest. “Fear not, dear brother. There are plenty of women in Rome to satisfy your tastes.”

Geta clenched his jaw, swallowing the bitter retort on his lips. The conversation was over.

And for the first time, Geta felt truly powerless.

Soon, a roar of cheers erupted through the hall.

Diana barely had time to react before Caracalla swept her into his arms, lifting her with ease.

She yelped, clutching onto his shoulders as the crowd clapped and whistled. Laughter rang out, men raising their goblets in salute, women giggling behind their hands.

The tradition was as old as Rome itself; the emperor carrying his bride across the threshold.

Diana forced a smile, her heart hammering as Caracalla beamed down at her.

From across the room, Geta raised his goblet, his cheer half-hearted. His lips curved in a forced grin. But his eyes betrayed him. Because as Caracalla carried Diana away, disappearing into the depths of the palace, Geta knew.

Knew this was the beginning of the end for her.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

———

Caracalla carried Diana through the halls of the palace, his grip firm yet reverent, as if he feared she might disappear from his arms like a vision conjured by the gods. His golden laurel crown had been knocked slightly askew in the revelry, his robes slightly loosened from the night’s festivities, but his gaze remained fixed on her.

He whispered admiration between each step, his voice thick with devotion.

“You are divine, my love. A gift sent to me from above.”

Diana could feel the heat creeping up her neck, her cheeks warm as his eyes lingered on her face, studying her as if she were some celestial being given form.

The passing servants and guards did not exist to him.

He made no effort to conceal his admiration, no restraint in the way he looked at her, unashamed by those who bowed their heads as he strode past.

“You do not need to flatter me,” she said, attempting levity, though her voice wavered slightly.

“But why should I not?” he mused. “Would you silence the poets who sing of Venus’s beauty? The sculptors who carve Minerva’s wisdom into marble? Why should a mortal man be denied the right to worship his goddess?”

Diana swallowed hard.

He truly believes it.

She said nothing.

The great doors of their chamber loomed ahead, and the guards stationed there bowed deeply before swinging them open. A grand bedchamber awaited within; lavish, bathed in the golden glow of candlelight, its walls adorned with murals depicting great myths and heroes.

The doors shut behind them, leaving them alone.

Caracalla gently set her down, and for the first time that night, Diana found herself standing before him without a sea of eyes watching her every move. And yet, she hadn’t felt so nervous as she did now. Her breath felt shallow, but she stood tall, willing herself not to shrink away.

Caracalla circled her slowly, his hands clasped behind his back as if drinking in the sight of her. His expression was one of absolute certainty.

“The gods have willed this,” he murmured. “It was always meant to be.”

His eyes flickered to the golden belt fastened at her waist.

The symbol of her purity.

His fingers brushed against it reverently before undoing the clasp, the soft rustling of fabric filling the chamber as her wedding gown began to loosen.

Diana’s mind drifted as he undressed her, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. She had always known this moment would come—had understood it in theory, but now… now, it was real.

“His words mean nothing.” He murmured to himself, before his lips pressed against her skin. She willed herself to respond, to ignore the burning of her cheeks at the thought of her body so quickly exposed, though uncertainty made her hesitant.

He did not seem to notice.

He was frantic in his actions, rushing as if possessed by some divine fervour, his hands grasping, his breath uneven.

She let herself be guided to the bed, her body tense as she lay back, her eyes fixed on the ornate carvings of the ceiling.

And then—

Nothing.

At first, she thought he had paused for effect. She wondered if this was normal, or perhaps a tradition for the wedding night.

But then she heard the shift in his breathing. The sound of frustration.

Slowly, she lifted herself up and found Caracalla, his robes spread open, sitting back on his heels. His hand tugged in a brutish manner at something below. His face was twisted in a mixture of rage and despair, his body trembling with barely restrained fury.

Something was wrong.

Before she could ask, he lashed out, knocking over a nearby tray with a violent sweep of his arm. The goblets clattered to the floor, wine spilling across the marble like blood.

Diana sat up in alarm. “Caracalla—”

“I am not worthy,” he growled, his voice raw, his hands tearing at his own hair. “The gods mock me.”

Diana stared at him, trying to piece together what had happened.

Or rather—what had not happened.

Before she could even react, Caracalla struck his own chest with a clenched fist, his breathing ragged.

“It’s his fault,” he spat. “He willed this.”

He began to cough, sounding almost feverish. It wasn’t until his tears started to spill that Diana snapped out of her shock.

Her hands found the blanket atop the bed, and without thinking, she threw it over him, enveloping him in the warmth of the thick fabric. Then, with a steadying breath, she did something even more surprising—she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close.

He stiffened instantly, unaccustomed to such tenderness.

But Diana did not let go.

“You have done nothing wrong,” she whispered, her voice firm. “The gods willed this moment, just as they willed our union.”

Caracalla’s breath hitched against her shoulder. “But—”

“You have not sinned,” she assured him, her fingers threading through his ginger curls instinctively. “You are one of the chosen sons of Rome. An emperor! There is no shame in what has happened.”

She couldn’t quite grasp the reality of the situation, not understanding exactly what went wrong, but she hoped her words would help calm him. His body slowly relaxed, though it was clear his mind had drifted elsewhere.

She slowly sunk to the ground with him, holding him tightly. She almost dare not disturb the moment, fearful he would become aggressive again, though her concern was growing with every passing minute. He remained unresponsive.

“Caracalla?” She spoke softly, searching his eyes for any sign of animation.

For a long moment, he was silent. His grip on her tightened, finally, almost desperate. In a voice that sounded strangely childlike, he murmured, “Tell me about your friends.”

Diana blinked. “My… friends?”

He nodded, his cheek still resting against her shoulder.

“Venus, Mercury,” he clarified, his voice distant. “Tell me about them.”

Her chest ached at the realisation.

He truly believed she was sent to him from above.

And so, she did.

She whispered to him stories of Olympus, of mighty Jupiter and wise Minerva, of cunning Mercury and beautiful Venus.

As she spoke, Caracalla drew the blanket tighter around himself, pulling her in and holding her closer until their bodies were pressed together beneath the heavy fabric.

His breathing evened out, his eyes growing heavy as her fingers carded gently through his hair.

As the night stretched on, the celebrations in the great halls of the palace slowly began to dwindle. The music softened, the laughter faded, and the guests, drunk on wine and revelry, began to retire, mostly together.

In the emperor’s chamber, Diana continued to weave stories into the candlelit air, her voice soft and steady. Caracalla lay beside her, his head now resting against her lap. He clung to her words as if they were divine, his fingers loosely gripping the fabric of her gown.

Every now and then, he would murmur a question—about Mars, the stories of wars, the Fates—and she would answer as if they were her own kin, as if she had walked among them.

And so, the Empress of Rome spent her wedding night not as a lover, but as a storyteller, cradling an emperor who trembled in her arms.

But elsewhere in the palace, another emperor did not find such peace.

———

Geta did not return to his chambers alone.

The moment he stepped through the doors, he barely acknowledged the concubine who followed, her eager hands reaching for him, her lips already parting to whisper sweet, practiced words. He did not care for them.

His mind was elsewhere.

The wine had burned through his veins, and yet it had done nothing to quiet the restless energy coiling in his gut. It had done nothing to erase the image that haunted him—the way she had looked beneath the torchlight, golden and untouchable, bound to another.

A woman he had once laughed with. A woman who now looked at him with nothing but coldness.

"Move," he ordered, his voice sharp.

The concubine obeyed, sprawling across his bed, her legs stretched in invitation.

He undressed without thought, climbing over her, his body moving on instinct alone. She moaned his name, soft and sweet, but the sound of it grated against his ears.

Something snapped in him.

With a growl of frustration, he flipped her over, yanking her up by the hair, forcing her onto her knees. She gasped in surprise, but did not protest. She never would.

His fingers dug into her hips as he drove into her, rougher than usual, chasing a release that felt impossibly out of reach.

He closed his eyes.

And suddenly, it was easier.

Suddenly, the body beneath him was different—slender but strong, warm and waiting, golden in the candlelight.

Suddenly, the voice gasping was not some nameless concubine, but hers.

A sharp pleasure tore through him.

He exhaled, gripping tighter, his body finally finding its relief.

But as he collapsed back onto the bed, chest heaving, a hollow ache settled deep inside him.

Because no matter how real it had felt, no matter how fiercely he had tried to conjure her—

She was not here.

And she never would be.

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foundtherightwords · 5 months ago

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Fallen Empires - Chapter 7

Pairing: Geta x OFC

Summary: Having done the unthinkable to secure his throne, Emperor Geta rules with ruthlessness and paranoia. Now, after escaping an assassination attempt, a badly injured Geta is saved by Daphne, a young widow, who takes him back to her remote village without knowing his true identity. As Daphne nurses the former emperor back to health, attraction blooms between them, and Geta discovers a soft side he didn't know he possessed. But can their love survive his thirst for revenge and his desire to reclaim power?

Chapter warnings: non-explicit smut, Geta being an oblivious jerk

Chapter word count: 2.7k

Prologue + Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Daphne didn't come back for a long time. Geta finished bathing and put on the clean tunic she had set aside for him, and still she hadn't returned to the hut. Feeling slightly worried and wondering if he had offended her somehow, he made his way outside to look for her.

A full moon was casting its light over the hills. Every stone, every leaf was painted in silver, and the lingering heat of the day felt less intense in such a cool, tranquil world. Even the insects were quiet. The only sound that broke the silence was Geta's own wheezing breath—the bath had tired him out more than he realized—and a splashing sound coming from the cistern. He turned toward it.

Daphne was sitting on a rock by the cistern, with her back to him. She was bathing, just as he had, by pouring water over herself using a dipper.

Looking at her, Geta suddenly understood why poor Actaeon had risked the wrath of Diana and death by his own hounds to spy on the goddess. He'd thought that Daphne looked like Aurora in the light of the rising sun, and now, under the moon, she had transformed yet again into Luna. In that silvery light, her body glowed with its own radiance, and drops of water on her skin sparkled like diamonds, so he couldn't tell where her flesh ended and moonlight began.

His arousal came back with a vengeance, a stiffening fire coursing through him, throbbing, aching, and he stood stock still on the hillside overlooking the garden, too mesmerized to even turn away. Had he been stronger, had it been any woman other than Daphne, he would not have hesitated to storm down to the cistern and take her right there and then, but a little voice in his mind told him that Daphne would not take kindly to that. He reminded himself that she was the only person standing between him and certain death, and it would make things rather awkward for him if he were to force himself on her. But it was more than that. Even now, sitting naked as she was, something about her struck him with awe, something stern and imposing, not physically but spiritually, something he dared not touch, lest he sullied it.

Just as he'd decided to return to the hut and take matters into his own hands, Daphne called to him, her voice ringing loud and clear in the stillness of the night. "Romulus? That you?"

Hades. How did she know? Had he made that much noise coming into the garden, or had she eyes on the back of her head? Now would be the time to apologize for spying on her, or even to sneak away as silently as he could, but he only mumbled, "Yes."

"Are you going to stay there?"

"Why?"

He couldn't see her face, but from the sudden turn of her neck, he could guess at the flush creeping up her face. "Because I like to get up, and I've forgotten my towel," she said quietly.

Her confession sent a lightning stroke through him. She was in his power now. He could do what he wanted with her.

But what did he want with her, exactly?

"I can fetch it for you," he said. His voice came out breathier than he'd expected, probably because the walk down to the garden had tired him. If not, why was his heart beating so heavily in his chest?

"Please."

But he didn't. Instead, he sidled down the garden path to the cistern. This close, the scent of soapwort was stronger than ever, making him lightheaded. He could just see the slope of her shoulders, the curves of her waist and hips, a hint of the soft swells of her breasts behind the washcloth she was clutching close to her chest. Her skin looked so smooth and white, but he imagined it would be cold and hard as marble upon touch.

"Are you still there?" she asked, after a moment.

"... Yes."

"My towel?" she prompted.

He balled his hands into fists. What was the matter with him? He had never been cowed by a woman before, and he'd be damned to the pits of Tartarus if he was to be cowed by this peasant woman now. A new but familiar fire—the fire of rage—rose within him and momentarily blotted out the fire of lust. Who did she think she was to order him about so? Did she think she could reduce him to a blushing, blubbering mess just because she was sitting before him naked? Or was this a clumsy attempt to seduce him? By Jupiter, he had seen thousands of naked women. In his bed at the palace and at the camps, in the baths, at orgies, even in the Colosseum, as female gladiators or criminals facing punishment. Only rarely did they move him. He would show her that just because he'd taught her to read and held her hand and comforted her, it didn't mean he was some village boy for her to toy with as she pleased.

The cistern was dug into the side of the hill, and with Daphne's position, right on its edge, facing the slope, the only way he could face her was running down the slope himself. He refused to go to the trouble.

"Turn around," he said.

She stiffened. "Why?"

"I want to look at you."

"...Why?" There was no anger or fear in her voice, only genuine curiosity.

"You've seen me naked, but you won't let me see you?"

It took a while for her to answer. "That's different," she said. "You were ill and I had to wash you. I took no pleasure from it."

"Who says I'm taking pleasure from this?" he said, unable to stop a smirk.

Daphne twisted her head around. Just as with her voice, there was no anger in her eyes, but the look in them wiped the smirk off his face. It was a searching, probing, penetrating look, seeking something only she knew.

"You didn't fetch the towel," she said.

"I told you, I want to look at you." Now he knew what he wanted with her. He wanted to see her squirm in front of him. He wanted to see those sharp eyes veiled by her dark lashes. He wanted to see those strong lips quivering in fear and more. He wanted to tame her. He wanted—Hades, he just wanted her.

"Turn around," he said again.

Without realizing it, he had used his imperial voice, the voice that once sent senators and soldiers scrambling to do his bidding, the tone that once sent concubines and prostitutes to their knees. Yet Daphne barely even blinked. Still keeping her eyes on him, she got to her feet and stood facing him. Before Geta could take a good look at her, or indeed even feel the thrill of having won, she raised her hand, removed the pins holding her hair, and, with one shake of her head, covered herself with its dark mass. Then she picked up her things and stalked away, her head held high, her hair streaming behind her like a cape.

Alone on the hillside, Geta watched her disappear into the hut. He didn't quite understand what had just happened. Somehow Daphne had bested him, though at what, he couldn't tell.

***

She shouldn't have talked about Galen, Daphne reflected, as she sat by the kitchen table in her chiton, combing out her damp hair. It had brought back so many memories, both sweet and painful, and they, in turn, had stirred up her feelings so much that her mind became muddled. Why else had she—had she—why, she'd practically exposed herself to a man, a stranger!

Her cheeks flushed when she remembered the moment by the cistern again. So he'd wanted to look at her, hadn't he? Well, she hoped he'd had his fill.

Once she'd gotten her clothes on, Romulus had slunk in after her and gone to bed without a word. At least he'd had the grace to look embarrassed. Daphne wanted to feel embarrassed as well, but the heat burning her up from the inside was quite different from shame.

She had been feeling that heat for a while now, ever since that morning they watered the garden together, perhaps even before that, ever since that disastrous day her father came looking for her and Romulus had pulled her into his arms. But it was definitely after the morning in the garden, when she started to notice how his eyes followed her with an unmistakable look, how his hands lingered on her, how he found every excuse to touch her or brush up against her. The fool probably didn't even know he was doing it.

Daphne knew she ought to feel offended, but somehow, she couldn't muster up the outrage. It certainly wasn't the first time she received such looks of lust from men, and certainly wasn't the first time she felt some stirrings within her either—after all, she was a healthy woman, past her prime perhaps, but not so old as to be completely devoid of want and urges. Only she'd had so few chances to pursue those urges. She wouldn't pretend that she had been celibate since Galen's death, but her love life in the past eight years had consisted mostly of quick, largely anonymous encounters with travelers who passed through the village or whom she met on her own travels, never with anyone so close to home. It was bad enough that her father was the village's drunk; she didn't need to gain a reputation as a trollop as well.

Sometimes, she wished she could remarry and not worry about her reputation, but she couldn't give up her independence, no matter how precarious it was, for such flimsy security. Most men looked at her and only saw a widow, an easy mark for their lust, nothing more. The Adala scribe was the only man whose intentions had been serious and honorable, but he had wanted her to move to town with him after they married, and she couldn't leave her hut and her work to become a housewife. And of course, there were the potential husbands that her father kept throwing at her, but most of them were his drinking and gambling cronies, and that would simply be trading one kind of prison for another.

But with Romulus, it was different. Since Galen, she had never spent so much time, close, intimate time, with a man who was not family. True, she didn't know anything about where he came from or who his people were, and he was exasperating and suspicious and possibly dangerous. Yet there was something in his eyes, something infinitely sad that sent stirrings to her heart, quite different from the stirrings that his touches and his looks sent to her loins. He tried to hide it beneath his usual scowl, but she could see it, perhaps because she often felt that sadness herself. It made her want to reach out to him, hold him, comfort him, and have him comfort her.

And then tonight... She had never talked about Galen with anyone, only her grandmother, who had been a widow herself and understood not just the grief but also the fear of finding oneself without a place, without a purpose, the disappointment of having to return to one's parents and going from being a wife to being a daughter again. Romulus probably didn't understand it, but he'd tried, by Hera, he'd tried. When he put his hand over hers, she'd almost burst into tears. It had been so long since anyone held her hand. Such a simple gesture, but it had endeared him to her forever. It didn't help that his back was there, so broad and sturdy, and the hollow between his shoulder blades was just the right shape for her to place her cheek. The moment their skins touched, a sudden wave of desire had crashed over her and settled everywhere—in her chest, her veins, and between her legs—burning with such a fire that it frightened her.

That was why she'd gone to the cistern. She'd thought that a cold bath would quench that fire.

It hadn't.

She'd heard him shuffling down the garden path, of course. She'd known he was standing there, watching her. And so she'd called out to him, just to see what he would do. Only when he hadn't done anything, she'd let her fear win and covered herself up again.

Daphne glanced at the closed door to the bedroom. What was he doing behind it? Asleep, or thinking of her as well? Back at the cistern, what would she have done if Romulus hadn't simply stood there and watched her with those dark, dark eyes? If he had pulled her into his arms, if he had kissed her, if he had done more than that, would she have welcomed it?

She asked herself all these questions, and the answer was "yes" to all of them. She liked him, for all his moods and mysteries. And—for Daphne was honest and pragmatic—there was the reason of convenience as well. Nobody knew Romulus was staying with her, and he would soon be gone, so a tryst with him would pose no threat to her way of life or her reputation as a respectable widow.

The fire continued to rise within her. She pushed the tip of her hairpin into her palm and pressed her knees together, trying to find some pressure for relief, but there was none. There was only the fire, pooling, pulsing in her lower belly.

Well, who would judge her? Not the dead. Not Galen, who had kissed her so tenderly before he left for Caledonia and told her not to wait for him. Not her grandmother, who Daphne believed had taken plenty of lovers herself after her own husband passed away from swamp fever, making her a widow at twenty-five with two young children. As for the living... they couldn't judge what they did not know.

She dropped the hairpin onto the table, letting her hair flow free. Then she got up, strode across the room in a few decisive steps, and opened the door to the bedroom.

The moon was dipping low now, leaving the lamp in the front room as the only source of illumination. Romulus was in bed but not asleep. She could tell he wasn't asleep, because even in the dim glow of the lamp, she saw his shoulders tense up the moment the door creaked open. But he didn't move, didn't turn around. He lay still as a statue, his face to the wall, breathing slowly, expectantly.

She took another step into the room. "Romulus?" she called. Her throat was dry. She swallowed, and swallowed again. "Could you help me unfasten my chiton, please?" she said. "The pin is stuck."

He turned around and sat up. He looked at her then, really looked at her, fixing his eyes on her instead of just stealing glances over his shoulder and behind tree branches. She doubted he could see much with the light of the lamp behind her, but she could see him, and the look in those dark, unfathomable eyes took her breath away and pinned her to the spot.

He got up and came over to her side. He didn't ask why she was taking her chiton off after she had just bathed. He didn't say a word. Silently, he fumbled with the pin on her shoulder. There was a tiny ping of the pin coming free, and the linen drape fell down, baring her breast. She heard him suck in a breath.

"The other side too," she told him. The other pin came off, and her chiton fell to the floor with a soft swish. They were standing close now, so close, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off him. She wondered if he could hear her heartbeats, which were so fast that she couldn't breathe.

His own breath felt hot against her neck. One of his hands closed about her waist, steering her to the bed, while with his other hand, he shut the door, plunging the room into darkness. She could no longer see anything, only feel his fingers stroking her, scorching on the cool skin of her belly and her thighs, feel the coarse linen sheets under her back and the softer linen of his tunic against her taut breasts, making her long for his hand, or better yet, his mouth there, and then feel the heat and weight of his body as he pulled the tunic up and pushed into her.

A small cry escaped her, more from surprise than pain. It didn't stop him, and she was glad, for she did not want him to stop.

Memories of her wedding night came to her mind then, unbidden—she a girl of seventeen, her poor Galen only a year older, the two of them giggling together, nervous and giddy. They'd planned to get married, but not for another year or two, until they had saved up enough money to properly start a life together. They'd thought they would have all the time in the world. What fools! That spring, Galen had been conscripted, and when they learned the ban on marriage for soldiers had been lifted, they had hastened to get married, not wanting to wait until Galen came back gods knew when. Even then, it hadn't occurred to either of them that he might not come back. They had been too young, too full of hope. It was a quick ceremony, witnessed by her grandmother and Master Kavos, who no doubt had been dragged there by the old woman on threats of death. Then Galen had carried Daphne over the threshold of his hut as traditions dictated, while her grandmother chastised them both for laughing.

Three days later he'd left, and six months later came the news he had been killed somewhere in the cold and faraway hills of Caledonia. Galen had been an orphan and left no will, and when some distant cousin turned up and kicked Daphne out of the hut, she'd had no choice but to go back to her parents. If it hadn't been for her grandmother, she would have been living with her parents still, with a heart full of grief and a barren belly, for they had not been together long enough for Galen to give her a child.

Three days. Only three days they'd had, just long enough for her to know what it was like to share her bed with someone else, but not long enough for her to memorize his shape or his touch.

None of her other lovers had reminded her of Galen. So why did Romulus? Why was her body rising to him as if it had always known him? Why did his touch, clumsy yet so confident, stir in her such a familiar fire? Why did her legs fit around his waist and her heels dig into the back of his thighs as if they were made to be there, why did her arms wrap around his back, pressing him to her as hard as he was pushing into her? And why, when he finished, leaving her with only a shimmering sweetness that hovered just beyond the edge of her skin, did she cling to him, wanting more?

But he was already retreating from her, body and mind. She held on to him, running her hand through his hair, damp with sweat, searching for his mouth, wanting to plant a kiss there, to seal this connection, this intimacy they'd just shared, but he turned away, and the kiss landed on the side of his neck instead. He pushed her off, as though her kiss was a bee's sting, and sat away from her, pulling his tunic down.

She lay there for a moment, sweat cooling on her skin, chilling her despite the warmth of a summer night, while he sat at the edge of the bed, a dark shape in the dark room, a stranger once more.

So he wasn't any different from her previous lovers then. Just another man.

When the silence became unbearable, she got up with a sigh, collected her chiton from the floor, and went into the front room.

The fire was reduced to embers, so she stoked it up and put the kettle on. While the water was heating, she cleaned herself up, put on a fresh tunic, and dug around the shelves until she found the jar of wild carrot seeds. It was running low—she must remember to gather more this autumn—but there should be enough, as long as none of her patients needed to get rid of an unwanted pregnancy. She ground up a handful of seeds in her mortar and added it to a cup of boiling water. Then, sipping the drink, she retreated to her cot, watching the garden outside the window under the murky half-light of the setting moon. A part of her hoped he would come and join her, but another part of her was relieved that he didn't. He was a stranger, she reminded herself. He would be gone soon. It would not do to get attached to him. What had just happened between them was an act of impulsion and empty passion, born out of loneliness, nothing more.

Chapter 8

The Romans did use wild carrot seeds as a sort of "morning after" pill. I chose it instead of the more commonly known herbal remedy of pennyroyal because apparently wild carrot seeds are safer. Don't quote me on that though!

I'm taking a break from Christmas through to the New Year, but I will be back in a couple of weeks. Thank you for all your support so far, and see you guys soon!

Taglist: @sheneedsrocknroll92, @justnobodynothingmore, @barcelonaloverf1life, @myotakureprieve, @flawssy-227, @itsrainingbisexualfrogs (if you want to be tagged or removed, let me know!)

#joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic #gladiator 2 #emperor geta #gladiator 2 fic #emperor geta fic #geta #emperor geta x ofc #geta x ofc #geta smut #emperor geta smut #joseph quinn smut

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carpethedamndiemdejavu · 7 days ago

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"The Great Goddess is a virgin in the same way that a forest is a virgin - able to call forth life from within herself with the help of nothing but the golden light of the Sun. In fact, the word virgin meant something very different in the ancient world from what it has come to mean today. It came from the Latin for strength and power, the root that gives us the same generative energy as virility.

"When the ancient goddesses - Ishtar, Astarte, Inanna, Isis, Diana, Athena... and yes, Mary - were described as virgins, it didn't mean that they had never been touched, had never felt desire, or had never experienced sexual union. It meant that no man could own them or defile them. They were not pure or chaste, but green and powerful, these virgins - able to resurrect the land and remake the world with the coming of every spring.

"We are called not to purity, but to romance. We are called to find our Beloved, called to seek our heart's desire. We are called to fall in love with the Lady and the Earth."

-The Way of the Rose

#freedom #dakini #khandro #left hand path #tantra #living goddess #perspective #eden #meaning of life #teacher #mythology #love #bliss #soulgasm #self love

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streets-in-paradise · 2 months ago

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Ides of March

Gladiator (2000) Oneshot

Relationships: Commodus x Sister!Reader x Lucilla ( in a family dynamic sense of them as siblings, although you can sense Commodus is being a weirdo too cause that's how he is lol) / Commodus and Reader as uncle and aunt of Lucius

Warnings: History references to Julius Caesar. Family tensions and political intrigue.

Summary: Commodus tells Lucius stories about the most famous man in roman history, creating bridges between past and present letting you guess what he believes of his own rule. Saying more than what the tales imply, you warn him in the struggle of your conflictive feelings towards him.

Note: My contribution to the Tumblr holiday spirit, Ides themed gladiator fic 🗡️

The fiction that your family was had became every day less pleasant. If you endured it, that was mainly because of your sister and her innocent child. Long ago had life distancied you from your brother, once inseparable from you, and only the political landscape had forced you to resemble an image of unity. His violent yet fragile rule needed of it, and your temple needed to mantain its funding.

Commodus didn't seem to care for the difference, as long as he could get to feel the great patriarch you all followed. While you would swallow your loyalties to your father to keep him pleased everything would function like it should. As his main victim, Lucilla understood it perfectly and learned to move playing by his rules. She had to, for her survival and the child's depended of it. Perhaps because you weren't a mother, and you have never been a wife, your perspective was different.

Silence was a challenge for you, because there was no one else you could loose. He killed your father, who you loved despite growing in the same abandonement from him you all did. Like young radiant Phoebus and wild Diana under the watch of wise Minerva were once the three of you to a distant Jupiter only she made proud. To this goddess you identified with you decided to give yourself when you reached the age, honoring the spiritual connection. For this you were critiziced, because the archer goddess of the Moon and Hunt was also the protector of plebeians and slaves.

At the time you chased priesthood you didn't consider that her temple was also an asylum for the lower-class citizens, not only the place of worship for the virgin goddess. Of you it would have been expected to aim for the high priviliege of Vestal investitures, not to the cult of the goddess that looked after the beasts of the forests and the outcasts of the city.

Far away in his campaings on Germania, Marcus Aurelius expressed his dissapointment untill your religious and public labour proved him wrong. You managed to win at least his respect, if not his love, even after failing his expectatives. Tangential consecuencie of something you did for yourself, of how you escaped the family and found a purpose outside of it. One that seemed somewhat virtuous to a stoic eye, but that your brother resented you for.

He had experienced it like another abandonement, his last heartbreak after the one he faced when Lucilla got married. Your small success with your father only made things worse, but the core of the issue remained about how the cult of Diana had taken you away from him.

As the new Emperor, he also adquired the title of Pontifex maximus, and you couldn't escape him anymore. Just as he had made of Lucilla a prisoner of his madness, you too were called to perform. He refused to discuss any official matters bringing you to his presence untill he would be done playing with you. Nothing else mattered, Commodus simply needed to enact the facade of a happy family untill feeling to believe it, to have you coming back to him on your own will and play your role in his comforting delusion.

For your little nephew, in his blissfull ignorance, this represented the only world he knew. One in which his beloved uncle was always there for him, in time to play games or share stories. His aunt, always bussy in the temple, would only visit occasionally. Through the excitement of the kid around you he blackmailed you into being sweet towards him even if you weren't in the mood for it. By action of Lucius' own iniciative, you sat to partake in the history lesson of your brother. To listen alongside the kid as your sister surveiled the scene begging you with her eyes not to commit any mistakes.

Commodus spoke of the great Julius Caesar, of his militar victories and the love he inspired in the common citizens of Rome. Of the envy corroding the Senate seeing its power diminished by his popularity and the vicious senators who wanted to destroy him. In his narration you could read the implicit comparison of past and present, hearing him daring to imagine himself in the spot of Caesar while ignoring most of what made him popular among the commoners.

Entertainment was only one aspect of his political strategy to win the mob. Social reforms, public works and redistribution of land sensibly affected their living conditions even if those improvements came in the form of political manipulation. Your brother only planned to distract them, with no real policy destined to them in mind. Yours would be the concecuencies when the starving people would seek shelter in the last corner of the city where the praetorians couldn't reach them. It had already started, with the beggars being hunted down to the prisons so they would feed the arena.

Bold of him was to picture Senators observing his attempt of autocracy as the worst danger possibly coming for him. He was Caesar only in title, but his dictatorship wasn't nearly as successfull.

" Eventually, Caesar died a very tragic death … He was betrayed, not only by the Senate, but also by the man he loved like a son. " You heard him tell, approaching Lucius as if the shadow of doubt over the man he could becone would have just struck him. " Brutus was convinced by the conspirators, and they planned an ambusch before he would have left for war. "

The fear in Lucilla's eyes called for your intervention, deviating his attention of such sinister throughs.

" On his way to a meeting of the Senate, . " You suddenly interrupted. " It's said a seer had warned Caesar he would find his end in the Ides of March, but he didn't listen. As a result, the Senators stabbed him to death. I believe this episode remains a simbol to keep our rulers grounded, because great Julius Caesar was too close to become what the roman spirit despises above anything."

Your words have confused the child and his silence made you chuckle.

" Do you know what romans hate the most, Lucius? "

He looked at his mother in front of him.

" Barbarians? "

" A King. Rome has came to love the Emperor, but despises Kings." Lucilla corrected, then attempted to work the middle ground between both positions. " Some believed Caesar had hoarded too much power and his next military success would have crowned him King of Rome. "

" … Pointlessly delaying the foundation of the Empire with his assasination. " Commodus followed her, happy to express his disdain. " And even after that, perverting its proper functionality. Think of what Caesar could have accomplished, if he only could have dissolved the Senate!!! "

His cheer encouraged Lucius to take his side with a nod and a smile.

" Dear brother, that sounds charming. Your intentions are noble, but in your vindication of Julius Caesar you forget how frightening it is to imagine what could have been of Caligula's rule without the Senate." You snarked back, deviating the child's attention once more. " Have you told him about him yet, or is he too young for that??"

A sense of danger, like you have just brought up a forbbiden topic, had caused the excitement of Lucius to grow.

" Can you tell me about him? "

Seeing your patience was starting to run out, Lucilla jumped in defense of Commodus once more.

" It's logical to assume our brother thinks the first Emperor to be reached by damnatio memoriae is not a subject my son should be learning. "

Her callout aligned you, to what you gifted him a polite smile.

" Custom I find as absurd and damaging as he believes of the Senate. " You commented in return. " History is doomed to repeat itself if we don't retell it to the next generations. Nobody wants to hear of another horse becoming Consul of Rome. "

" … Or Senators conspiring the death of a beloved leader again." Commodus agreed, eyes fixated on you despite his hand was leaning gently on the shoulder of the child. " We have found something to agree, maybe in another ocassion you can join me. I would love to hear what you have to say. "

He was provoking you, aware that the fate of you all rested on his hands and rejoicing himself on it obtaining for once the submissivness that he seeked.

" I would love to help, If you would listen. "

#gladiator 2000 #gladiator #commodus #lucilla #lucius verus #commodus x reader

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

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Napoleonville [Chapter 1: The Fall-Down House]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, alligators, kids, parenthood, smoking, cupcakes!

Word Count: 7.2k (she's very chonky for a first chapter).

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Since this is the first chapter of a new series, I'm going to tag a bunch of usual readers, but I won't tag you again unless you want me to. 💜

@persephonerinyes @tinykryptonitewerewolf @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @marbles-posts @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @dd122004dd @jetblack4real @joliettes @mariahossain @minttea07 @please-buckme @florent1s @tempt-ress @wintersire @w3ird11 @eltherevir @florent1s @maii777

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰🧁

“What do you want to do to me?” you whisper through the phone, stretched out across your bed like a cat as George Michael’s Faith plays from the baby pink Panasonic boombox out in the kitchen. It’s late afternoon, and fading daylight falls in tiger stripes through the window blinds. The May air is hot, muggy, golden; cicadas hum in the southern live oaks, an ancient earthen music like rattling bones.

A few seconds pass before he can reply. It was a bold way to begin. You are admittedly a little impressed with yourself; an idea like this has been pacing around in your skull like a beast behind bars for years, but you’ve only now set it loose. “That’s difficult to explain in words,” he says; and in the low, teasing purr of his voice you can hear that your gamble paid off like striking oil. He has a British accent, which you never would have expected. You only recognize it from clips you’ve seen of Prince Charles and Princess Diana on 60 Minutes. “But I’d enjoy showing you.”

It’s laid open beside you on the bed, his personal ad in the Bayou Journal: Educated white male in his mid-20s. Single and not looking to change that. Seeking an open-minded, adventurous, and spirited lady for short-term D/s arrangement. Be prepared to answer the following riddle: I’m small but loom large, I’m Italian but French, I give away much to gain little. Who am I? Best regards, An Indecent Gentleman. “I’m waiting.”

“You understand what is meant by D/s?”

“Of course,” you say, your best feigned flippantness. You only know because Amir told you; he’s been daring you to call for three days.

“Thank God,” the man on the other end of the line sighs. There is an inhale like a drag on a cigarette. You imagine what he might look like: broad or slight, dark-haired or blonde, striking or average or homely, treacherous or safe, forbidden fruit or just plain forbidden. “I’ve had four different women ring me thinking I’m going to be their boyfriend, dinner and flowers and everything. They’re functionally illiterate down here.”

How unfortunate, you think. He’s highfalutin. But alas, no one is perfect. That’s no prohibitive obstacle. He doesn’t need to be faultless; it’s not as if you’re planning to marry the guy. “I like when someone else is in control.”

“Why?” This is a test, you can feel it. You can sense his rapt attention across the wire, through the electricity and the lush treetops and the rust-amber sky.

“I have a lot of…responsibilities in my real life,” you explain. “A lot of pressure. I make the decisions, I look out for other people. Sometimes I want to be the one who’s told what to do.”

“I can make that happen. And the riddle?”

“It’s Napoleon.”

The grin is sharp and triumphant in his voice. “Good girl.”

“He was short but an emperor. He was born in Corsica to an Italian family, but he ended up ruling over France. He sold off a bunch of French colonies to focus on conquering Europe and still couldn’t quite manage it. But the U.S.A. got this charming little corner of the world as part of the bargain.”

“You’re a historian,” the man says, sounding pleased.

“No sir, we all had to learn about him in school whether we wanted to or not.”

“Sir,” he echoes, tasting it, savoring it. You imagine a pink tongue flicking out to skate across his lips. Then he is abruptly cool, impersonal, businesslike. “Listen, I’ve got a scar down the left side of my face. It’s thin, it’s clean, but it’s noticeable. The eye is glass, although you can’t really tell unless you look closely. Is that a problem?”

A scar? Is he a veteran? A lion tamer? A motorcycle enthusiast? You try to remember what kinds of hobbies British people have. Isn’t there some kind of sport where men swing sticks around while riding horses? That sounds like it could put an eye out. Perhaps to your own surprise, you find that you are more intrigued than uneasy. Oh, you realize, dull like dawn through mist. I like him. I want him. Not just THIS, but HIM. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Brilliant. I don’t want to talk about it again.”

“That’s fine.” You hesitate. “There’s actually something I should tell you too.”

“Hm?”

The hum of his voice is arrogant, hungry. You try not to get distracted. Blood rushes hot and ashamed into your cheeks. “Um, well, uh, sometimes it’s difficult for me to…you know. Finish. Not when I’m alone, just when I’m with a guy. Especially if I’m anxious. And I don’t want to feel worried about faking it or making sure it happens or dealing with you getting offended or upset or whatever. Because it’s fine, really. It doesn’t mean I’m not having a good time. I’m just…stuck in my own head.”

There is a sound you can’t quite match to an expression, an exhale, a scoff. “Obviously I wouldn’t be mad at you. But you’ll come. I know you will. I’ll make you.”

And you’re flooded with a relief that you never dared to hope for. A confession spills out in a trembling whisper: “Please.”

“When?” he says, eager, urgent.

“I think if we don’t do it now, I’ll lose my nerve.”

There is a razor-thin pause, and then he asks for your address.

~~~~~~~~~~

You haven’t had a man in your bed in years; you are abruptly and unkindly reminded of this when you paw through the top drawer of your bedroom dresser and find only practical, deadly unsexy cotton Kmart underwear. You dash to the closet, yank open the squeaking door, and—tucked away in a cardboard box of winter clothes like sweaters and jeans, forgotten, needless—unearth a sprinkling of insubstantial silk and lace, all in luxurious gemstone hues: amethyst, ruby, sapphire, onyx, emerald.

“Oh, hallelujah.” You throw off your sunshine yellow shorts and tug on what were once upon a time your favorite panties. They don’t fit nearly as well as they used to; they fit horribly, in fact. They evaporate the thrill and leave nauseous trepidation in its place. “Oh God. Oh no. Oh no, oh no.” You steal a harried glimpse of the clunky black alarm clock on your nightstand. The flashing red numbers inform you that you have approximately ten more minutes until he arrives.

You jog pantsless to the kitchen, pour yourself a glass of sweet tea—ice cold, bright with a squeeze of lemon juice—and pace back and forth across the wooden floor as you sip it. The pine boards slope at just the slightest angle; if you laid an apple by your feet, it would roll. The house is sinking. It was built at the turn of the twentieth century, but it won’t live to see the next. Ailing sunlight casts your shadow against the wall, mint green, spider-leg cracks inching through the paint. Outside cicadas buzz and doves coo in long, mournful whirrs.

You pick up the phone—pink to match the boombox that is now playing Poison’s Nothin’ But A Good Time—next to the refrigerator and dial with one finger, your other hand still clutching the frosty glass of sweet tea. It rings twice before he answers.

“Wassup?” Amir says distractedly. You can hear a commotion from his living room on the other side of town: his grandmother squawking, ambient applause, Wheel Of Fortune.

“Quick, what should I wear?”

“Huh?”

“The guy! The guy from the ad! I called the guy! What should I be wearing when he shows up?”

Amir cackles. “Ho, you must be truly desperate, why the fuck are you asking me?” There is some shrill protestation in the background. “Grandma, don’t you dare try to act like you’ve never heard that word before, we just rented Aliens.”

“You know what men like,” you plead.

“Not the straight ones!” And then, not to you: “Grandma, calm down. Grandma, Grandma! It’s my homegirl. She has an emergency. She’s got a man coming over and she doesn’t know what to wear. What did you wear for Pop Pop? What? What?! You expect me to believe you got seven kids out of that dude with just some old floral nightgown?! Prairie girl fabulous? Looking like you’re on your way to join the Donner Party? Okay, if you say so! Phyllis knows best!” Amir’s attention returns to you. “Grandma suggests a nightgown.”

You are skeptical. “That seems slutty.”

“You’re inviting some stranger over for an all-expenses-paid ride on the Pussy Express and you’re concerned about looking slutty?!”

He has a point. “Okay. Okay. Yeah. You’re right. Okay.”

“You wear that nightgown with confidence and you take that random kinky man directly to bed, do you understand me?” Amir orders.

“Totally,” you say, gulping sweet tea with a shaking hand.

“Good luck. I gotta go, it’s the Bonus Round. Hope you have a few rounds to tell me about tomorrow.” Then he hangs up.

Back in your bedroom closet, you find a black satin slip that runs to your ankles and flows like a ballgown. You put it on some nights when you’re feeling desirable, after a bath of bubbles and steam, candles and Madonna, freshly shaved legs and shimmering with Pond’s, when you want to lounge around daydreaming, when you want to remember the fantasies you once had about what your life might turn out to be. Now you wear it in the fading daylight, nothing underneath and golden sunbeams turning your skin to something that warms and glows.

You appraise yourself in your dusty dresser mirror, and you think: Not too bad, actually. You’ve had your hair up in a haphazard bun. You reach to take it down, then stop yourself. You like the wayward wisps, the I-don’t-care-too-much casualness. Your breathing is slow and calm again. There is a noise outside: tires crunching on gravel. Your glass of sweet tea, now mostly just ice cubes, is sweating on top of your dresser. You grab the glass, swipe the Bayou Journal off your bed, and take both to the kitchen counter, still speckled with flour, powdered sugar, flecks of cinnamon. Then you pad across the sloping wooden floor in your bare feet to open the front door. Amber dusk streams in; you can hear bullfrogs croaking and the hoots of the long-eared owl that lives in the collapsing, overgrown shed behind the house. Spanish moss hangs like cobwebs, like chandeliers. The tree swing rocks idly in the breeze. The first notes of You Shook Me All Night Long play from the kitchen boombox.

His car is red, sporty, with a logo on the grill that you don’t recognize, a series of circles intertwined like rings. He cuts the engine and steps out into the driveway as you watch from behind the screen, leaning against the doorframe with your arms crossed over your chest. He’s tall, trim, blonde, wearing Adidas sneakers and light-wash jeans and a Marlboro jacket that it’s far too hot for. He peers around, taking in the trees and the house through his black aviator sunglasses. He puffs one last time on a cigarette before putting it out on his own windshield and starting towards the porch. And immediately, primally, you crave him like water or air.

He climbs the groaning steps, splitting wood and rusty nails. You open the screen door to meet him in the threshold. And he takes off his sunglasses so he can look at you, stowing them in a pocket of his jacket, his gaze not wavering from yours, his lips not saying a word. Yes, he has a scar, but it doesn’t diminish him in the slightest. Yes, his left eye may be glass, but you wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t already told you. You’re too tangled up in the right. His iris is a brisk greyish blue, not like the ocean, not like the bayou, more like the sky before a hurricane, heavy with the threat of wind and rain. His face is strong, jarring, beautiful in a rare way. His full lips are curling into a grin.

At last, you speak first, an inane observation that feels somehow significant. “You found me.”

“I did.” He nods towards the large lavender sign out by the mouth of the gravel driveway. Hand-painted on it are the words Hummingbird Bakery and a logo that Amir designed, a hummingbird feeding on the frosting swirl of a cupcake as if it’s a flower flush with nectar. “You told me to look for the sign. That helped.”

“What kind of car do you drive? I don’t recognize it.”

“It’s an Audi Quattro.”

“Audi,” you repeat, like a hopelessly distant place, New York City or Los Angeles or Paris or the moon. “Is that British?”

“German, actually.”

“You’re from a very different world.”

“Yeah, I am.” His eye flicks up and down your body, black satin that curves and clings; his grin widens. “But I could learn to like yours, I think.”

You step back so he can follow you inside. The screen door shuts with a bang. Under the shadows, as the sun sets into the west, he unzips his Marlboro jacket and tosses it onto your living room couch. Underneath he wears a white t-shirt. We’re opposites, you think dazedly, wondering what he will taste like when he kisses you. He grazes his fingertips down the front of your throat, continues to your chest, stills when he hits the satin of your slip.

“You can tell me to stop whenever you want to,” he murmurs, and you breathe in his smoke and cologne and dauntless, dizzying self-assurance. “But until you say stop, I’m gonna keep going.”

Your heartbeat is drumming beneath his hand, part exhilaration and the rest nerves. You are afraid of disappointing him; you aren’t sure what to expect. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Aemond.”

Aemond. Foreign, like Audi, like Paris. You give him your own in return. He leans in, presses his hips to yours, denim and satin that you can feel his heat through. And you think he’s going to kiss your neck, or bite it, bruise it, mark it, claim it, claim you; but he only ghosts his parted lips from the edge of your jaw to your bare shoulder, inhaling slow and deep, drawing your atoms into his lungs until they tumble down the narrowest corridors and into his capillary beds, into his bloodstream. You moan softly, helplessly, and turn your face to kiss him.

“No,” Aemond growls, teasing you, catching your chin with one hand to hold you still. His other hand glides down the front of your slip and stops between your legs. Through satin the color of a starless midnight, his fingers stroke you roughly, commandingly. Animalistic yearning bolts low to weaken your knees, high to rip a gasp from your throat. “Nothing underneath,” he notes in approval.

Oh, I like him, you think, in equal parts ecstatic and petrified. I REALLY like him.

But are you going to be able to impress him too? Are you going to ruin this?

You whimper, unintentionally and almost inaudibly. Aemond is studying your face; furrows appear in his scarred brow, so faint and fleeting you might have imagined them. Then his hand retreats as he says: “Show me your toys.”

You gape up at him; this is not what you anticipated. “What?”

“I want to see how you make yourself come. You have toys, don’t you?”

“I do,” you admit, though you’ve never used them with anyone else before.

Aemond smirks mischieviously, then commands: “Show me. Right now.”

You lead him to your bedroom and slide open the middle drawer of your dresser. You glance at his reflection in the silvery glass of the mirror; he’s staring, not at your body but at your face, his gaze locked with yours, his mouth open, entranced, hungry. You move to stand against the wall, smiling sheepishly as Aemond shoves aside folded sheets and pillowcases to reveal your collection. It’s nothing too adventurous: five vibrators in different colors, styles, sizes.

“Quite the assortment,” he praises.

“They were gifts from a friend.”

Now Aemond is dubious. “A friend?”

“Don’t be jealous. He doesn’t like women.”

Aemond laughs, warm and boyish like he’s breaking character; and you are alarmed by the wave of fondness for him that crashes through you. It’s something that could pull you under. It’s something you could drown in. He picks up the largest vibrator: long, thick, pink like soft feminine vulnerability, like love. Then he is darkly, deliciously stern again. “On the bed.”

“No.” Not because you’re genuinely protesting. Because you want him to make you.

Aemond grabs you around your waist and drags you towards the bed as you squeal, giggle, fight him halfheartedly. He throws you down onto the wildflower-patterned duvet and climbs between your thighs, parting them as he pushes the hem of your black satin slip up to your waist. Abruptly, you are bare for him, exposed, fiery dusk air cool against your wetness. Aemond is still fully clothed, white shirt and pale blue jeans. He is holding your legs open with his own. You can see the bulge of his cock beneath the denim: at least as large as the vibrator and hard with insistent longing.

I want him, you think as you hear the vibrator click on. I want him, I want him…

Aemond brings the pink silicone tip to your flesh, and instantly you’re ravenous. It shocks you how much more erotic this is when someone else is holding it, when someone else has you entirely at their mercy. You cry out, loud and shameless, euphoric. Your back arches; your fingers twist into the duvet. As he presses the vibrator down more forcefully, Aemond braces his hips against yours, grinding into you through his jeans, taunting you, conquering you.

You fumble for the button and zipper of his jeans. “Please—”

“No,” Aemond snarls, beaming, snatching your hand and pinning it up by your head. His other hand is still circling your clit with the tip of the vibrator. “You haven’t earned it yet.”

“Aemond, please, I need you—”

“No,” he says, defiant. He makes the rules. He has the power; he’s in control. Suddenly, he pulls the vibrator away. You yelp in dismay. “You know,” Aemond quips cavalierly. “It’s a shame you have such a difficult time finishing when you’re with a man. I bet you’re not even close.”

“I am,” you whine, in agony, in ecstasy.

Aemond pretends to be surprised. “Hm.” He returns the vibrator to your skin, slick, hot, aching in the most wondrous way. You sigh as the pleasure surges through you, as you soar up to the previous plateau and then begin to ascend beyond it. You must have repositioned yourself without noticing; Aemond releases your hand to smack his palm against the inside of your thigh. “Keep your legs apart. I want you wide open for me.”

“I will, I promise.” I’ll do anything you tell me to.

Aemond’s hand ventures lower. Two of his fingers glide inside you and thrust in time with his hips. “Fuck,” he hisses, breaking character again; and something rocks through his shoulders, his spine, a divine temptation that he is battling.

“Aemond, more,” you plead, looking at the massive outline of his cock under his jeans.

“Not yet,” he pants, fucking you with his fingers as the vibrator hums against your clit. “You have to come for me first, baby. You have to earn it.”

And you’re close, you really are, you’re closer than you ever would have imagined you’d be with him tonight, this stranger, this elusive British man, this man from a personal ad in the Bayou Journal that you almost never replied to. Your hair has come undone and is wild around your face; your heart is pounding frantically; your skin is bathed in a sheen of victorious perspiration. When was the last time someone made you feel like this? You can’t recall; the answer might be never. There is a spellbinding, intensifying sensation of warmth, of opening, you’re only seconds from the brink, you’re ready to step off the precipice and into open blue air the same color as his eyes—

Aemond yanks the vibrator away again, grinning toothily down at you.

“No!” You scrabble for him with shaking hands, pulling yourself up as you reach for the vibrator. Aemond pushes you back onto the bed. Despite your protests, you love the feeling of his weight on top of yours; you love the organic symphony he’s built of, muscle and bone and skill and power. His fingers are still pumping in and out of you, keeping you soaked and throbbing, pinning you to the edge of an orgasm without permitting you to succumb to it.

“It’s going to be so good for you like this, baby,” Aemond insists, low and raspy. He’s reading your face, attentive to every detail, drinking up your desperate body and quivering voice. “I swear I’m not torturing you for no reason. Let me show you. Let me take care of you. When it happens, it’s going to blow your fucking mind. Are you ready?”

“Yes, now, please, do it now,” you whimper as you lie beneath him, open, bare, senseless, vanquished.

Aemond drags his tongue over the tip of the vibrator, moaning with lust as he tastes you. Then he at last presses the pink silicone to your clit once more. In your electrified nerves, in your scalding blood, there are sparks and momentum and currents rushing towards the cataclysmic breaking of a rogue wave. “Nice and slow,” Aemond murmurs. “Let it build.”

Instead of the peak, you reach another plateau, so high and so rapturous you can’t stand it, you can’t fathom climbing any farther. It’s becoming so sharp and intense it’s almost painful. Fresh anxiety flashes in your mind like lightning. The momentum begins to dissipate like dewdrops under the late-morning sun. Oh no, I’m going to lose it, I’m going to disappoint him—

Aemond lifts the vibrator off you again; before you have time to collect yourself enough to speak, to apologize, he’s slipped his fingers out of you and carefully guided the vibrator inside, stretching you, filling you, thrusting rhythmically but not too viciously or too deep. He places his thumbprint on the place where the vibrator was just seconds ago and circles quickly, once, twice, again, and then…

You try not to scream, but you can’t help it, can’t stop it; the climax wrenches out of you indescribable pleasure, vanished fears, awe and relief, twisted muscles and gasping breaths, every electrical impulse of every atom, and each time you believe it’s over it rolls a little farther like an endless summer afternoon. When it’s done—truly done—you aren’t sure exactly how it happens but suddenly you’re sitting upright on the bed and the vibrator is lying forgotten on top of the duvet and Aemond is laughing, kissing you—sweat and nicotine, smoke and salt—and caressing your face with his hands, saying: “You were such a good girl. You did amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

“Okay,” you exhale unsteadily, smiling. You nod to the very noticeable bulge in his jeans. “Your turn.”

“No,” Aemond says primly.

“What?”

“No,” he repeats. “Not today.”

“But…but…why?”

The curl of his lips is crooked and playful. “To prove I’m not just here to get myself off.” He kisses you again, far more tenderly than any random dom from a personal ad should. “You don’t trust me. But maybe next time you will.”

“How could I trust you? I don’t even know you.”

“We’ll have to spend more time together.”

“You seriously aren’t going to fuck me right now? Me? A mostly-naked stranger you met up with exclusively for the purposes of fucking?”

“Are you dissatisfied?”

In truth, no; your pulse is slowing, your thoughts are calm, your lust is satiated, you’re reasonably certain that you’ve sprained no less than four muscles. You feel like the sky after rain: emptied, unburdened, untroubled, at peace. “Not at all.”

“Then you shouldn’t be complaining.”

You reach out to touch Aemond’s unscarred cheek and he smiles. You try to ghost your fingertips over the left side of his face and he flinches away, leaves the bed, takes the vibrator to the bathroom to scrub it with soap and water. “Can I at least pour you a glass of sweet tea or something?” you call after him. “I feel guilty. I feel like I didn’t uphold my end of the bargain.”

“You exceeded all of my expectations,” Aemond says with a strange sort of somberness. “But sweet tea sounds great.”

You take five minutes to clean up and change into real clothes—ratty denim shorts and a red, white, and blue Pepsi t-shirt, chaotic hair, no bra—and then meet Aemond in the kitchen. He’s surveying the large circular table, which is littered with covered cake plates in a hodgepodge of sizes and colors; you found most of them at yard sales and thrift shops. The sun has set and the stars have risen; the kitchen is illuminated by yellow-hued florescent light. Night air flows in through the screens of the open windows. The boombox is currently playing Tiffany’s I Think We’re Alone Now.

“What’s the deal with that?” Aemond asks about the cluttered kitchen table.

“They’re the baked goods. For my bakery.”

“Right,” he says, remembering, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “The sign out front.”

“Would you like anything? Today we had butterscotch chiffon cake, coconut custard cake, blackberry dark chocolate cupcakes, pecan pie, red velvet brownies, lemon blueberry cookies, lavender black tea cookies, chocolate meringue pie, butter pecan muffins…”

“How about those?” He points.

“Oh! Those are banana bread cupcakes. One of my favorites.”

“Banana bread…cupcakes?”

“Here.” You plop one on a plate for Aemond, then go to the refrigerator to pour two tall glasses of sweet tea. “A lot of people put chocolate chips in their banana bread, but I feel like any chocolate really eclipses the banana flavor. It’s so subtle, you know? So what I do instead is cinnamon, honey, cream cheese frosting, and a tiny bit of sea salt mixed into the batter. If you get the ratio just right, there’s this really great blend of saltiness and sweetness, and the banana is still the star of the show. Of course I’ve fucked up plenty of times too and almost given myself dangerously high blood pressure. If I ruin a batch, I’m the one who has to eat it. We can’t let anything go to waste. Our profit margin is thinner than a crescent moon on the best months.”

“Oh my God,” Aemond says. He’s taken a bite and is now gawking at the banana bread cupcake. “You made this?” He gestures to the table. “You made all of this?”

“My best friend Amir runs the business with me, but most of the recipes are mine. My mom used to bake all the time when I was little. Now she has rheumatoid arthritis and has given it up, more or less, but that’s where I learned a lot of what I know. And I try to come up with new ideas each week to add to the rotation.”

“This is exceptional,” Aemond says. His mouth is full of the rest of the cupcake. He washes it down with a few gulps of sweet tea; ice cubes jangle in the misty glass. “This is, like, insanely good. Can I have another one…?” He’s already lifting the cover off the cake plate.

You chuckle. “Yeah, seriously, have as many as you like.”

“How much do you sell them for?”

“The cupcakes are $1, but you don’t have to pay me. You get the unrequited orgasm discount.”

“Just $1 each.” Aemond is incredulous. You aren’t sure what that’s about. He sets the second cupcake down on the table, tugs a black leather wallet out of his jeans pocket, and gives you a $10 bill.

“Aemond, really, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. Take the money. Stop talking about it.”

You smirk up at him. “Is that an order, sir?”

He grabs your jaw with one forceful hand, kisses you roughly, bites your lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood. He tastes like cinnamon, honey, sugar, sex. “Yes,” he says, grinning wickedly. Then his hands drop to unbutton your shorts. The idea of stopping Aemond doesn’t even cross your mind; your desire for him—him specifically—is back, flaring red and primeval and irresistible. “I want you on top of that counter—”

Outside there are footsteps bounding up the front porch, loud on the creaking boards. You tear away from Aemond and hurry to re-button your shorts. What? Already??

You know exactly who it must be.

Well, now I’m definitely never going to see Aemond again.

He’s terrified, he’s wondering whether he should try to jump out of a window. But really, he’s already been spotted; his Audi Quattro is still waiting for him in the gravel driveway. “Please don’t tell me that’s your homicidal armed boyfriend or something.”

“No,” you say. “It’s my daughter.”

“Wait, your…?!”

The door swings open; you hardly ever lock it. Cadi trots in just as you are flipping over the copy of the Bayou Journal on the kitchen counter so Aemond’s personal ad is no longer visible. Instead, what now faces up—dotted with flour, powdered sugar, cinnamon, grease stains of butter—is a column about the rigs opened in Lake Verret. Just what this town needs, you think distractedly. An environmental disaster.

“Mom, whose radical car is that—?” Then Cadi spies Aemond and blinks at him a few times. She is ten years old but thinks she’s your age, short hair, short temper, denim overalls and a t-shirt underneath patterned with multicolored horses.

“This is Aemond,” you explain. He waves awkwardly and then resumes nibbling on his second banana bread cupcake, avoiding her scrutiny. “He’s a friend.”

“But you don’t have any friends,” Cadi replies.

“Watch it, Child Of The Corn. I have friends.”

“You have like one friend.”

“What happened to your sleepover with Mawmaw? I thought you were excited to trick her into watching Hellraiser.”

“Blockbuster didn’t have it. Then Great Aunt Ethel called and said she broke her hip. Mawmaw dropped me off here on her way to the hospital.”

“And she didn’t even think to check with me first, huh?”

“As if you’d have anything better to do.” Cadi races to the refrigerator—careening around a shellshocked Aemond—and heaves open the door. “What’s for dinner?”

“I think we have some Swanson’s meals left. Oh, and spaghetti.”

She narrows her eyes at you. “Who made it?”

“You’re in luck! Not me. Amir.”

“Yay!” Cadi trills, then drags out the pan and begins spooning mounds of spaghetti onto a plate. Aemond looks to you, intrigued.

You say: “I bake, I don’t cook.”

“She really doesn’t,” Cadi concurs.

“Completely different skillset.”

Cadi places a few paper towels over the heaping plate so sauce doesn’t splatter all over the microwave and then sets it to three minutes. As she waits to eat, she wanders over to where the Bayou Journal is lying on the counter and scans the page: Viserys Targaryen, three state-of-the-art oil rigs, Lake Verret, an additional 50 employees hired, Jade Dragon Energy. “Those bastards are going to get their way, I guess.”

You sigh. “Yup.”

Aemond is alarmed. He polishes off the last of his cupcake, frowning as he licks frosting from his lips. “You don’t approve?”

“They’ll blow up the whole town,” Cadi says matter-of-factly.

You smile wanly at Aemond as you sip your sweet tea. “You work for Jade Dragon, right?”

He stares back at you—stunned, perhaps even fearful, a deer flooded with headlights—but doesn’t speak.

“It’s alright. I figured you must. Some smart British guy way out here in Cajun Country? It’s gotta be for a job. Don’t worry. We won’t shoot and skin you or anything. It’s not your fault. You’re just collecting a paycheck, it’s not like you’re running the company.”

“Right.” Aemond grabs a third cupcake and gnaws at it. After a moment he adds: “I have a degree in petroleum engineering. I just moved to Napoleonville last week.”

“I knew it,” you say.

“Boo!” Cadi heckles jokingly. The microwave beeps, then she disappears into her bedroom with her plate of spaghetti. You hear Cadi turn on her little television and flip through the channels until she finds Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Aemond watches her closed door for a few seconds—still processing, you assume—and then turns back to you.

“Her name’s Katie?”

“Cadi. C-a-d-i. It’s short for Arcadia.”

He is impressed. “Greece?”

You titter nervously. You don’t know what he means. “It’s a town up by Shreveport, it’s where Bonnie and Clyde were arrested or killed or something. I’m not sure. Her father picked it.”

“You didn’t have an opinion?”

“Um, I wasn’t really…uh…conscious for a few days after she was born. By the time I was up and around again, he’d already filled out the birth certificate.”

What is that you see flicker across his face like the transient surge of a lightning bug? Curiosity? Apprehension? “I see. And her father is…” Aemond raises a blonde eyebrow, the one his scar cuts through. “On an aircraft carrier somewhere?”

You laugh. “He’s not deployed. We’re divorced, Willis lives about fifteen minutes down the road. It’s amicable.”

“So I don’t need to worry about him showing up on your front porch to murder me with a 2x4 full of nails.”

“No. Although he is the town sheriff.”

Aemond smirks. Is this a challenge or an inconvenience? “Why’d you two split up?”

You shrug, glancing at Cadi’s bedroom door. She is quite aggressive with her television volume; you’re confident she won’t be able to listen in if you keep your voice low. “It’s not that interesting a story.”

“I’m extremely interested.” And he sincerely appears to be, head tilted to the side, eyes fixed on you (though you know the left one sees nothing), thoughts whirling like storm winds.

“Well…we only ever got married because of…” You gesture towards Cadi’s room. Aemond nods, following along. “And I was too young and I didn’t know anything. I didn’t know what I wanted out of a man, I didn’t even know I had the right to set standards to measure a husband by. Willis wasn’t terrible. He didn’t hit me. He just wasn’t really who I wanted.” You chew at your lower lip, peering down at the kitchen counter, drawing circles in the sparse flour dust. “He never even proposed to me. Not properly, I mean. I told him I was pregnant and he said: Well, guess we oughta get married, huh sugar? and then drove me to the Kmart up in Gonzales to pick out a ring.”

“Classy,” Aemond mutters.

“I had to buy it myself, actually. Willis didn’t have enough cash on him. He paid me back later, but still. It wasn’t about the ring. I don’t need gold and diamonds. But I need someone who really sees me and understands me and chooses me, you know? I’ve never felt chosen. And I decided I didn’t want to settle for that. If I ever get married again, I want the whole goddamn thing. The real thing. I want the candles and the flowers and a boombox blasting Heaven Is A Place On Earth. And if that’s not in the cards, I guess I’m not the marrying type.”

“And you’ll make do with occasional visits from your friendly neighborhood dom.”

You grin up at Aemond. “Yeah, exactly.”

“You really hate Jade Dragon?”

“Companies like that…they just use us. Our land, our labor. And then when they decimate the place they pack up and disappear overnight, no pensions, no retirement, no unemployment, no meaningful cleanup, just Thanks for the millions! Bye! and we’re left to live in their filth.”

“That’s a rather cynical perspective,” Aemond says.

“It’s a realistic perspective,” you counter. “In 1965, there was a pipeline explosion in Natchitoches, in ‘79 there was an oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, in ‘80 a Texaco rig accidentally drilled into a salt mine under Lake Peigneur and destroyed the whole ecosystem. Two weeks ago there was a refinery explosion an hour east of here in Norco. 4,500 people had to be evacuated from their homes. So no, the jobs sound nice, but in my humble estimation they’re not worth dying for.”

Aemond considers you, a look that is not patronizing or combative but not convinced either. And there’s something else too: a caginess, a nervousness.

“And these Jade Dragon people, the Targaryens? They have a history,” you continue. “I read about it in the Bayou Journal. Last year they had an oil spill at an offshore rig near Ketchikan, Alaska. They poured hundreds of thousands of barrels of poison into the ocean and killed a bunch of dolphins and whales and everything. Fishermen went bankrupt, people committed suicide.”

“Mistakes happen.” Aemond places his empty sweet tea glass in the sink.

“But they didn’t make it right. Their lawyers blamed a defective piece of equipment and kicked liability back to the manufacturer. They’ll be battling it out in court for the next decade. And meanwhile, the people of Ketchikan get nothing but misery. I don’t want Napoleonville to end up like that.”

Aemond gazes out the kitchen window and into the cicada-rattling night, faraway, pensive.

“But seriously,” you say, more casually now. “I get that it’s not your fault, Aemond. I don’t hate you or anything. You’re working for a living like anyone else. You can only do so much.”

He looks back to you and smiles vaguely. “I just go where they tell me to.”

“And that’s why you like to be in control when you’re with me.”

“Yes,” Aemond says; and on his face—strong, scarred, perfect—you can see that he is reminiscing, that he is planning what he wants to do to you next. But he can’t do any of it. Not here, not now.

“I’m sorry about…you know. The kid thing. I really didn’t think she’d be home tonight. I would never subject her to something like that, walking in to find a strange guy in the house. And I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable either.”

“It’s okay. I believe you.”

“I don’t usually do this. I’m sure you think I’m lying, but I’m not. I’ve had two boyfriends since I got divorced seven years ago, and both times it didn’t last long and Cadi never met them. And it wasn’t…like it is with you. The dynamic, I mean. The…control thing. They were just normal dudes.”

“And they couldn’t satisfy you,” Aemond says, taunting, proud, setting your blood on fire.

“No. They couldn’t. Not even close.”

You both stand silently in the kitchen amidst a cascade of inconsequential noise: Eurythmics from the little pink boombox, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles from Cadi’s room, cicadas and bullfrogs and the long-eared owl from the world outside that is primordial and feral and green. For the first time in as long as you can remember, you feel not like the piecemeal potential of a desirable woman but whole. Aemond’s right eye traces every curve and edge of you in a way that makes you think: Maybe I will see him again after all.

“Come on,” you say, turning towards the front door. “I’ll walk you out.”

But when he steps onto the creaking porch—pulling on his Marlboro jacket, watching lightning bugs bloom like daisies in the yard—Aemond seems to be stalling. “This is lopsided,” he says, tapping the wooden boards with his Adidas sneakers.

“I know. The whole foundation is, it’s sinking. We’ll have to move eventually. But we’ve been in this place since Cadi was five, it has a lot of memories. She calls it the Fall-Down House.”

“Cute,” Aemond says, but he’s pondering something. “Do you own it?”

“Oh no, God no. We rent.”

“Are you saving for a down payment to put on a new house?”

This is a rude question. “A little,” you reply curtly. Not enough. You need to make money to save money.

“Okay.” Aemond senses your discomfort. He’s good at that; it’s an advantageous skill for a dom to possess, knowing when he’s approaching a limit long before you have to shut him down. He descends the porch steps. “I’ll be back for more of those cupcakes—” There is a shrill, alien hissing from out by the tree line. Aemond shouts and scrambles back onto the porch, throwing an arm in front of you to shield you from his enigmatic nocturnal adversary. “What the fuck was that?!”

“Just a gator,” you reassure him, amused.

“A what?”

“An alligator.” You show him the shadow that lurks beneath a young oak tree draped with Spanish moss. “She’s over there. Just stay on the gravel once you get off the porch.”

Aemond is puzzled. How does anyone live in this hellscape? his face says. “How do you know it’s a female?”

“She’s not too big, and she doesn’t bellow. But she sure loves to hiss.”

“I think alligators should have gone extinct with the rest of the dinosaurs.”

“Well, there’s a secret to dealing with them.”

“Yeah?”

You smile, skating your fingers into the sleeve of Aemond’s Marlboro jacket and up his forearm until you feel goosebumps rise on his skin. “If she gets mean, you just have to bite back.”

Aemond chuckles, turns your face towards his, kisses the apple your cheek…and then, for only a moment, his teeth close around the sensitive flesh there leaving a whirlpool of pulsing, forbidden heat. He whispers through your hair: “See you soon.”

“Will you?”

“Yes,” he says, severely now. It’s a commandment, it’s a need. “I absolutely will.”

Aemond leaves you, strides across the gravel driveway without glancing back, ducks into his car, lights a cigarette; you can see the rust-colored glow through the windshield as he takes a drag. You wait in a flurry of moths under the dim florescent bulb of the front porch until his Audi Quattro veers onto Route 401 and disappears.

I hope he meant it, you think as a lightning bug lands on your knuckles and illuminates there like the gemstone of a ring. I hope I’ll see him again.

Then you shake away the insect and go inside to see if Cadi wants to help you clean up the kitchen and get a brown sugar pie baked for tomorrow. As compensation, you’ll offer her the $10 bill Aemond gave you for the cupcakes.

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