#including Stolas' love for her

[evereverest2]

well i just was the craziest helluva boss comic. ever

[guardianlegends64]

[Closed RP] Hazbin Hotel X Helluva Boss Alternative Love Life in “Double the Badass Double the Hellish Pleasure”

[Note: This RP is an Alternative Love Life which is a Crossover of Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss which includes: Romance, Nsfw, Vulgar language, Gore, and Music! Only those who are 21 or Over can Read/View This RP!]

In The Darkest Pits, The Bloody Walls, Tormenting Fires, and the Tortured …The Sinned…And The Damned souls surrounded all Called Hell and there was the biggest City of all Hell called ZiroCity and that city is as big and long as Hell itself and its inhabitants were Demons, Mutated Creatures, and even Feral Beasts and Even Demonic Kings that rule ZiroCity

There were Two Female demon Adults Who were just strolling down the streets of ZiroCity they both saw the Hazbin Hotel where demons can have the opportunity to Rehabilitate and be sent to heaven and then they saw the I.M.P Headquarters and then there’s the biggest Hellish Beach all around the City !

Those Female adult demons were Loona who is a Hellhound and who is [45] years old and Sylvia who is a Hellhound and Wolf Hybrid which was also [45] years old and as they were talking about their Day in work and how they want to go somewhere more different for the Summer season…

Loona who is wearing a Black Leather Jacket with a Hellhound Skull symbol on the back and Black Pants as for Sylvia who was wearing a White leather Jacket with a Black Hellhound/Wolf Skull symbol on the back and Black pants with a chain link the two adult demons were at the same height and same age but very unique personalities…

As the two continue to walk Loona noticed that the two should do something newer together on the surface And that doesn’t care what Blitz has to say about going to the surface to do something different as her Best Friend which was Sylvia nodded in agreement and then…

The next Day Loona “Burrowed” the Grimoire a Book owned by Stolas Goetia to Open up a portal to the human world as Sylvia asked her on how She got the book from stolas as Loona replied that she borrowed it when she and Blitz went to Visit Stolas about an Opportunity and also Stella and Octavia was there in the living room

As Blitz was having a conversation with Stolas as Loona secretly asked Octavia for a favor to burrow the Grimoire Book for a little Trip to the human world with a Close Friend as Octavia gave the book to her secretly with no hesitation as stolas was very busy taking care of his Plant while talking with Blitz about the Huge opportunity as Stella was Drinking her Usual Tea Listening but also was starting to have some suspicions about Loona and Octavia The way they spoke so Softly and Quietly as she walked towards the two and asked them on what they’re doing as Loona was Ignoring her because she was busy on her phone as Octavia said to her mother that she was just talking with Loona about that last job that she participated with Blitz as Stella kept an very close and secretive eye on them both as Loona Explained to Sylvia but Loona didn’t really give a shit and Summoned the Portal…

As the two entered through the portal to a random location which the location that they were in is City of Chicago it was Night and it was the start of summer which means it’s June…

But they didn’t realize where they were going and then Sylvia asked about using their human forms in the Hunan World as Loona Replied to her that she doesn’t really give a fuck and that they can do whatever the fuck they want as Sylvia smiled and giggled as she followed Loona in search of a nearby Bar where they can get drinks and do something newly out of this world or some chaotic situations until they encountered two Adult Men That caught their hellhound eyes…

One of the men’s Name was Riley who has a Messy Black two block hairstyle, Emerald Green Eye color, a 10 pack and is Tall [9”9 ft] and who is wearing casual clothes as he was speaking with his Long time Best Friend about the Adventurous world Exploration that the two have been doing together but was asking a question about if they will ever meet someone that catches their eyes…. Until the two men then encountered the two same female anthropomorphic Hellhounds that caught their eyes too…

As Riley was surprised by the fact that he sees Two anthropomorphic Hellhounds and was utterly speechless at their Appearance of which their bodies were strong and also some parts were Magnificently substantial as the second Friend spoke first and said…

[daffodils-and-viscera]

can we talk about stolas and octavia and antidepressants for a second

as someone with a lot of experience taking antidepressants and dealing with family members who Do Not Understand how depression works, it really struck me how octavia deals with discovering that stolas has been taking antidepressants.

presumably, he has been taking these for a VERY long time and based on the evidence in this episode, nobody in his life knew about it- clearly not blitzø or octavia, at least.

i don't see stolas as someone who has been to therapy - this reads to me very much like someone who saw "happy pills" and decided to self-medicate because he thought they would fix him, not as someone who was prescribed a medication and a dose to take (we've seen him downing handfuls of these pills on several occasions in past episodes)

octavia is (understandably) unsettled when she finds this giant box of pills, and despite all her complicated feelings for her father she IMMEDIATELY goes to find him to bring him his pills

octavia is smart!! yes she is pissed off at her dad and this implies that she could have gone to see him at any time when he was calling her, but this discovery kind of goes beyond any argument- no matter how she feels, she ultimately doesn't want stolas to suffer

then we get the big fight scene, which ends with the devastating argument between octavia and stolas where she says "was this my fault that you needed these?"

i adore the amount of nuance in their interaction here for so many reasons, but specifically this vein of "i love you but clearly you don't love me or else you wouldn't be depressed" hits very close to home for me and i love the way it's shown as messy and neither stolas nor octavia really understand the way their words are hurting one another

so it kind of breaks my heart that she closes herself off to him but leaves him with this bottle of happy pills because he does need them. and she knows it, and she cares enough to want him to be happy.

she just doesn't think that happiness includes her, because in her mind she's nothing more than an obligation to him.

ugh the day these two reunite i will be reduced to a pile of mush i just love how complex their relationship is it's so tasty

[blitzwhore]

So. Stolas is an alcoholic. That much is very clear at this point in the show and has been for a while now. He binge-drinks to cope with depression and with his life problems at large.

What's interesting is that he's far from the only character in Blitzø's life who is an alcoholic. In fact, substance abuse seems to be a recurring theme in the show. At least three other people Blitzø was or is really close with (potentially four, if we count his father) have struggled with substance abuse: Verosika, Barbie, and Fizz.

And the show has made a very clear point that both Verosika and Barbie have been in rehab. Not just that, but it's also emphasised that they're both still struggling with addiction (Verosika still drinks at her concerts, "clutches onto Beelzejuice bottles like they're the last cock in hell", and writes magazine articles about binge drinking being sexy; Barbie still peddles heroine, though not H8). Clearly, for both of them, this is an ongoing issue presently in the show.

So, with all of that being said, I recently saw someone theorise that, in a future season, Stolas is going to go to rehab, too.

I thought it was certainly a possibility, and one that I would personally love to see explored. So I've been thinking about it... and I remembered this:

The beginning of Unhappy Campers, and Blitzø breaking into rehab to go visit Barbie.

Now, I think a lot of people (myself included) felt surprised and a bit disappointed the first time we watched this episode, because our initial assumption was that Blitzø was trying to visit Stolas. It just made sense! Stolas was hospitalised right at the end of the previous episode and texted Blitzø that he could visit if he wanted to. (At this point, we also didn't know Blitzø had trauma surrounding visiting loved ones at hospitals). And suddenly they hit us with Blitzø seeking out Barbie out of the blue? So many of us were left wondering... why? Yeah, people have mentioned that maybe feeling like he could've lost Stolas prompted Blitzø to try to mend a different broken relationship, one that he felt he had more chances of fixing. But the timing, as well as the non-immediate revelation that it's Barbie he's looking for, is still... strikingly suspicious, isn't it?

And just now, after all this time, it hit me.

What if this is foreshadowing?

What if, all along, they were telling us Blitzø will visit Stolas at the hospital in the future... when Stolas is in rehab?

[voxslays]

Could we get more Satan or Vassago Headcannons please?

ofc anon! I’ve never written for Vassago before, so I hope this is ok! I also included Blitzø and Stolas bc I love them. <3

HB MEN IN RELATIONSHIPS

Featuring >>> Blitzø, Satan, Stolas, & Vassago (separately) in a relationship with the reader.

Satan

As we’ve seen in mastermind, this man has EXTREME anger issues. And while I doubt he would take it out on his S/O, that doesn’t mean he won’t take it out on the people looking at said S/O longingly. That’s right, this man is possessive. That guy over there who’s looking at you? What guy? He just threw him into the abyss.

Drinks energy drinks and eats a ton of protein. What’s for breakfast? A protein shake. Lunch? Greek Yogurt. Dinner? Chicken breasts. All extremely high protein.

Not good at comfort, but will let you cry on his shoulder…and then slip away to go murder whoever made you cry. Not on his watch.

Vassago

SPANISH BABY! Will sweet talk/call you pet names in Spanish. Corazón, Mi vida, Preciosa, Tesoro—you’ve heard them all in one way or another. It doesn’t matter if you actually speak Spanish or not—Vassago will teach you!

The two of you have extreme discussions (and gossiping sessions) about both the other Goetic demons and their beliefs. There is no way the night of Blitzø’s court trial Vassago didn’t come home and gossip with you about Andrealphus.

I headcannon Vassago and Stolas are friends or acquaintances in some way or another, so at some point the two of you will meet. You are eventually introduced to Via…and let’s just say you love her! (Platonically.)

Blitzø

Oh man. After years of being friends and earning his trust, you are now in the dating stage. Congrats. Blitzø has closed himself off from almost everyone, so him finally letting someone in is shocking to everyone around him—especially Loona.

You have to take baby steps. Although this imp loves you to the moon and back, he hasn’t been in a committed relationship (not counting Stolas bc they are purely transactional) since Verosika, which ended horribly—because of him.

On the topic of Stolas, I’m not sure if they would stop their transactions. Blitzø needs that book, and depending on Stolas’ mood on loosing the love of his life (his non-requited love is so tragic), he could either give Blitzø the Asmodean crystal like he does in the show and let him be free, or he could be a total asshole about it. Blitzø would feel terrible about it either way. Poor baby.

Stolas

Our beloved owl. Before you two even get together, there is a LOT of yearning from him. He will dramatically stare out of windows thinking of your guys’ future.

Once the two of you get together, he will immediately introduce you to his daughter. And although he worries that the two of you will dislike eachother, you love eachother! The two of you actually get really close and Via eventually accepts you as a new mother of sorts, since I doubt Stella was good to her.

Stolas will find a way to bring you up in any and every conversation. ‘Oh! My beloved partner can do this and that!’ He is completely head over heels in love with his S/O. You’d better not break his precious heart.

[warblogs17282]

I'm not done talking about how stupid of a take that 'Stolas is selfish because he chose Blitz over Octavia' is.

But this time, I want to talk about the implications that Blitz being executed has.

Let's start with the I.M.P crew, Loona loses her loving father, who she very clearly cares a lot for, Moxxie and Millie lose their best friend and their jobs at the same time, as the asmodean crystal is registered in specifically Blitz's name, meaning that Blitz dying means the human killing business dies with it, because they have no other reliable options for getting to the living world. Fizzarolli loses his best friend as well that he only recently got back into his life.

Plus, Blitz being executed would just send Satan's message loud and clear to all of imp-kind, which basically amounted to 'We'll kill you if you step out of line. We'll kill you if you even attempt to rise above your station we forced upon you. We'll kill you if you ever dare to challenge our power and authority. We'll kill you if you aren't our little obedient puppets.'

Stolas knows that Blitz is a father, Stolas knows that the Asmodean Crystal is registered in Blitz's name, and if chose to let Blitz die, he'd have to live with the fact that his choice caused so much suffering and pain to others, including to other people Stolas knows Blitz cares about deeply, showing that the stakes have always been much higher than just 'Blitz vs Octavia', even for Stolas.

Stolas went into that trial fully expecting to be killed, Stolas went into that trial assuming that Blitz would eventually be okay after his death, to allow Blitz to keep his found family and keep being able to provide for himself and others with I.M.P, to allow Blitz to keep making that name for himself.

You might be thinking at this point, 'but wait, then why did Stolas mention his daughter after he lost his powers and such then?', and I have the answer to that question right here.

Again, Stolas went into that trial fully expecting to be executed, and in s1 e2, during that song Stolas sang to Octavia as a kid, Stolas says "When I'm gone, you'll be okay…", which is quite literally saying that Octavia will be okay, even in the event of Stolas' death, which I'm pretty confident in saying that Stolas genuinely believes in this. I just don't think that Stolas factored in Stella and Andrealphus being abusive and manipulative towards Octavia specifically, which I believe perfectly explains why Stolas only mentioned Octavia after he got his actual punishment.

Plus, Stolas knew that Octavia would inherit everything of his in the case of his own death, because he literally ensured that everything and I mean everything would pass to Octavia, as Andrealphus bluntly points in s2 e4, alongside giving Octavia the chance to experience happiness, to be able to choose happiness, even when he's dead.

Finally, I shouldn't even need to say this but,

1: We all know that Stolas would literally sacrifice everything for Octavia, he literally was sacrificing his own happiness for so many years so that Octavia could live a 'normal life'.

2: Stolas had to make a split-second decision there, he had zero time to think anything over, plus Octavia wasn't anywhere close to being in mortal danger, but Blitz was.

In conclusion, if you all want to insist on making this thing a trolley problem, then I beg of you, remember the problem is nowhere near purely 'Blitz vs Octavia' for all of the reasons I've brought up in this post, and also remember that it's Andrealphus and Stella who tied them down on the tracks to begin with.

[dancndiva83-blog]

NEW STOLITZ FANFIC!!!

Startling July 7th, I’ll be posting my new #Stolitz story, Love’s High Wire. *Details below

The cover art was done by Bloom (@cartoonybloomy on X). She did a fantastic job! Please go show her some love.

This story begins after Stolas’ birthday that he spent with Blitzo. Paimon, angered, throws his son away and he joins the imp circus and begins a new life away from the royal life he knew.

There will be themes of lust and longing as well as a good old fashioned love triangle.

There is also a warning I want to be up front about. This story will include themes of prostitution/underage prostitution. It is something that is suspected to have happened by the fandom at the circus but is not cannon as far as I’m aware.

As I will be dealing with this theme, know I’m using this with a level of seriousness and respect. It isn’t just for the fun of putting these characters through it.

Also, as we will be growing up with “the kids” there are limits to what I’m comfortable with writing.

So, for reference, as far as sensual/sexual moments:

*Ages 10-14: Nada

*Ages 15: Soft making out

*Ages 16: Hardcore making out & touching/grouping

*Ages 17+: Open to all things

These were my comfort zones at those ages and I’m using them for this story.

I’m super excited to share this new story that is set to be a long one. Can’t wait to share it on the 7th!! 🎪🎡🤹🤡

[drama-glob]

Since I've been seeing some criticism about Ozzie not speaking up first or more during the trial to help Blitz and his team, there are a few things I'd like to point out.

For one:

Ozzie didn't seem to know that Blitz/I.M.P. were going to be on trial or else I'm sure he would have warned Fizz because that is a jarring thing for your boyfriend to see on live TV, and given the level of communication and love that these two have, it seems highly unlikely and thus means Ozzie was shocked to see them too and given very little time to prepare. :/ Speaking of time, I clocked it from when Blitz enters to court to when Satan gives his sentencing, and it's ~4min 47seconds, which includes listing the charges, Andrealphus and Vassago squaring off, Striker's part, the Sins squabbling, and Satan's outburst, so a lot of things happening in a small time frame, all while Ozzie needs to think of a way to say something in Blitz's defense without implicating himself since he more or less knew they were doing something illegal based on what Stolas said. (What's unfortunate too is that Ozzie's text messages even say that these trials don't usually last long, so the roughly 5min one for Blitz/I.M.P. could have been a long one O_O).

Also, Blitz technically already admitted that he was given the book, which is still as crime and probably would have ended the trial right there had Andrealphus not kept saying he was lying so he could lay on the accusations. -_-

Something else to consider:

Ozzie seems to have a tell whenever it involves scheming or something he's nervous about where his voice gets a higher pitch at one point or another, so being grilled on the stand is likely to bring that out. :/ Who would think that the Deadly Sin who is big on honesty and communication isn't the best liar? -_-

The only reason why he probably could get away with the "Fizz is just my business partner" lie is because he's had to tell it for ~10yrs, and even then they were still called the worst-kept secret in all of Hell. I mean, do I need to remind you of this?

(It's a good thing Fizz said something because Ozzie was like a deer in headlights right there XD ).

Plus:

Ozzie has three heads, so while he may be able to put on a poker face for his main one, he can't seem to hide how his Ram and Bull express themselves (as indicated by the first picture), which only makes it that much harder to not implicate himself or deny that Blitz and Stolas weren't doing something illegal.

Going back to the first picture, I love how his Ram and Bull heads have big eyes in surprise (it seems) because he's like "What? You know Blitz too?! Oh, thank Lucifer! You can vouch for him too and reduce the chance of questions coming at me/be my backup." I also love Bee's appreciative look too that her bestie Ozzie has her back and listened to her suggestion. ^_^

The last thing I want to say is that I saw some people thinking that Satan would have taken it easy on Ozzie because he's a royal, and while he may not kill him, you know who isn't a royal? Fizz, and Satan made it abundantly clear he thinks imp lives (and other lower class demons') have no value but to serve, so killing him or even punishing Ozzie's people doesn't seem like a ridiculous thing to believe Satan would do because he has definitely extended his reach beyond Wrath in Lucifer's absence. :/

[caldella]

Blitzø & Eye Trauma:

I think it's a very deliberate setup

Fan theory time for me again! Apologies in advance because looking up the screenshots/writing the text for this one was a massive shot of angst. A couple of these scenes are ones I still find hard to rewatch.

Some of you very observant folks here have pointed out that Blitzø seems to have trauma revolving around eyes. Specifically, that Martha's death seemed to trigger it, and not having someone to comfort him afterward (like M&M had) probably exacerbated how poorly he internalized it...

(Who TF here first pointed out him being upset and hugging himself back in the office because I found it from one of you and didn't see it myself omg)

Even though he pretended it didn't affect him, it did. Heavily. To an extent that Martha was the only one of I.M.P.'s hits that Blitzø was seen apologizing to in Apology Tour...

And the references to the eyeball loss and lack of comfort showed up as traumatic hallucinations/memories in Ghostfuckers. At least two of the "potential death" Millies included eye trauma. He tried to find comfort in the hallucination of his mother, only for her to catch fire where he touched her (a representation of his guilt for causing her death, and self-loathing at destroying people he loves). The eyeball imagery was blended in with her skull pendant and the general symbolism of her death, along with his inability to stop it or apologize for it.

Basically, he has a lot of trauma-related emotions that the eye loss seems to symbolize. It might partly reflect on his own face injury in the fire. But ultimately, it's tied to his own mother's death: the one person he most wishes he could apologize to and help but will never be able to.

I think the eye trauma concept isn't just a choice they made just to tie to the pendant and his mom - it's a deliberate choice to link things together in the future.

Because some of you very observant folks ALSO pointed out how the show subtly displayed his mother and Stolas as visually similar from his viewpoint:

And we know Blitzø really only processed that Stolas can get hurt in the last few episodes. It's only the last few episodes that he's come to terms with Stolas being someone he can't fathom losing and will fall apart without. The one person he actually wanted to apologize to in Apology Tour.

That's obviously already been tested/laid bare in Mastermind, when he thought Stolas was going to die. But there's another element here.

Part of the Stolitz Apology Tour argument included accidentally admitting that he knew about Striker's first assassination attempt and didn't say anything. Up until AT and the following episodes, part of his struggle to fully process that Stolas can get hurt was because of how terrifying that concept was for him. He was heavily in his "I hurt anyone who cares about me" mentality, and it was so much easier to convince himself that Stolas' status/immortality was above needing Blitzø or being impacted by anything he did. In his panic/denial, he claimed there was no way Stolas could've needed his help - he should've been fine handling Striker on his own. (Gawd Stolas' face in this forever breaks my heart: "holy shit he really doesn't care")

These situations are tied together because of how the conflict with Striker went in Western Energy.

Because during Striker's attack/torture, after Stolas' death was already called off, he aimed for a very specific form of mutilation that was only prevented by M&M intervening:

He literally planned to cut out Stolas' eyes.

Like HELLO?!!! HOLY SHIT?!!

The attack Blitzø convinced himself Stolas wouldn't need him for almost ended with a repeat of his biggest trauma trigger.

And I think this is going to come back at some point. While I think one of the next incidents with Striker is going to involve Via being in danger, and I still vote that I want Stolas to be the actual one who takes down Striker, I think this IS going to be a full circle situation. I think Striker is going to bring this up. Because if he puts Via and/or Stolas in danger, this isn't going to be a Western Energy situation where Blitzø isn't there. And Striker is going to be his egotistical self; he's possibly going to gloat about how close Stolas came to death and claim he's going to make good on taking the "trophy" he wanted before he was interrupted. Maybe he'll actually attempt it, too.

Blitzø is not going to take it well that someone wants to hurt the guy he calls his heart, in the exact manner he associates with his own mother's death, which he already blames himself for.

There's no way Blitzø is going to be able to be level-headed. I think he's going to take it rather personally that this almost happened, and he tried to act like Stolas didn't need him? I don't think he's going to express it verbally to Stolas or anyone (not how he functions), but if he puts these two puzzle pieces together, he's going to flip his shit. He's over his denial, he's overcoming some of his self-loathing, and he's understanding that he can make his loved ones' lives better by being present and being himself. He is not going to actually have to repeat the fire trauma because he can help this time, and he sure as fuck isn't going to blow the situation off. And at the end of it, Stolas will still be there alive to hold on to.

Stolas' situation is partly a full reversal of the circus fire trauma. He's a person Blitzø couldn't bear to lose, lost, but actually got back. Blitzø has an opportunity to build something better with him, to make up for any hurt he's caused, and to say/do all the things he couldn't before. He's been doing that since the end of Mastermind. It isn't going to stop, and I think this is potentially going to be one more parallel along the way. One more "nobody around me is getting hurt like this again so long as I'm alive to try and stop it."

[theseawitch-1102]

(❁´◡`❁)_DRAW A CHARACTER YOU LIKE!_

Hi girlys! It's been a while since I last posted anything here, so I thought it would be nice to come back with a little drawing challenge. Here are also some comments on what I think of these characters.

Striker 🌵: Being a Striker fan… it's a daily routine of having a pie thrown in your face and still hoping that one day that won't happen and you'll be able to enjoy the pie. I still remember how intrigued I was by his character in his first appearance. There was something that made him different from all the previous villains. He seemed poised to be the antithesis of Blitzo, the one who would lead him to rethink his very questionable relationship with Stolas, and the one who would actually take action on the issue of discrimination and mistreatment of imps, even if it resulted in questionable methods and disastrous results. Unparalleled narrative potential. …Only for all his potential to be thrown away, ridiculing and discrediting even the true parts of his message, transforming him into a hypocrite with a single purpose: to keep the main couple unaffected and ensure that a certain owl prince wouldn't have to take responsibility for his actions. If it hurts enough that a character can't reach his potential because his series was cancelled… It hurts even more to see how his creators voluntarily throw him away.

Apple White🍎 : Oh Apple, the series never got to show you all your glory. This young woman is EAH's co-star and public enemy of half the fandom. You can hate her or love her, but you'll always have an opinion about her. Arrogant but fair, kind but narrow-minded, she can be many things. But if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that compared to the books, the series doesn't explore the complexity of her character as much, the pressures she was under, the microaggressions, the insecurity, and above all, the fear of the future, uncertainty, and even death. What can I say, I have a weakness for complex characters in narrative (and also for pretty clothes, but shhh. I am just a girl).

Emperor Belos 👑: Wow, what a pleasure having you as a villain. The context of his upbringing, an extreme emotional dependence on his brother, during a period of religious fanaticism and persecution, a boy who only grew up to be a witch hunter. This son of a bitch is a bastard, and his writing is fabulous. Manipulative, macabre, and extremely cruel, so dedicated to his cause that for hundreds of years he never abandoned his mission. He's a fabulous villain, and to this day I regret that we never had the chance to see more of his story in the series.

Martin and Chris Kratt 🌿🌊: DON'T JUDGE ME, GUYS. I DIDN'T FIND OUT THESE TWO WERE REAL PEOPLE UNTIL I WAS 16. I still think of their animated versions as endearing characters from my childhood. Both brothers are quite similar, but they still have clear differences: one is an optimist who's more careless but protective, and on the other hand, Mr. Sassy, ​​organized, calculating, but just as absent-minded at times. If you're an anxious person who doesn't mind being told 20,000 random facts about animals, you should watch this series to relax.

Tom Lucitor ❤️‍🔥: This doesn't need any further explanation. HE'S ONE OF SVTFOE'S BEST CHARACTERS, AND I'LL FIGHT ANYONE WHO DENIES ME. I didn't leave the series just because of him; it was that simple.

Ford Pines 🤚: Ford, you're a disaster, but you're my disaster. It's hilarious that he was selected for the "by design" category when I'm a fan of shows like EAH or Monster High, but what can I say? He fulfills the cliches I always include in my own characters: long trench coats, boots, turtlenecks. I found it too comical how he matched everything. But I can't deny how much I love this man's story: his ego, his desire for glory, his dreams of redemption, and the inevitable catastrophe, the paranoia, the helplessness, and ultimately, peace.

[blossomthepinkbunny]

Vivzepops fetishization of queer men and the lack of Sapphic content in HH and HB

I found it a bit dissapointing that Charlie and Vaggie had very little interactions that could be read as romantic or sexual, especially since they are the supposedly the main couple of Hazbin Hotel and have been together the longest out of most of the couples in HH and HB.

Of course having more casual representation is also fine but the most memorable thing about their relationship was the quickly resolved argument they had when Charlie found out about Vaggies past. I've seen different opinions about how they were handled as a pair.

I understand when someone says that they enjoyed a more relaxed couple with subtle, realistic interactions, interactions that are often overlooked just because both characters are female.

But I can also agree, that they were really not a stand-out couple (wich is weird since Charlie is the main Character) and that it was a bit dissapointing to not see a lot of content for them.

Now the main issue I found with this is that in Vivzepops stories there is a definitive lack of sapphic content. It sometimes seems like women are sexless unless they are with a man. But two men can be sexual and openly affectionate (romantically too). At first I didn't really understand why I felt weird about Chaggie as a couple, so I looked at all the implied/canon ships in Helluva and Hazbin (including past relationships).

Implied/canon couples between a man and a woman:

-Millie and Moxxie

-Blitzø and Verosika

-Stolas and Stella

-Millie and Chaz

-Beelzebub and Vortex

-Sir Pentious and Cherry Bomb

-Adam and Lute

-Lucifer and Lilith

Implied/canon couples between two men:

-Stolas and Blitzø

-Asmodeus and Fizzarolli

-Moxxie and Chaz

-Angel Dust and Husk

-Vox and Valentino

Implied/canon couples between two women:

-Charlie and Vaggie

Now please tell me if I missed any, but these were the ones I could think of.

Honorable mentions include Loona & Vortex, Blitzø & Striker, Blitzø & Chaz and Blitzø & Fizzarolli. But I didn't put these on there because they're either one-sided or don't have enough romantic content.

Now it's very easy to see the difference between representation for queer men in comparison to queer women in these shows. The only relevant (im not counting Background characters) Sapphic relationship there is, is Chaggie. And it's completely underrepresented when compared to the content the man x woman or man x man ships get (not to mention the total absence of gender-queer characters).

One of Millie's and Moxxie's jokes is that they're so in love, that they're almost always cuddling, holding hands, talking sweet or just straight up making out with eachother (I'll talk about Millie a bit later). Sir Pentious had multiple scenes dedicated to him trying to confess to Cherry Bomb or just crushing on her in general.

Stolas' and Blitzø's relationship has become one of the main topics of Helluva Boss and they get a Backstory and explicit aswell as dramatic scenes for them as a couple. The same goes for Asmodeus and Fizzarolli (except that their love isn't as important). Angel Dust and Husk get a song and part of an episode for their relationship to develop.

Here i'd also have to mention that by the list I made Vivzepop's fetish for queer men is very prevalent. Most of the couples between men and women are either past relationships or they get very little attention to them. The only ships that often get special focus, development or explicitly romantic/sexual focus are ships with two men (no matter if their dynamics are even good, healthy etc.).

Now for Millie there are different ways you could talk about her situation with relationships. In general I think that everyone can agree that Millie lacks Character and is a good representation for the neglect of the female characters. Most of her moments revolve around Moxxie in a way and she hasn't had precise characterization so far.

Millie's relationship with Moxxie is sweet and simple and is generally one of the better things about Helluva Boss (if you ignore Millies lack of personality wich really pulls the couple down for me). Now the Episode "Exes and Oohs" shows the mutual Ex of Millie and Moxxie. Chaz dated both of them and as we see in the episode affected both of them very negatively. At the start we literally see Millie freak out and destroy a bunch of stuff, just because she saw Chaz on the street.

Yet Millie's relationship with him is never explored further. All we know is that she dislikes him and that he's a giant asshole. Whereas Moxxie get's a whole Backstory and episode plot about him and Chaz. No focus is given to Millie at all even though Chaz is the ex of BOTH of them.

Another thing that I wanna point out is Millie's possible Bisexuality. Now im not so sure for this point because I couldn't find genuine confirmation on wether Millie is actually confirmed to be Bisexual or if it's just a headcannon. So take this with a grain of salt BUT if Millie is Bisexual then she perfectly shows how little Vivzepop cares about Sapphic representation. What does Moxxie get to confirm him as Bisexual? An ex of the same gender (also multiple explicit flashbacks with him), a whole discussion about his queer identity and a scene where he literally says that he's Bisexual. Moxxie is pretty good Bisexual representation in that regard.

What does Millie get? Nothing. Again I don't know if she's genuinely also Bisexual or if it's ever been confirmed but it'd also be pretty weird if Vivzepop apparently cares so much about queer representation and then doesn't confirm any female characters as actually queer.

I think a lot of people have talked about her blatant fetishization of queer men and I think that that's also mainly why I feel weird by the lack of attention on Vaggie and Charlie as a couple.

I sorta wish I could enjoy a more toned-down and realistic couple in these shows, but when I see that a ship like Vox and Alastor (wich isn't canon nor would it even happen since Alastor is Aroace) is talked about more than the actual main character's relationship I just don't like it.

There's so much more you could say about poor queer representation by Vivzepop (like the fact that she's fine with people ignoring Alastors Aroace identity, and the stereotypes etc) I mainly wanted to talk about the neglect of her female cast in terms of sexuality.

[ripplestitchskein]

Let’s talk about miscommunication in narratives for a second because I think it’s a point that gets missed based on comments I see in various social media platforms and on the episodes themselves.

Bad writing of miscommunication between two characters is usually down to a few things:

- Two characters who would normally talk about the issue just…aren’t. There is no narrative explanation as to why the two characters are not discussing whatever The Issue is and it’s purely to create an artificial conflict. Usually the lack of communication is wildly out of character and there are many examples of the characters discussing similar issues previously without issue but because the writer needs two people not to talk about it, they don’t.

- The miscommunication is caused by an easily cleared up misunderstanding. A missed phone call. A missed note. This does not include plot devices like another character deliberately orchestrating the misunderstanding by deleting a call or throwing away a note but is usually just a lazy way of inciting a miscommunication through pure coincidence, and it would be easily solved by a “Didn’t you get my note/phonecall?” If there has been previous established character anxieties or a history of a character being flakey or not following through this can also be used effectively to create a plausible reason for The Issue that could be rooted in real conflict, but if it’s just a simple happenstance it’s usually just laziness on the part of the writer to drive conflict for conflict’s sake.

- Two characters are given information by someone the narrative has already established as being untrustworthy but for plot reasons they believe them anyway. Again, on its own this isn’t necessarily bad writing, if some effort has been made to give the characters a reason to believe it, such as a doctored image or other proof, even if the credibility of the messenger is shaky because they are a villain or otherwise untrustworthy, that is enough to dodge the bad writing accusation in most cases. If there is no reason to trust the information they just do because that’s what the plot needs that is bad writing.

So let’s talk about when miscommunication is NOT bad writing or why two characters can’t simply say what needs to be said to resolve the issue based on comments I’ve seen for HB:

- A character has been previously established as having difficulty opening up or discussing The Issue. A good example is Stolas and Octavia. A commenter said “If Stolas had just told her he was depressed/unhappy they wouldn’t be at odds”. Well yeah. But we saw in LooLoo Land that he has difficulty discussing it with her. He had difficulty discussing it with Blitz as well. It’s a well established character trait that he does not discuss these things. It’s a critical part of his character arc so it makes sense that he wouldn’t just say it, and where they are now it’s been established that even if he HAD she wouldn’t believe it. The writing covered it from both angles.

- Two characters are avoiding a conversation because of circumstance or a character conflict. For Stolitz they still haven’t just come out and said how they feel. But we also spent a bunch of episodes showing why these two characters wouldn’t just do that, we’ve shown they have trouble expressing those feelings verbally, and we also have several situations where it simply wasn’t appropriate to have that conversation. Right after the trial wasn’t a good time, Stolas was still reeling from losing everything and at best it would read as Blitz saying he loved him because he saved him. And it wasn’t a good time after Octavia because obviously that’s a bad fucking time to broach the subject of a relationship that is the root cause of a major family upheaval. We the audience have both sides but as I’ve said before from Stolas’s perspective the last contact he had with Blitz that we know he remembers was before the party. He also just went through an entire season where he was shown that he shouldn’t trust his own judgment or choices. There is a whole song where he questions his own perceptions and that was NOT resolved. Before Stolas saved him the last Blitz had was Stolas going off with BTB guy, and Stolas is an emotional mess from the moment they meet again until the end of Sinsmas. All perfectly valid and established reasons they can’t just say the thing.

-Two characters are manipulated into not speaking by outside forces. While I do think Octavia and Stolas teeter between believability when it comes to Stella and Andrealphus’s machinations enough has been established to make it at least credible that Octavia would still doubt her father even though her mother is blatantly keeping them from speaking in Sinsmas in front of her. I don’t think the BEST choices were made there writing wise, but I think they established enough to make it at least tolerable. I wouldn’t go as far as to say it was bad writing, maybe a little rushed but not bad. We’ve had enough shown of Octavia’s insecurities and Stolas’s probably neurodivergence and trauma driven Out of Sight, Out of Immediate Mind to make it credible.

A major reason why two characters can’t simply “talk to one another” is simply that the plot demands it. There’s no story otherwise, especially in a largely character driven narrative like Helluva Boss. The external threats are secondary to the character’s own issues with this show, there wouldn’t really BE a show without them, at least not an interesting one. And I do think this lack of understanding of what comprises good miscommunication based on established characterizations and events from bad miscommunication that is forced for plot convenience drives a lot of the misinformed takes I see.

Just because two characters aren’t communicating does not automatically = writing bad, you have to consider all the factors and where the characters are to make that determination.

[stardancerluv]

What the Emperor Wants

Part Twenty

Summary: Geta & his reader are finally wed, Geta remembers when he first saw reader, when he first wanted her.

Notes/Warnings: 18+, p in v consensual sex, squint dommy/darker Geta, squint breeding kink, mentions of voilence, dated views of marriage..man/women dynamics, flashbacks in italics. I give a backstory to the little girls (from the deleted scene…included in the collage) seen tossing flower petals. Mixed in some traditional Ancient Roman practices with some bits that are the “writer” in me. Enjoy!

“Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.” : “Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia." traditional Roman wedding vow, stola & palla: parts of women’s clothing in Rome.

❤️s, reblogs, comments, feedback are all welcome. 💐 (sorry for the delay on this chapter) Thank you for reading! ❤️

You bathed once again, fresh braids with new ribbons twined your hair. You ignored the sliver of red that remained Tertia’s dagger near your heart. It was vivid and red but had not drawn blood.

You were grateful no damage by the grace of the gods had been done to your wedding clothes. Through the pain during the violent attack you saw the stars. You were still unsteady by the attack. You wondered how long she had been planning it. The thought made you ill.

Stirring in Geta’s arms was truly a gift. A soft look had come from him. His eyes like warm like a summer’s soil despite his sharp appearance; the finely crafted ebony lines that traced his eyes or powder that dusted his smooth face. His softness, made your affections for him to grow.

*******

The spice of incense filled the air. He stood waiting for you. He had wrung his hands behind his back in anticipation. It had felt like this day was longer than most in his life. His eyes settled on the follows Mila and Flora had sprinkled in their wake.

He had always thought, Caralla would be impulsive and marry. It would be a scandal. It would have been frowned upon and it would have been nulled. There would have been a lot of drama.

As he grew into a man, first son his mother reminded him of the importance of marriage and having a heir. His father when not beating on him and Caracalla, more him would speak of expanding the empire. It was the only thing he was ever in agreement with his father.

He wanted Rome to be as large and as powerful as possible. Marriage and having a heir bored him. It made him vulnerable. He never wanted that. And yet a solid party or particularly in fight in the arena pleased him. Punishing foes in it brought an invigorating enjoyment to it.

It was in his royal box, when everything changed for him. A gentle breeze swirled into the royal box; it drew his attention away from his gladiator that was astride a rhino. He watched as a stray strands blew into your eyes. You were as delicate as the petals that were now thrown at his feet.

The room brightening, he looked up as Aelia holding a robust torch stood a safe distance behind you. The sight of you with the crown and gold veil obscuring your face made his heart skip.

*******

Candles flickered, the scent incense swirled in the air. Distantly, the small coin shifted in your shoe as you walked. You focused on the one you held. As Aelia, followed with a brilliant torch which brought a great warmth as she followed close.

Just ahead of you; you saw as the little girls who were always called upon to toss flower petals. They were always called upon when needed, last you saw them was when Rome was seeing off General Acacius. He was atop his large, strong horse that he would ride to his ship. Now they were there for you. The petals you saw underfoot, were lovely and rich in color.

The two girls were sweet, well cared for. Aelia, was a mother to them. From the handful of moments, you had seen them with her. The whispers you had heard, spoke of their parents having taken ill and Aelia had taken up the care of them.

Geta, had bestowed them to her. Though, it was well known that she carried out all of her duties for Geta and Caracalla; along with the duties of the little ones. Usually, you saw them helping with the culina. Helping to clean and gather the fruits and nuts for Geta, Caracalla and now for you to enjoy. Their clothes for this grand day was even lovelier than ever.

Finally, glancing up you saw that you had reached where Geta stood, the sight of him before you stole your breath. He looked absolutely magnificent, your heart squeezed with excitement.

********

As you drew closer, he remembered the stolen moment. He had needed some air, Caracalla was being particularly excessive with his drinking so he needed to just step away. Hearing voices, he paused in the shadows. It had not taken him long before he realized it was your voice he heard. As he heard how you knit words together kept him listening. It made him more curious about you. He was certain the gods chose you to be the embodiment of the poetry and art he loved so dearly. The more he heard you speak, he knew he had to have you. And now he did.

******

Gently, you opened your veil. The material was as soft as a breath. You barely felt it. Blinking, you looked and met his eyes. A warmth, a happiness came over you. A soft smile curled his lips.

“Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.” You whispered, offering a gentle hand to him.

He gently took your hand in his. “Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius.”

With his other hand, he easily slid a far grander ring upon your finger it nestled the one he had given you prior nicely.

“My heart.” He whispered.

His soft words made your eyes water.

Gently turning his hand you placed the ceremonial coin into his palm. It had been made during the time of his father. On the side opposite his father’s face was one of venus. Now, that he would lead as emperor, a coin would be made in his honor.

Once in the city walls of Rome, you had seen and even used a coin that had the profiles of both him and Caracalla. It had an astonishing resemblance to the both of them. You would have had never thought, one day you’d be in the same space of them or even come to love of them.

Your affection for him continued to grow. He had chosen you to be at his side; yet there was a distant tingle of apprehension. Silently, within your heart you gave prayers of gratitude to the gods, goddesses. Yet, you wondered what they chose for the both of you.

*******

As you drew close, he could barely discern, your silhouette under the delicate golden colored veil. How delicate you were at this moment, made him pause. This was it. A new life for him was beginning and he felt exhilarated.

His mind’s eye easily knew the curve of your lips, the apple of your cheeks and the vibrance of your eyes; he grew hungry for the feel of you.

He gently took your hand in his. “Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius.”

You easily revealed yourself from behind the veil and his breath caught despite all the tribulations of the day, you were his beauty.

Your voice soft and ever so pleasing to his ears.

Easily, he placed your hand within his. Barely pausing, he slid a far grander ring upon your finger it nestled the one he had given you prior nicely. You were now, his wife…his empress; and the spoke the part that remained.

“My heart.” He whispered.

As he saw tears in your eyes, he longed to brush them aside with his thumb, or even kiss them away.

He was ready to truly lead and have you at his side.

*******

He had held above you the cake, easily crumbling it far above your laurel crown and the animals had been given to the gods, goddesses; now the celebration was in full swing. The finest foods were displayed and passed around on beautiful plates. Music filled and swirled in the fragrant air.

“Blossom, you are now the empress of the world.” Geta’s whispered in your ear, he brushed away some crumbs of cake he had broke above your head, as he did he saw a shaving from a walnut that lingered on one of your shoulders.

A flush filled your cheeks as you turned to look at him. “As long as I am by your side, that is all that truly concerns to me.”

He smiled. “You will always be my sweet blossom.”

You nodded.

He reached and held your hand, his thumb grazing your knuckles. “Does this all please you?”

“I don’t know where or what to enjoy first?” You confessed. “But the dancers and singers are lovely.”

“They are. They arrived from one of our new providences.”

You nodded.

Sitting back he smiled, pleased. Many a wonderful tribute had been made to the two of you. Despite Thraex and his attempt to dampen the mood of this union, the people in attendance appeared happy.

He would have to keep an eye on that power hungry senator.

Your brother and his continued to get along, this helped his spirits. That illness that had taken ahold of his brother could let itself known at anytime and was violent. He had worried it would bring a sourness to Caracalla since they both knew that the marriage would mean. At the moment, he saw him smiling and enjoying the company of a dancer that swished closer to him. A large plate of food sat in front of him and had a wine in hand. He could see just how content he was, this meant the night would end well considering how badly the day had begun.

Silently, in his heart he spoke prayers for his gratitude over how well had turned. He could have lost you. Glancing at you, he squeezed your hand that he still held. He was also beyond grateful that his brother’s illness had not brought a shadow of madness today.

Taking a sip of his wine, he felt good.

*******

Excitement tingled within you, as you stood in the middle of the chambers that the two of you now would share. Your laurel crown and veil sat beside his at a nearby table. You still marveled at how you had kept it atop your head the entire evening during the festivities. You had stood up and sat, a handful of moments, had it remained unwavering.

Glancing, at his grand bed which looked far bigger than he had previously, you longed for to join with him as a man and wife did. Idly, you wondered if it would feel different since you two were now married.

You watched as Geta, took a hold of the ceremonial dagger. His clothes swung and flowed as turned back to you. There was a twinkle in his eye that shone as brightly as his good mood.

He reached out and pulled you to him by the knotted belt that had hung from your waist. Seeing, feeling that small display of strength pleased you.

“My wife, my empress.”

“I am.”

“With slice of this dagger, I cut to free you from your previous bonds of life.”

“Yes, my sire.”

He pressed his lips together and nodded.

“It You will free you to be my wife, mother of the children we will surely have, empress of the Roman people and so that you can accompany me the underworld when death has come for me.”

“Free me, my love.” You replied softly.

Once again nodded. Your heart beat harder as he tugged harder on the belt, pulling you even closer. He rose his hand that held the dagger, the belt hung tautly onto you. Lowering the sharp blade it easily sliced the knot at the center of the belt.

You wilted into one of his waiting arms as the belt then fell to the ground at your feet. His eyes met yours as he looked down at you. A smile curled his lips. He brought the dagger up once more. He glanced at it and then you.

“My brother in one of his fits, would have wished me to plunge this into your heart.”

“Yes. It would have been your right. He suspected, I wanted to take you from this world.”

“Yes.”

He threw the dagger into the shadows of the room, the metal clanking against the floor as it tumbled. He brought a hand to your throat.

“I would have much rather stolen your breath with hands around your subtle throat.”

“I would have let you. To perish by your hands would have been a great pleasure.”

His words, the look that entered his eyes made your heart thud harder. A sharp, aching need to feel and have him above you grew between your legs. His lips curled from a smile into a smirk, as you felt as his thumb caress your throat. You trembled gently.

“I still wish to steal your breath but only as our passions are met and we become one.”

“Then do not delay our passions any further my husband, my emperor.”

********

He did not know what had taken him over. The dark edge that had first emerged between the two of you brought an exquisite contrast to the warmth and love he felt for you.

“You are beautiful.” He breathed. “Get onto bed, I don’t want to wait.”

He loved seeing the dusting of pink that reached your cheeks. You slipped from his arms and your wedding clothes, he loved being able to see your curves once again especially as you were crawling over the expanse of the bed.

******

He pulled himself free of the many layers that covered him, before finally crawling over and settling happily between your legs. With a smirk still across his face, on he relished the sight of your legs opening wider for him. Moving just so, he captured your mouth with his. He could taste the fruit and sweets, you both indulged in. Though they tasted better on your lips.

As he kissed you still bracing himself on the bed, he reached down. Laying a hand on your soft mound, he allowed his thumb to graze your special bud that was nestled at the apex between your legs.

“Geta.”

His stomach tightened in pleasure at how his name was a mixture of a purr and a moan.

“Did that feel good blossom?” He met your eyes, he could see the fire of your passions in them.

“Yes.” You licked your lips.

He needed to watch as you writhed under him once again. His thumb grazed you once more.

His desire, knotted in his stomach. Biting back his own moan, he wrapped his fingers around himself.

“We will become one blossom, my empress.”

“Yes, yes please.”

Gently he rubbed his tip against to soft petals that were you. Were as dewy as a spring morning. He loved knowing he was the cause of this. Taking a breath, finding your entrance with the greeting of gentle snugness he then slid into you. He finally could not contain the moan that erupted from him. You felt amazing.

******

Pleasure ripped through you as you felt him enter you. Moans, whimpered poured from your lips. As your eyes met, you felt as he took a hold of hip and soon the passions ignited between the two of you. Lips met, both of you moved together and moans became you one.

“Perhaps this time, since we are man and wife, your belly will take my seed.” His voice was deep and raspy in his pleasure as he spoke in your ear.

“Yes. Yes.” You moaned softly, writhing in his arms.

Thoughts barely filled you. The pleasure was intense.

“Call out for me, wife. Call out for me.” He urged.

Distantly, you felt as one of his hands drifted between the two of you. Next, stars burst as if from the heavens as his touch sent off your pleasure.

“Ooh Geta.” You called out. “Geta!” His name burst from deep within you. You trembled.

“Look at me.” His hair was a mess and wild, like true fire and his eyes matched it.

He moved what felt like deeper within you. It made you call out in pleasure, as his fingers dug into your hip.

Through your half open eyes, heavy with bliss you watched as he arched between your legs, your name one mingling with his own moan. He choked, gasping for air and called out as you felt his seed spilled, filling you.

********

Stirring, a soft sound came from you. Your eyes fluttered open to find Geta holding your hand. The rings were flush as they fit snugly on your finger.

“Something drifting in your mind?” You asked softly.

“I am fond of this. This is very pleasing to me.”

You smiled. “I do like these rings you chose for me. They are truly beautiful.” Any words you could express would truly pale to how you actually felt.

You glanced up at him. It gave you the view of how he brought your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss just above the rings.

“Not as beautiful as you.”

*******

Aelia, fluffed the purple. The vividness of the purple palla contrasting the whiteness of the stola, made you truly feel like the flowers Geta always compared you to.

“They will love you, girl.” She whispered. You met her eyes and nodded.

“Don’t make her nervous, Aelia.” Even with the trumpets as loud as they were, you could still hear the jest in his voice.

“Far from it sire.” Her whispered.

You met her eyes over your shoulder, you shared a fleeting nod.

His hand met yours and squeezed.

“Yes, sister.” Caracalla, quickly added. Dondas, followed with a chirp as if to agree. “They had better. Or I will have their heads taken.”

You looked in his direction, just to his own laurel crown. You were not completely comfortable with this new dynamic to your relationship of sorts. You did not wish to upset his temperament. “Thank you.” You replied softly.

*******

“Citizens of Rome!” The herald called out.

Silence fell over the crowd, high and low born alike.

Your stomach twisted. You reached and squeezed Geta’s hand, he replied with his own squeeze once again.

“Today is a day of celebration. We are in the presence of Emperor Geta and his wife, the empress….”

The excitement pounded in your ears that you could barely hear as he announced you.

@honey-eyed-munson @amethyst-serenade @laura-naruto-fan1998 @screaming-blue-bagel @kitkat80 @blondie324 @alyisdead @hellomadamebutterfly @helsa3942 @marrowfrog00 @misspendragonsworld @therealjomarch @deliciousfestsalad @aspiringwhore @justalittlebitshy @littlemissholy @ruinedbythehobbit

[blitzwhore]

Wait... Wait. Because there's been so much talk lately of how Blitz is the parental figure Octavia needs right now because (unlike Stolas) he knows how to deal with older teenagers and young adults without treating them like they're still a little kid. Which I absolutely 100% agree with. But.

What about the opposite. What about Stolas being the parental figure Loona needs because he knows how to parent a small child. She never had any love growing up, so what if sometimes she just needs someone who can read her cues that she's feeling vulnerable and scared the way she did as a little kid? Someone who can comfort and hold her?

Blitz gives Loona so much affection, physical affection included, but I don't think it'd come naturally to him to just hold her in his arms for a while. But what if at some point Stolas did it without even thinking. What if he saw Loona about to break down and just pulled her into an embrace on instinct. What then???

[doodler16]

To be fair I liked of some of standees of pride month. They're very beautiful in genral and I liked they made one of Octavia and didn't make one of Chaz. This stupid shark has more merch of him than he deserves.

But even so I still have problems with them.

The three male Goetia we know in the show are gay. Really? There no bi, ace or pan among the male Goetias? Viv are not doing any favor to herself or to hide her hiperfixation in skinny gays characters

Barbie is here. Her appearence in the serie was short and meanless, but she is never forgotten when they need to make more merch for to sell.

Mammon finally appeared in the merch again! And holding money bags. And it could have worked in any other collection. But in this one just reinforce what Viv said in the past about aces just being so selfish people to be able to love anyone but themselves. Or, in this case, he is only able to love money.

More Mayberry and Martha merch. Why? Viv, maybe you forgot but you aren't even able to sold all the keychains from them of the Valentine Day. The couple is not so popular as she thinks.

We know now Mayberry, Martha and Vassago sexualities. But not Stella's? Really?

Oh yeah! The merch artists did an amazing job with the standees, shirts, and posters. Very cute and colorful. I’m glad Octavia and Mammon had their chance to shine.

- To be fair: Stolas, Vassago, and Andrealphus are the only ones who are the main focus. The rest of background characters that don’t have a speaking role: However, I do hope in the near future they expand when it comes to other sexualities. For example: nonbinary, agender, aroace, (an actual active) trans-male, etc.

- Barbie wire better be in season 3. Her debut episode was horrible, we have seen Barbie more in merchandise than in the actual show.

- Our boy Mammon is back. I really hope Vivziepop views on asexuality have changed.

- One word: Morgana. Whether that’s a good or bad thing that’s up to you to decide. Here’s the update on said situation:

- Yeah, it is interesting that Stella and Striker’s sexuality haven’t been revealed but we got everyone including Alessio (a background character).

[rxqueenotd]

PART VI

In the Roman world, damnatio memoriae was used to describe a range of actions taken against former leaders and their reputations. These actions included: defacing visual depictions, removing heads from public statues, chiseling names off inscriptions, and destroying coins.

summary: reader, who goes by 'Prima', was raised by a powerful Roman consul, under the reign of Imperator Septimius Severus. When it comes time for his eldest son, Caracalla, to marry again, a chain of events is set off, changing the course of Prima's life and the lives around her.

warnings: major character death, crucifixion, rough sex, swearing, mentions of menstruation, ancient Rome as a warning in itself, read previous warnings.

notes: I am posting this at 2:57 AM EST. I had no intention of posting this today or touching this fic, but I have written 6 different variations of this chapter alone and finally weaved them all together the way I liked. This has not been beta'd at all so please forgive any mistakes. I argued with myself about making this chapter smuttier just for my reader's pleasure and what not, but the plot outweighed the horny this time. Once again, this fic is a labor of love and really has pushed me to become a stronger writer. I can tell that my style is changing and evolving, so thanks to everyone who has pushed me to keep going. This has almost been like therapy.

The road to Rome stretched before you like a serpent, winding through the countryside and coiling as the company rode without slowing. The rhythmic pounding of hooves against the packed dirt was the only sound filling the tense silence between you, Caracalla, and Geta. The heat of Caracalla’s body behind you was grounding, his arm wrapped around your waist in a firm grip, as if he sensed you might slip away into your thoughts if he let go.

Geta rode beside you, his posture rigid, his face unreadable. The tension between the brothers was palpable, taut like a bowstring ready to snap. You felt the weight of their unspoken words pressing down on you, suffocating in its heaviness. But you were not thinking of them. Your mind was elsewhere—on what you had left behind in Baiae, on what waited for you in Rome, and on the bitter taste of something you had not yet named.

Surrounding you were the Praetorians, their polished armor gleaming under the midday sun, their silent presence a constant reminder of the power that enclosed you on all sides. Their formation was tight, disciplined, ensuring that no one, whether from ahead or within your own group, could act without consequence.

It wasn’t until the outskirts of Baiae came into view that unease settled deep in your bones. You had not expected such a crowd as you passed through. The streets were unusually dense, the hum of voices growing louder as you entered. A slow dread curled in your stomach as you took in the gathered masses, their eyes fixed on something ahead. The murmurs were thick with cruel delight and hushed horror.

The horse beneath you slowed as Caracalla pulled on the reins, a low chuckle vibrating from his chest. “Ah,” he murmured, amusement lacing his tone, “Baiae always loves a spectacle.”

At first, it was just a shape against the sky, something out of place in the sea of bodies. Then the sun glinted off gold—bracelets, delicate and familiar, still clinging to limp wrists. Dread rooted itself deep in your stomach as realization struck.

There, raised high above the crowd, was a cross. And nailed to it, her body battered, her golden bracelets still glinting in the harsh daylight, was Prosperina.

The world constricted, narrowing to that single point of horror. The delicate curve of her throat now bore the grotesque bruises of strangulation. Her lips were parted in eternal silence. The silk of her stola was torn, stained with blood that had long dried in the heat of the sun.

You barely registered the way Caracalla’s fingers tightened against your waist, or the low murmur of the crowd. The only thing you could hear was the rushing in your ears, the sharp thrum of blood pounding against your temples.

Geta’s voice, quiet yet sharp, cut through the haze. “You look pale, Prima.”

You swallowed hard, your nails digging into your palms to ground yourself. “I did not expect such a… crowd.” Your voice was steadier than you felt, but even that small victory felt hollow.

Caracalla’s lips brushed the shell of your ear, his breath warm and thick with something unreadable. “Fitting, isn’t it?” he murmured. “She should have known better. You do now, don’t you?”

A tremor ran through you, though you masked it well. The weight of his words was heavier than the bodies they strung up for sport. You forced yourself to turn, to meet his gaze with something softer than defiance, though the battle within you raged hotter than ever.

“I do,” you said, voice quiet but firm.

His smirk softened, but he said nothing more.

The horse continued forward, but your mind remained rooted to that cross, to the woman who had, for a brief moment, shown you something outside the prison of power and control.

As the procession moved through the streets, as Baiae faded behind you on the road to Rome, you knew something had shifted, something within you now lost—dead, like the woman left hanging in the sun.

____________________________________________________________________________

The gates of the imperial palace groaned open just before sunrise. The courtyard stood empty, silent, and dark, the usual watchful presence of stewards and servants absent. No warm towels, no priestly incense, no wine. Just shadow and the faint scent of oil burned low in the sconces.

You dismounted without assistance, your hands steady as they gripped the saddle though every movement pulled at the flesh along your spine. The bandage there had begun to stiffen, tugging each time you shifted, a constant reminder of what had happened—what had been taken, and what had been allowed. Your sandals struck the ground with more weight than grace, and you straightened slowly, letting the pain sharpen your focus as you adjusted your cloak around your shoulders.

Caracalla said nothing as he passed beneath the archway ahead, his stride even, his guards flanking him in tight formation. He did not glance back. He hadn’t looked at you since Prosperina. Geta lingered behind the procession, his mount moving at a slower pace, his posture upright but not tense. His eyes moved across the palace walls, the dark windows, the empty balconies, watching, calculating, but not speaking. When his gaze fell on you, it stayed there.

You crossed the threshold last, stepping beneath the arch into the quiet weight of the palace. Once, this place had felt like a stage—alive with light and movement, voices echoing through marble corridors, laughter tucked into every shadow. Now it held the stillness of something recently abandoned. The torches flickered low and uneven, their flames too faint to chase away the gloom. You could smell old smoke, dust, and the faint rot of laurel leaves gone brittle.

Nothing had changed. But something in the air whispered that everything had.

Your footsteps echoed in the silence, a sound too loud in a space that used to absorb it. You felt eyes on you—servants tucked into doorways, guards watching from behind columns, the unseen murmur of slaves pressing themselves into corners, all of them waiting for the measure of what had returned. You said nothing. You met no gaze. You walked slowly, each step purposeful, letting your silence speak for you.

When you reached your chambers, the guards stationed there snapped upright, too quickly, as if your presence had startled them. Neither spoke. One inhaled sharply and didn’t release the breath until you dismissed them with a single word. They bowed—not deeply, not confidently—and stepped back into the shadows, grateful not to be summoned further.

The door closed behind you with a soft thud that felt heavier than it should have, sealing you inside a room untouched since you left it. Everything was as it had been. Your robe hung neatly behind the changing screen. A scroll lay open beside the chaise, its parchment curled at the edges. For a moment, you simply stood there, letting your eyes move across the space, cataloguing the unchanged. A strange stillness settled in your bones, as if you were no longer sure whether this room belonged to you, or if you had returned to it too changed to belong anywhere at all. You didn’t reach for the lamp. You didn’t undress. You only peeled back the poorly wrapped bandage and studied your palm.

The wound had stopped bleeding, but it was far from closed. The gash ran diagonally across the softest part of your hand, shallow but angry, pulsing faintly with each beat of your heart. It had been carved clean, and though you had bound it tightly with linen, the wrap had grown damp with sweat and the faint trace of blood that still seeped through.

You flexed your fingers slowly, testing the skin. The pain was sharp, but not unfamiliar. It wasn’t the first time you had bled for someone else’s power, but this time, you had drawn the blade.

You moved to the chaise, lowering yourself with more care than grace. Each shift in weight pulled at your back. The bandage you’d wrapped there before leaving Baiae had begun to tear away from the wound. You could feel it loosening beneath the fabric of your shift, the blood that had dried into the cloth threatening to pull again with every breath.

You didn’t call for assistance. You hadn’t since you returned. There would be no one to see you undress, no one to lay out clean robes, no one to scrub your fingernails. That, too, had been intentional.

The knock came only once before the door opened.

The healer entered without ceremony, without hesitation. She was older, her skin darkened by years of sun and work, her frame lean and steady. A long scar crossed her jaw, but her hands were clean and bare. She carried a basin of water, steam curling upward, and a folded cloth tucked under one arm. She did not speak. She did not bow.

You said nothing as she crossed the room and set her things beside you. She did not ask where the wound was. She simply moved behind you, lifting the hem of your cloak, then your shift, and found the bandage.

You had done your best with it, but it had slipped out of place during the journey. Her fingers worked quickly, unwinding the fabric, peeling it free from the broken skin beneath. The salve you had used was nearly gone, the cut reopened from the motion of riding. You inhaled through your nose and held still. The cloth pressed against your back, soaked in vinegar and lavender, stung sharply. You didn’t flinch. Her touch was practiced and methodical.

You remained seated for what could have been minutes or hours. Time stretched strangely in the hush that followed. The cloth beneath you had begun to cool, clinging faintly to your skin, when the healer, who had not yet left, cleared her throat softly.

Without waiting for your response, she moved toward the adjoining room, gesturing with a subtle flick of her fingers.

“Come,” she said, not unkindly.

You rose without speaking.

The air in the balneum was warm and heavy, scented with steam and oil. The water in the sunken bath shimmered faintly, moving only by the slow, steady trickle of a fountain built into the far wall. Steam curled from the surface, catching in your throat with the faint sting of rosemary and crushed mint.

The healer moved without commentary, setting down her basin and cloth on a low bench before stepping to the edge of the water. She reached for a slender bottle of warmed oil and poured it slowly into the bath, the surface blooming with a slick sheen.

You untied the sash at your waist and let your shift slip from your shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor without ceremony. She did not avert her gaze. She had seen bodies broken before—this was simply another kind of ruin.

As you stepped down into the balneum, the warmth enveloped you immediately, rising to your thighs, then to your waist. The ache in your muscles softened, only slightly dulled by the heat. You sank into the water until it covered you up to your chest, your elbows resting on the smooth ledge at either side.

The healer knelt beside the bath, wetting a cloth with the steaming water. She didn’t ask permission. She began with your shoulders, then your neck, dipping the cloth again and again, scrubbing the remnants of dried sweat, blood, and travel from your skin.

When she lifted your arm, her breath caught for only a second.

The bite mark there had darkened overnight. Bruises ran in parallel lines down the inside of your arm—grip marks, unmistakable in shape and intent. She did not ask questions. She dipped the cloth again and moved to your side, where the worst of it lay.

Your skin told the story: across your ribs and hips bloomed the handprints of possession, bruises deep and uneven, the imprint of knees, knuckles, teeth. The lash mark on your back-- a gift from Caracalla’s whip– ran like a line of red ink beneath all of it, angry and swollen, and had barely been held together by the fresh bandage.

She traced a cloth along the curve of your spine, carefully avoiding the wound. Then she tilted your chin gently upward to wash your face, the only moment of softness in the entire exchange.

“Tell me,” she said, not sharply, but with the steadiness of someone accustomed to damage.

You opened your eyes and met hers.

“What would you have me say?”

Her expression didn’t change. She dipped the cloth again and began to clean your hand, the diagonal gash now swollen, the edges faintly pink.

“This one was your doing,” she said quietly, wrapping her hand lightly around your wrist.

You didn’t answer.

Her thumb brushed a smear of dried blood from your palm. The heat from the water brought the sting back to the surface. You held still, letting her work.

Once she finished, she poured a ladle of warm water over your shoulders, letting it run down your back, over your thighs, between your legs. She did not look away. She was not here to pretend. Her fingers found a spot at your side, near your hip bone, where the bruises had layered over each other in a wash of purple and yellow. Her touch paused there.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

When she finished washing you, she retrieved a soft cloth and motioned for you to stand. You did, slowly, water cascading from your skin in thin rivulets. She dried you without comment, beginning with your arms, then your legs, moving around your body like a ritual performed too many times to need instruction.

At last, she said, “There are places they strike where the bruises fade quickly. Yours will not.”

You nodded, the ache behind your eyes sharp and steady, but no tears came.

“I know.”

She took one final look at you—naked, marked, upright—and then turned from the bath, speaking only once more as she reached the door.

“Someone should see what Rome does to its daughters.”

The door shut behind her, and this time you truly were alone.

The warmth from the bath clung to your skin, but it couldn’t reach the cold settling in your chest. You moved slowly to the marble bench, wrapped the drying cloth tightly around your shoulders, and sat. Your eyes flicked to your reflection in the dark water—distorted, distant, but yours.

You weren’t thinking about shame.

You were thinking about how blood keeps score.

And how long it might take for the empire to answer for yours.

____________________________________________________________________________

Rome did not welcome you back. It endured you.

By midday, the palace had resumed its rhythms—or appeared to. Bread was baked. Bronze was polished. Scribes whispered over scrolls. But something vital had gone missing in your absence, and whatever remained behind smelled faintly of rot masked with perfume.

The silence was heavier here. It did not serve as awe but as insulation—thick, padded, suffocating. And those who moved within it did so carefully, as if afraid to wake something sleeping beneath the marble.

Your footsteps echoed where once they would have been muffled by murmuring courtiers. You passed no one in the colonnades, no senators trading favors in shaded alcoves. Even the priests walked lighter than usual, their vestments trailing behind them like funeral cloth.

Word had traveled faster than your horses. You saw it in the way the servants looked away when you passed, in the way the guards stiffened—shoulders too tight, hands a breath too close to their swords. You heard it in fragments from behind curtains and in the dry coughs of those who pretended not to see you.

They didn’t know what had happened in Baiae. But they knew something had.

And more than that, they were watching to see how you’d carry it.

You were dressed in dark linen bound with a thin gold sash at the waist, the fabric carefully chosen to obscure the worst of the bruising along your hips and arms. Cassia had helped you braid your hair back from your face in a style too severe for mourning but far too austere for court. It sent a message. You hadn’t come back soft.

The hall leading to Septimius’s quarters had once been a place steeped in lore and legacy—lined with oil lamps and veiled attendants, always humming with the quiet urgency of those who waited for the voice of a god. Today, it felt like a tomb.

No guards stood outside the door. Only a single servant boy sat on the floor beside the arch, nodding off in the warmth, his tunic wrinkled and damp at the collar. When you approached, he startled upright and scurried away without speaking.

You entered without being summoned.

The air inside was thick with incense and decay. The curtains had been drawn back slightly to allow the afternoon light to filter in, but it did little to soften the room. A copper basin sat unused beside the bed, the cloths inside it already stained. Flies hummed near a bowl of half-eaten dates on a table that had once held treaties and letters from distant provinces.

And there, in the center of it all, lay Septimius.

The emperor. The imperator. The father of Rome.

His body had shrunken beneath the linen blankets, the shape of his frame no longer divine but withered, as if some greedy thing had already begun to feed on him from within. His skin was the color of parchment left too long in the sun. His lips were cracked. A faint wheeze rattled in his throat with each shallow breath.

He did not notice your entrance. Or if he did, he gave no sign.

You stood at the foot of the bed for a long moment, unsure whether to speak. There was no court here. No audience. Just you and the dying breath of a god who had once moved nations with a glance.

Then, without opening his eyes, he spoke.

“I know that walk.”

His voice was paper-thin, barely audible, but it scratched through the stillness.

“I heard it once… in my mother’s house, just before the storm hit Antioch.”

You said nothing.

He turned his face slightly toward the sound of your breath, his eyelids fluttering open just enough to expose the bloodshot blue beneath.

“I thought you were her,” he whispered. “Or the other one. The dead one.”

You stepped closer.

“I’m none of them,” you said.

“No,” he rasped. “You’re what’s left.”

A long pause. Then, with startling clarity, his voice sharpened—not in strength, but in tone.

“They were my balance. And now they tilt the world.”

He blinked slowly, his gaze going glassy again. His hand moved under the blanket, weakly fumbling for something—perhaps for the past, or for a name he couldn’t quite recall.

“One sun rises…” he murmured. “One must fall.”

You stood still, your arms at your sides, the cloth of your robe suddenly too heavy across your shoulders.

“The gods mock me,” he said softly, almost dreamlike. “I made them emperors… and they make war within their own walls.”

His head turned toward the window, the faintest trace of light gilding his temple. For a moment, it was possible to see the man he had once been—the marble-cut silhouette, the fury, the mind. And then it passed.

His eyes found yours again, focused for the first time.

“You… you are my weapon The clever girl they say will outlive us all.”

Then he blinked once more, and the recognition faded.

He drifted back into silence, the breath in his chest shallow, the sound of it barely distinguishable from the rest of the still room. You stood there longer than you meant to, watching the rise and fall of the blanket over his chest, wondering how long it would continue. Wondering who would be the first to stop pretending that Rome was still being ruled at all.

____________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t return to your chambers after leaving Septimius.

Instead, you walked the eastern colonnade, where the light was thinner and the arches opened onto the inner garden. The breeze moved through the cypress leaves in slow spirals, rustling the ivy along the carved stone pillars. It had once been a place for midday gatherings, performances, quiet conversations about music and law. Today, it was empty.

Or so you thought.

You had just rounded the corner, the hem of your stola brushing against cool marble, when you heard voices ahead—quiet, controlled, just beyond the curve of the wall. You slowed.

One voice—measured, low, unmistakable.

Macrinus.

“I do not believe in omens,” he said, his words carrying in the stillness. “But I do believe in patterns. And Rome follows them as surely as blood follows the blade.”

There was a pause, then the quiet rustle of someone shifting their weight.

Geta’s voice followed, cooler, more restrained. “And what pattern do you see now?”

You stepped back into the shadow of an arch, letting the folds of the stone wall swallow your form. The corridor ahead twisted gently, a sculpted bust of Juno obscuring you from view. From where you stood, you could see neither man—but you could hear them clearly.

Macrinus spoke again, his tone almost casual.

“Two emperors. One fading. One fracturing. The court divides itself like a carcass under knives. And the lady? She returns cloaked in silence, and everyone steps back as if she carries fire.”

“She carries something,” Geta replied. “Though I haven’t yet decided what.”

A soft laugh from Macrinus.

“She carries the memory of Baiae. That is enough.”

There was a stretch of quiet between them, broken only by the sound of water trickling in the distance.

“You think her dangerous?” Geta asked.

“I think she is still breathing,” Macrinus said. “And in this palace, that makes her dangerous enough.”

More silence.

Then Macrinus added, “He’s unraveling, you know. Our beloved Augustus. Rome sees it. The senators see it. Even the gods must be tired of watching him clutch the empire like a spoiled child refusing to share.”

Geta didn’t respond.

“You could have it,” Macrinus said softly, not a whisper, but something close. “With the right voices behind you. The right faces at your side. Even the right silences.”

There was a long pause before Geta finally spoke again.

“I’m not in the habit of collecting poison in exchange for power.”

“No,” Macrinus said. “But sometimes, poison is the only thing sharp enough to cut through rot.”

You felt something tighten in your chest—not fear, not quite. Something sharper.

There was movement then—footsteps shifting, the echo of a sandal against stone.

“You’ve said enough,” Geta murmured.

Macrinus replied, “Only because you let me.”

The sound of their footsteps retreated in opposite directions, and the space between them stretched once more into silence.

You waited until you could no longer hear them before you stepped from the shadows.

The garden beyond the colonnade was still, the breeze faint. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the empire tilted just slightly off its axis, and you, tucked inside its heart, stood still as marble, listening to the silence where power had just passed.

_________________________________________________________________________

You had not summoned him. You hadn’t seen him all day. But the moment the doors slammed open, you knew who it was.

Caracalla stormed into your chambers with the force of a man who had not slept. His cloak was half-undone, one fastening swinging loose at his shoulder. His jaw was tight, his eyes wild, a flush rising under the skin of his neck. 

You did not rise. You did not greet him.

He stopped only once the distance between you had disappeared, standing over where you sat, his breath sharp and uneven. His hands were clenched at his sides, his fingers twitching.

“They’ve begun invoking it,” he said, barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loud would make it more real. “The edict.”

You looked up at him slowly.

“The one my father signed,” he continued, voice cracking, “naming me and Geta as co-emperors.”

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, too short to be real.

“A senator quoted it to me this morning. Quoted it, as if I needed reminding. ‘It is the will of the Imperator that his sons rule together.’ As if his will matters more than mine. As if I’ve already been replaced.”

You didn’t answer. There was nothing in your voice that would have softened this. Nothing in your silence that could have made it worse than it already was.

“They’re not even pretending anymore,” he snapped. “They speak Geta’s name in the baths, in the temples. They look to him in the council chambers. And they look at me like I’m the rabid dog my father failed to leash.”

He began pacing, his sandals scuffing softly against the marble, the weight of him heavy in the silence. He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers trembling slightly.

“And you,” he muttered. “You say nothing. You do nothing. You walk these halls like you don’t belong to me.”

You kept your voice level. “Perhaps because I belong to myself.”

He turned.

He was on you in an instant, crossing the space in three furious strides. His hand gripped your wrist, the one still wrapped, and then released it just as quickly to shove you back into the chaise. The cushions caught you, but it knocked the air from your lungs.

He followed, pressing down, his knee between your thighs, his weight sudden and possessive.

“Have you bled this month?” he demanded.

The words landed with more force than the shove.

“What?”

“Have you bled at all? Since we were married?”

You stared at him. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t believe you.

His hands were already at your waist, pulling at the sash, yanking the fabric aside. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t help him either.

“You don’t know if you’re carrying my heir,” he muttered. “You don’t know.”

He looked down at you, his breath ragged, the fear behind his anger beginning to rise to the surface.

“If you are—if you are—then I win. If you're not…”

He trailed off, hands trembling against your thighs.

“… then there’s nothing left.”

He pushed inside you with the desperation of a drowning man, his pace brutal, rhythm unforgiving. You felt the sting of it immediately—the pain layered over bruises not yet healed, the pressure where your body hadn’t recovered from the last time he’d taken you like this.

“Mine,” he said against your throat, voice harsh, fractured. “You’re mine. They can doubt me, they can whisper about Geta, they can quote edicts like scripture—but you, you will not be theirs.”

You didn’t cry out. You didn’t speak. You lay beneath him like stone.

“One empire,” he spat, hips slamming into yours. “Two heads. That’s what they say now. Like it's a prophecy. Like I’m already dead and he’s already ascended.”

He bit down hard on the curve of your shoulder. You turned your face away.

“Do you know what they'll do if I let them?” he growled. “They'll raise Geta on a dais and drag me behind him in chains. They'll offer him Rome with one hand and hand me the dagger with the other.”

He came with a strangled sound, half growl, half sob, collapsing over you. His weight crushed your ribs. His hand found your face, but you pulled away.

Stillness followed.

His breathing slowed. He didn't speak. You felt the heat of him slowly drain, the tension in his limbs unraveling inch by inch.

When he finally rose, he didn’t look at you. He pulled his cloak over his shoulders, fastened it without care, and walked toward the door.

He paused there, one hand resting on the frame, his back to you.

“I will not be erased,” he said quietly. “Not by the Senate. Not by my brother. And not by you.”

Then he was gone.

You lay still, every part of you aching, your breath shallow, your skin sticky with sweat and something else. You reached between your thighs and felt the wetness there. Not blood. Not yet.

But your stomach turned all the same.

____________________________________________________________________

The Temple of Fortuna stood quiet on the western slope of the Palatine, half-sheltered by cypress and laurel. You hadn’t set foot there since your return—not because you lacked faith, but because you had long since learned that gods, like men, only answered when it suited them.

Today, though, appearance required more than silence.

You brought a guard, just one. He remained at the base of the temple steps, far enough not to hear your thoughts, close enough for others to see. The act was carefully measured. A lone woman making a public offering for her dying Emperor would be theater. A lone woman without a guard would be weakness.

You carried only a small oil lamp and a sprig of laurel, cut fresh that morning from the edge of the garden near Septimius’s quarters—where no one spoke above a whisper now, where the lamps were kept burning long after dawn.

The steps of the temple were warm beneath your sandals, heat rising through the pale stone. The outer columns rose tall and pristine, casting long blades of shadow across the marble floor. At the center of the inner sanctum stood Fortuna herself—unchanged, unmoved, her face carved in calm repose. One hand cradled the horn of plenty. The other held the rudder, steady and silent, as if fate itself were a thing she guided with one finger and no effort at all.

There was no congregation inside. Only a priest, old and silent, who tended the nearest brazier and then faded into the dark.

You crossed the threshold alone, your sandals whispering against the polished floor. The air inside was heavy with resin and something metallic—old offerings, old prayers, old failure.

You knelt—not for spectacle, but for the act of it. Because once, long ago, you had believed in the weight of kneeling. You laid the laurel at her feet, then lit the oil with a deliberate tilt of the wick. The flame caught slowly, a small blue tongue of fire curling upward, flickering but unafraid.

You didn’t pray aloud. You didn’t believe she would hear you differently if you did. But you let the thoughts sit there, between the offering and the heat.

Let him go. Let him go before he witnesses the demise of Rome at the hands of his sons.

You rose carefully. The stone had left its pattern in your knees. The air no longer smelled only of incense. You could feel the sun reaching through the archways again, drawing long shadows across the floor.

It wasn’t until you turned to leave that you heard the footsteps behind you.

You didn’t reach for the guard at the base of the steps. If the gods wanted to test you here, they’d chosen a familiar instrument.

“I thought it might be a soldier,” you said without turning, your voice quiet and dry. “But soldiers don’t move so carefully when they think no one’s watching.”

The sound of the steps paused, then resumed—closer this time. You stepped out onto the marble platform at the top of the steps and turned just as he reached the base.

Macrinus looked exactly as he always did—well-dressed, expressionless, and vaguely unimpressed by anything that had not been crafted by his own hands. He wore a dark cloak pinned with a brooch you recognized as provincial. Subtle. Intentional. A reminder that his power came from places the court forgot to look.

“I didn’t think you were the praying type,” you said.

“I’m not,” he replied easily. “But I know when others are trying to be seen praying. That’s worth observing.”

You tilted your head slightly. “And what did you observe?”

“That your offering was small,” he said. “Which means you still believe in economy, if not mercy.”

He ascended the steps slowly, two at a time, until he stood just below you—close enough to speak without raising his voice.

“There are men,” he continued, “who pray in temples like this asking for favor. For victory. For sons. You come for none of that.”

You didn’t answer.

He smiled faintly, though it did not reach his eyes.

“You’re not here to ask Fortuna for anything. You’re here to remind her that you’re still watching.”

There was no reason to confirm it.

He looked past you, through the arch of columns, toward the altar where your lamp still burned in its dish.

“She’s a strange one, Fortuna. She gives generously and then takes with both hands. But she rewards steadiness. And patience.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If you’ve come to deliver a proverb, you can leave.”

“I’ve come to deliver a reminder,” he said.

“Then do it quickly.”

He looked back at you.

“You’re not sentimental. That’s why I trust you to understand what others will pretend not to see.”

A pause.

“Septimius is dying. Rome is tilting. The Senate is restless, and the gods are quiet. That leaves men like me.”

“And what do men like you want?” you asked, voice calm.

“Survival,” he said. “Preferably the kind that leaves us in power.”

He stepped closer.

“One of them will fall. Your husband, or your brother-in-law. It won’t be both. It never is.”

You remained still.

“Back the right brother,” he said.

“And if I don’t choose?”

His gaze flicked once to the flame behind you, then back to your face.

“Then I imagine I’ll see you here again soon. But the offering will be blood.”

You studied him, searching for something behind the mask of diplomacy.

“Will you be the one to spill it?” you asked.

He tilted his head, almost amused.

“Domina,” he said gently, “I’ve never needed to spill it myself. I only need to know where it will fall.”

Then he gave a slight bow—precise, rehearsed, not quite mocking—and stepped back down the steps.

You watched him walk away, his cloak lifting faintly in the wind as he disappeared along the garden path.

Behind you, the lamp on Fortuna’s altar blew wildly in the breeze but did not go out.

___________________________________________________________________________

The walk back from the temple was longer than the one to it.

The air had thickened with heat, and the garden paths were quiet, too quiet, as if the city itself had drawn a breath and forgotten how to let it go. You took the northern colonnade back to your chambers, avoiding the inner halls where the servants clustered. You didn’t want more eyes today—not curious ones, not sympathetic ones, and certainly not ones that flinched.

Your guard peeled away once you reached the door, and you stepped inside expecting silence.

Instead, you found Geta.

He was seated in the corner of your chamber, half-draped in the long afternoon light spilling from the window. His back was straight, one leg crossed at the knee, hands resting loosely on the arms of the carved chair. He didn’t rise. He didn’t look startled. He had been waiting.

You shut the door behind you and let the stillness stretch.

“I sent no summons,” you said.

“I know,” he replied.

You crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate. You passed the table where Cassia had left a half-filled cup of wine. You didn’t drink from it. You let your fingers rest lightly on its rim.

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough.”

You turned.

“If you're here to speak of your brother, I suggest you do it quickly.”

He said nothing for a long moment. Then, with that same quiet control he always carried like armor, he answered:

“I’m not here to speak of him. I’m here to speak of you.”

That, more than anything, made you pause.

He rose from the chair, not aggressively, not with ceremony, but with the intention of a man who’d decided the conversation would now happen on equal ground. He stepped closer—not close enough to touch, but enough that you could feel the air between your bodies shift.

“You haven’t changed,” he said.

“Neither have you,” you replied. “Still slipping through shadows pretending they don’t belong to you.”

“You’re wrong,” he said calmly. “They belong to me now more than ever.”

You studied him, the elegant cruelty of his restraint, the way he wore silence like a weapon. It was what separated him from his brother—the refusal to waste blood when silence could do the same work.

“Do you know what they’re saying in the senate halls?” he asked.

“I know what they whisper.”

“They whisper more loudly now.”

You moved past him toward the window, your hand trailing along the edge of the stone sill.

“They’ve started invoking the edict,” he continued. “Quoting my father like he still belongs to this realm.”

“Perhaps because his is the only voice left that isn’t shouting.”

His lips twitched. “Or because it’s the only one that still scares them.”

You turned back to him. “And what scares you, Geta?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

He stepped forward again.

“I saw what he left you with,” he said, quieter now. “In Baiae.”

You held his gaze. “I walked out of Baiae under my own power.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No. But it’s enough.”

The pause that followed was sharp.

“You cannot change him,” Geta said. “But you can help end him.”

You said nothing.

“So that’s why you came,” you murmured. “To recruit me. To turn the ruin of my body into leverage.”

“To offer you what he never could,” he said.

You stepped toward him, closing the space entirely, your voice like silk drawn tight.

“Tell me, Geta… if I am with child, will you have it slain at birth? Or will you simply cut me down before I am able to deliver your brother's heir?”

His face didn’t move, but something in his eyes flickered—cold, calculating.

“No one would need to lay a hand on the child,” he said. “Not if its father dies disgraced.”

You studied him.

“So you’d let it live. Not out of mercy. Out of strategy.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I’d let it live,” he said, “because sometimes a child is more dangerous than a sword. A child is a memory. A mirror. A threat without ever having to lift a hand.”

You gave a soft, almost soundless laugh. “How generous.”

“I’m not generous,” he replied. “I’m smart.”

You moved past him, pouring the wine you hadn’t touched into a basin. When you turned, he was watching you again—this time with something harder to name.

“You’re not afraid,” he said.

“I was. Once.”

“You’re wasted on him.”

You didn’t speak.

He turned toward the door, hand on the frame, and paused.

“You came into my chambers uninvited,” you said.

“I know.”

“To ask for an alliance.”

“To offer one.”

“How would you have me show loyalty?” you asked. “With silence? With blood? With the body that’s already been spent like coin?”

He didn’t turn around.

“With a choice,” he said.

And then he left.

The door closed softly behind him—not with violence, but with finality.

________________________________________________________________________

Sleep would not come.

You had tried, lying still beneath the soft linen canopy with your back to the door, the flickering, but rest remained just out of reach. The silence pressed too tightly, not a comforting hush, but a heavy, listening sort of quiet that settled between your ribs and stretched into the spaces behind your eyes. 

You rose without dressing further, tying your robe at the waist and leaving your feet bare on the cold floor. You did not call for Cassia. There was no need. The palace was not asleep; it merely played at sleep. It was a thing that breathed shallowly in the dark, hoping not to be touched.

You moved through the corridor like mist, your steps quiet, your breath even. The sconces had burned low, their flames little more than embers behind their glass. The palace, always grand in daylight, shrank at night—its arches heavier, its halls longer, its grandeur reduced to echo and stone. You passed under painted ceilings you’d stopped noticing months ago, past statues that had once looked majestic and now seemed to watch as you passed. There was no clear purpose to your wandering, and yet your feet carried you with certainty, as though they had chosen a path your conscious mind had not yet accepted.

You passed the west gallery where poets once read aloud from scrolls, their voices full of measured elegance; you passed the old fountain court, where Septimius had once received an envoy from Alexandria beneath a canopy of hanging roses; and then, finally, the cracked mosaic of Minerva—a favorite of his, once, before it had fallen into disrepair. He’d claimed the flaw made it real, that even gods deserved a fault. You remembered that, the way he’d said it like he believed it, like he thought he was being generous.

And then you were there.

The corridor narrowed and quieted, the torches fewer, the air warmer with the scent of fading incense and thick, sour sickness. You moved slowly, your shadow stretching ahead of you in soft, flickering lines. There were no guards. No stewards. No attendants. The doors to the emperor’s private chambers stood half-open, and the silence beyond them was not peaceful, but final.

You stepped lightly, one palm resting against the frame.

The fire inside had burned low. The embers pulsed a dull orange in the hearth, casting thin slats of light across the bed, the drapes, the room that once held more power than the entire Senate combined. Septimius lay beneath the covers, his body diminished, his chest barely rising. His mouth was open, his skin slack and yellowed, his breath so shallow it barely moved the air.

You might have thought he was already dead.

But he was not alone.

Macrinus sat at the edge of the bed, facing the emperor. He was dressed simply—dark tunic, sleeves rolled to the elbows, no insignia to mark his station, no ring, no blade. He looked like a man preparing to smooth out an old account, not a conspirator, not a killer, just... a man with a task.

You stood still.

He leaned forward, adjusting something at the head of the bed—quiet, practiced, not rushing. And then you saw it: his hands closing around the pillow, lifting it gently, and bringing it to rest atop Septimius’s face.

There was no sharp movement, no dramatic shift of weight. Just pressure.

Septimius twitched once, a weak, animal reflex beneath the linen, more instinct than resistance. His hands, thin and spotted, didn’t even lift from the blankets. His feet pushed faintly against the mattress, but Macrinus didn’t budge.

The emperor made no sound. Not even a gasp.

Only the rustle of fabric, the faint strain of dying breath, and then nothing.

Macrinus held the pillow down longer than he needed to, his back straight, his arms locked in position. His face remained neutral. There was no satisfaction, no hesitation—just the calm resolve of a man who had waited too long to act and had finally chosen his moment.

When he lifted the pillow, the emperor’s head lolled slightly to the side, his mouth falling open farther, his eyes glassed over and staring somewhere no one else could follow. Macrinus did not reach to close them. He only reached to smooth the sheets over the man’s chest, tucking the fabric gently, almost tenderly, as though he were sealing something away.

You had not moved.

He never looked up. He never turned. You remained still, just outside the door, the column at your back like a second spine, and watched in complete silence as a god was undone by human hands.

When he stepped away from the bed, he paused to adjust his tunic, glanced once at the fire, and then turned toward the door—not yours, but the other, the inner one, the one that would lead him out unseen.

You slipped into shadow before his footsteps began.

You walked away slowly, your hands loose at your sides, the hem of your robe catching faintly at the corners of worn stone. You passed the same mosaic, the same court, the same doors—but they felt different now, less like places and more like ruins. There were no tears. No curse. Only the faint knowledge settling behind your eyes that history had shifted while no one watched, that the seat of empire had emptied with no witnesses save you.

No trumpets. No declarations. No blade. Only a breath. And then nothing.

And somewhere in the quiet that followed, Rome exhaled—and turned toward its next act.

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