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beyralxoxo · 2 months ago

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{Amor Omnia Vincit-Lucius Verus Aurelius}

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

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

PAIRING: Lucius Verus Aurelius x South Indian OC

WORD COUNT: 8,4 K

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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biblioklept-writes · 2 years ago

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hi. is it possible to do an enemies to lovers between aemond x reader? the reader hates aemond for his arrogance and impulsive behaviour. aemond supposedly "hates" her and is in complete denial. however, he gets jealous when she is performing traditional dancing with one of her male friends because he doesn't know the moves and feels left out. after the dance, he chases her to the gardens after the dance while the reader is wearing her traditional costume and jewelleries. and that was when he finally notices how beautiful the reader is. if you can consider this, that would be great! thanks!

Hey anon! thank you for this prompt <3

I am going Desi!reader with this, hoping that you were desi and came to my blog from this hehe. I feel this prompt suites modern times better than hotd era and I incorporated a tinsy bit of this ask, sorry if thats not what you had in mind!

I was a fool (Modern!Aemond x Reader)

Content: just some jealous Aemond in an arranged marriage type of situation, could be considered fluff

A/N: Ravi is just an OC (if you are familiar with A Good Girl's Guide to Murder then not really)

HOTD Masterlist | Modern!Aemond Masterlist

Sometimes, being a rich heiress was tough.

You enjoyed a luxurious life thanks to your parent's jewellery making and retail, and a luxury hotel chain - they were one of the most famed in all of Westeros, having migrated from the Indian Subcontinent in their youth.

As their eldest daughter and heiress, you were introduced to the Targaryens, a strange family full of scandal, yet they were the wealthiest of the business families in all of Westeros - dealing with luxury vehicles, home decor, skin care and cosmetics line - and they owned some smaller, less expensive brands under elusive names. Surely not all of their business was legal, just like yours.

You had first met Aemond Targaryen at one of your mother's seven star hotel, right by the King's Landing Airport. It was a rather secretive place and paparazzi stayed away, courtesy of the Airport Security Force. You had become accustomed to the bright lights and the shining marble flooring and the high ceilings, non of them piquing your interest as they did when you were a child.

You had heard a lot about him, more than you were willing to admit. You had attended the same university, with him being two years your senior. He was stoic - stayed quiet save for answering the professors. Among the girls, he had a reputation of being inexpressive and condescending, even though he was a pleasure in bed. You and him never had the same crowd - not in university and never outside of it. You had heard he loved cars and partook in numerous F1 races and had a stellar reputation - almost always getting to the podium.

Reputation or not, you did not like him. He was a stuck-up and arrogant man, and you couldn't stand the thought of marrying him even for a profit to your family. Pretending to be in love with this man was tough, even with his god-like beauty.

Aemond has his permanent scowl on his face, even when you are having a very public dinner with his cousin Baela and her fiancé. You and Baela are having a light-hearted conversation on the subject of cosmetics, sharing your preferences and icks. Bonding over the fact that neither of you manage to get a foundation that matches perfectly, you pitch that maybe you should start your own cosmetic line catering to darker skins specifically.

"I'll promote you for free," Baela quips. "It's time we take matters into our own hands, isn't it?"

"That's what I am saying," You chuckle.

Both your companions are sitting in complete silence after exchanging etiquette compelled pleasantries. They quietly pick at their plates, and you pity the Lannister man - Baela's fiancé - for being stuck with your soon to be fiancé, Aemond. You've stopped feeling anything for him quite a while ago, your date.

"Red is really your colour," Baela compliments once the quartet of you is out of the restaurant. "It's hard to keep eyes off of you,"

The two of you walk arm in arm behind your respective dates, feeling pleasant in the cool evening air. "Thank you," you say, pushing your hair away from your eyes. "You're a stunner yourself, Baela."

She stops, and lets the men walk out of earshot before asking, "How does my cousin treat you?" She sounds concerned.

You take both her hands in yours, heart warmed by her concern. "He's fine. We barely talk. That's great," you say. "Otherwise I'd have slapped him by now."

"He's a bit of a... personality," Baela agrees. "If he does anything that bothers you, let me know. I will put a word to his mother."

You chuckle, "Sure," The only reason you've not turned your house upside down is because of this family. They have their quirks, but Baela and her twin Rhaena, Alicent, Helaena and Daeron have been very welcoming of you, making sure that you feel right at home.

As etiquette rules, Aemond waits for you by the passenger side of his Rolls Royce as you walk to it, opening the door for you then going over to the driver's side. He is quiet again, and you start scrolling through your phone, answering any messages that need urgent attention. It's always like this, you barely speak aside from exchanging pleasantries - and honestly, you didn't mind it too much.

It's not like you hadn't tried, you had always tried to make small talk, to get to know him better, but his responses never exceeded one word. How was your day? Average. How are you feeling? Good. And that was on the good days, otherwise, you've only ever heard him hum or snark in response.

He wasn't controlling of what you were doing or who you were with - one could say it was all they asked for in a rich husband who let them do whatever they want. You didn't want that though, you were the eldest daughter of ultra rich immigrant parents, you knew how to get things done your way, and you knew how to keep everyone in line without having to utter a word. But you were also the eldest daughter of immigrant parents, always having to set a pristine example for your little brother and youngest sister, be the perfect daughter, caretaker, student, dancer, performer, the best of your year, raise your siblings while your parents work and do so without any complains to anyone. Expressing your qualms meant a lecture on how ungrateful you were of everything that your parents provided for you and being unable to say something in your defence because then you 'd be talking back like an ungrateful little brat.

This to-be marriage with Aemond was something set up entirely by your mother and his. Your mother couldn't wait to rub it in everyone's face that her beautiful, perfect daughter, her heiress was about to get married to one of the most handsome, and the richest bachelor in all of the continent, who had a stellar record in academics and was an expert in finance, and had no blemishes in his portfolio.

Turning this down would earn you a lifelong worth of taunts and lectures, so arguably this was better than that. Complete silence with a stranger you can trust, but not speak with. A stranger who would soon be your fiancé and put on a show for the tabloids to gossip about to give the reporters their content.

You think he hates you - he doesn't spare you one glance from his good eye - always keeping his sapphire-eyed side to you. Aemond had lost that eye in childhood, back when you were still fascinated by the pristine marble floors of hotels. There had been some accident involving his nephews from his stepsister, and your mother had sent her condolences to Alicent with some jewels. The current sapphire that he wore was the latest gift from your mother for announcing your cold courtship.

It's a few evenings later and you are visiting Aemond's penthouse in the heart of King's Landing to give the paparazzi a show, to give the tabloids something to gossip about the next morning and afternoon, when you are planning to leave.

You quite enjoy the music and the open bar, hating the strong taste of vodka, but not quite getting enough of it. You definitely aren't sober anymore, moving to the fast tempo of the music that you cannot distinguish - you only know that it makes you feel powerful like a divine goddess waiting to unleash her rage.

"Couldn't even wait for me to get back from work before getting drunk?" Aemond says. His voice is deep and it makes you shiver, for you have never heard him speak more than one word. "I wonder what my mother sees in you," he grumbles. "Whatever she does, I don't."

You give him the finger, and close your eyes to get lost in the music again. You really don't care what he thinks of you, but something in his words was straight up insulting.

"No words to say now?" He snarks.

"What is it that you pride yourself in, hm?" You ask, glaring at him.

"I graduated with the top scores in my degree, I am the best finance manager and the best Westerosi F1 driver - " he starts to say, offended. For a moment you wonder if he's drunk too, but the condescending look in his darkened violet eye has you lashing out on him in rage.

"Yeah, big deal racer-boy." You snap your fingers in front of his face, having to look up. "I was also the top scorer in my year - across all majors, I can hack into your finance system and bring it down and you wouldn't even know what happened. I run an NGO, I manage my mother's finances and I know how to stitch, embroider and cook. I can survive if left alone - but you'll start crying for your mother the moment you are left alone with no servants or money to take care of you. If anyone gets to act like a stuck up arrogant little bitch that should be me."

"Oh please, your mother was the one pushing for this marriage because she knows you are incapable of anything," He snaps at you. You are nose to nose, and you want to smack him hard across the face, but you hold back that grudge.

"You know what your beloved mother told me before we started all this?" You challenge. "Do you? DO YOU?" you exhale before saying, "She said that there is no other woman who could possibly put up with this attitude of yours - that she knows you will not be able to survive on your own, you big man-child. Putting a little show on for the reporters doesn't make you a man."

You push him back and take the elevator, yelling a "Fuck you!" before the door closes and hides his comically scandalised face.

Trouble in paradise? It seems the most eligible bachelor in Westeros is free for taking again.

"What is this that the newspapers say," Your mother says, tone chiding. "Why would you leave in the middle of the night?"

"I cannot stand Aemond, mother!" You complain. "I cannot stand him. If Alicent weren't so sweet, I'd never have agreed to this whole thing."

"Sweetie, please. Think it over again." Your mother insists.

"Consider this arrangement over if he doesn't apologise to me." You declare, glaring at your mother with untamed fury. And for once, she is rightfully terrified of your eldest daughter-rage. Your little brother supports you, making your point stronger. He can be a pain in the ass but he can also be helpful in times like these.

There is a gala event on the weekend, and your family friends from Little Kilton are invited. The Singh Family is here, as is your old friend Ravi. You hug him tightly and ask him about his girlfriend and the crimes that they uncovered together. He's giggly talking about his lovely girlfriend Pip, calling him Sarge and other cute names like that.

You want to be normal at that moment - not the daughter of diamond merchant and a luxury hotel chain owner, but a daughter of normal immigrants, with a boyfriend who can love you as Ravi loves his Sarge Pip.

You are quite done with everything, and decide to dress in traditional clothes for the gala, opting for a rather fancy lehenga. You are going to dance tonight, flaunt your classical dancing skills with Ravi as your companion. Your outfits accidentally match with the similar shades of green and silken fabrics - Ravi clicks a selfie and sends it to his girlfriend, who instantly calls and you finally get to see her in her element. You see the way Ravi's eyes light up on seeing her, and a knife twists at your heart - because you'll never have anyone be this happy to see you.

Pip gushes about how pretty you look and how no one will notice Ravi with you in the room, and you share a good laugh at Ravi's pouty look, claiming he looked ravishing.

"Alright, we're there." Ravi says. "I'll call you when I get back, Sarge. Love you."

"Love you." Pip says before they hang up.

"You're so in love it's disgusting." You say, lips twisted in mock disgust. "Put a ring on it already."

"That's the plan," He says with a dreamy smile. "I didn't come over just to see you, did I?"

"Ravi Singh!" You scream with your hand covering your mouth. "Oh my god, you absolute dork in love you can't be for real!"

"I hope she says yes." He sighs.

"Oh, she will." You declare. "I'll help you pick out the ring."

You told Ravi everything about Aemond and your situation with him, and the paparazzi didn't stop clicking pictures as your mom walked with you, with Ravi accompanying you. He's a little nervous, but he hides it well.

Once inside, you spot Alicent and Helaena, and introduce them to Ravi as your childhood friend and they are really welcoming of him. Alicent looks upset over her son's behaviour and apologises on his behalf, but you lie and tell her that's fine. Your mother can break her heart later gently if her son fails to prove himself worthy to you.

You spot Aemond's silver head in the corner of your eye as you walk away from Alicent and Helaena, and grab Ravi's wrist and have him look at your former-soon-to-be fiancé.

"He looks like an elitist snob," Ravi comments.

"You're not wrong," you say.

"I think jealousy would do him some good," Ravi says. "Let's go get changed, I believe our performance is in an hour. Don't you need t0o much time to get changed?"

"Let's go," You say, grinning. You whisper to your mother, actively avoiding looking at Aemond, not bothering to put up any civility for him. You'll never look at him in the face again if he doesn't apologise for his condescension.

The beat of the classical music hits your veins, and you and Ravi are dancing to the rhythm, going where the music takes you. The whole crowd is silent, entranced by your performance. It's nothing too strenuous, but you manage to impress them. You trust him enough for the couple of lifts that you have, earning a loud applause as you finish your performance with you on one knee on the right of the stage and Ravi in identical position on the left.

You are panting heavily as you get off the stage as the applause slowly quiets down, changing back into your magnificent green lehenga before going out to get some fresh air. The gardens are impeccably maintained, with trimmed bushes and perfectly shaped trees, the clean air replenishing the stale one in your lungs, making you relaxed after the costing performance.

You take a seat on a bench under a tall tree, in relative isolation as you catch your breath.

A scowl curves your beautiful face as you hear the sound of your name in Aemond's quiet, deep voice, wondering what more he could possibly have to say to you.

"What business have you got here?" You bitterly ask.

"You were amazing back there," He attempts.

"I am aware, thank you." You say, still refusing to look at him. "I had a great partner with me."

"Speaking of a partner, who is he?" Aemond asks.

"None of your business anymore," You snap.

"I just want to talk," He tries again.

"There's nothing there to talk," you stop him. "You made it pretty clear that I am not worth your time or attention."

"It was foolish of me to say that." He amends.

"Yet, that is what you thought was the truth." You say, looking ahead at the bushes in front of you.

"I'd have danced if you asked me to," He confesses, changing routes.

"You left no room for questions," You counter. "No self respecting person would ask something of you after only receiving one word or one syllable response for more than a month. And as a self respecting person I don't deem you a fit partner."

"And he is?" Aemond asks, you can hear in his voice - the anger, the strain that he has in his jaw.

"Surely," You tease, voice deadpanned. "Much better than you, definitely."

"What do you want me to do?" Aemond finally caves in, sighing.

"I don't know, maybe your top of the major brain should have the answers," You snap again. Your glare and voice have bite, but you do not give him the satisfaction of facing him. The warmth of his body comes at your side as he takes a seat beside you and lets out a long sigh.

"Look, I know it was foolish of me to say what I did," He started. "I want to ask for your forgiveness."

"You've not given me any reason to trust you," you say. “How can I forgive you if I know nothing about you?"

"We ought to change that then." Aemond decides. "Let me take you out sometime."

"You had all the time in the world to take me out, yet…" you trail off.

"I had been a fool," He sighs, rubbing his face. "A stuck up arrogant little bitch, as you'd rightfully put."

"What changed?" You ask, finally turning to look at him. Aemond's usual scowl is replaced with a soft, pleading crease in his brow. His lilac eye is uncharacteristically soft - you can swear that he has tears in both his eyes - the sapphire one and the intact one. "Please don't tell me you are doing this because your mom asked you to."

"She doesn't know what happened," Aemond confesses, his voice dropping down to a whisper. "I just needed to hear what you told me the other day."

"And?" You prompted.

"I have always thought you to be insanely beautiful," Aemond confesses with a hesitant sigh. "But today you look divine, crafted patiently by the Seven themselves."

"Hmm, go on." You say with a cheeky grin, and Aemond chuckles. This the first time you ever heard him laugh, the first time you have ever seen him smile. He has a pretty smile and his laugh is one of the most pleasing sounds to your ears.

"I was intimidated by you, to be honest." He confesses. You have never heard him sound so vulnerable, exposed, and you realise that you are rather fond of it. "You're this insanely talented, beautiful woman who has her life together with everything sorted and I don't think I have ever learned how to keep up a conversation."

“You big, foolish man,” you press your lips together, inhaling a deep breath. “That degree is of no use, you should return it. How can you manage finance without knowing proper communication?”

“Maybe you can help me with that,” He says with a smile. He has dimples.

“I’d like that,” You nod.

“I’ll pick you up at seven, tomorrow?” He asks.

“Why wait?” you shrug.

#aemond targaryen x reader #ask ans: oneshot #ask: modern!aemond #modern!aemond x reader #aemond x you #modern!aemond #aemond targaryen #modern hotd #hotd fic

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adicorporation · 9 months ago

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Top 12 marble flooring designs for homes in India

Find timeless elegance for every room with our guide to Indian & Italian marble flooring. Explore marble flooring design ideas for the hall, bathrooms, bedroom, and more.

#Marble Floor Designs For Hall #marble suuplier in India #best marble dealer #Marble Floor Designs For Bathroom #Marble Floor Designs For Kitchen #Indian marble supplier #Italian marble in Pune

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psychoanalysisandchill · 1 year ago

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The wrathful glare of Kali and the callous gaze of Medusa – the emergence of the femme fatale in the female psyche.

Legend of Kali

In Hindu legend, goddess Durka and her helpers, the Matri goddesses, slay the demon Raktabīja, only to find out that the stains of Raktabīja’s blood act like seed on soil as every drop manifests another duplicate of him. Durka becomes enraged and summons Kali, whom then proceeds to slay and devour Raktabīja and his legion of duplicates. She dances on their corpses and parades around with Raktabīja slain head in her hand, securing the droplets of blood through holding a plate underneath it, so as to prevent further bleeding on the soil. Motivated by her insatiable fury, Kali proceeds with the destruction of all else that crosses her path, but after stepping on the corpse of Lord Shiva, Kali is struck by embarrassment and remorse as her supressed superego is released from her shadow and brings her back to her senses. Lord Shiva’s has the power to liberate Kali from her fury as he is the transcendent Self. He is the benevolent patriarch, yogi supreme, yet also husband and father, suggesting the achievement of harmonious balance between wordily duties and that of holy men. His anima, being integrated, is neither possessing him nor is it plaguing him as a result of repression. He neither falls prey to the manipulative trickery of deceitful women nor does he view women as disdainfully inferior sexual objects. Only he can liberate Kali from her all-consuming misandry and soothe her sorrows.

Shiva’s non-threatening benevolence makes itself known through the act of laying underneath Kali’s feet. Possessed by wrath, Kali has lost sight of that which is holy. Without recognition of the benevolent aspects of Shiva, Kali’s fury is bound to drown the universe in her flames, however, Durka’s initial intention behind the summoning of Kali was to defeat Raktabīja and his legion of duplicates, rather than bring about the destruction of the universe.

Durka and the Matri goddesses are at loss at Raktabīja’s lack of chivalry in combat and the injustice of his supernatural power. They are the modern-day women whom get harassed by demonic and demeaning men despite enforcing their boundaries. Such men seek to dominate through ridicule rather than reason. The lack of decorum in both combat and dialogue makes the summoning of Kali inevitable for a woman as all else has failed to shield her vulnerability from the malevolence of a demonic beast.

In recent memory, Raktabīja and Poseidon manifested themselves as Harvey Weistein and Jeffrey Epstein, powerful demonic beasts, seeking to preserve their authority whilst uninterested in the discontinuation of their predatory behaviour. The faith in the punitive power of the rule of law arrests Kali from flooding the consciousness of their victims, making Durka and the Matri goddesses persevere in a civilized manner, unlike the instance in which 200 Indian women, armed with vegetable knifes, stones and chilli powder stormed the court hearing of gang-leader and rapist Akku Yadav, dismembering his genitals with a vegetable knife, robbing him of his phallus through a vengeful barbaric act of literal castration, dead in a matter of 15 minutes, leaving his lifeless corpse daggered by kitchen knives on the white marble floor of the court, in an exhibition of gore galore, resembling the sublime beauty of a transcendent piece of art in the eyes of Kali.

Legend of Medusa (Ovid´s version)

In Greek legend, Medusa is the sole mortal among three gorgon sisters, depicted as a beautiful maid with plentiful of potential suitors, longing for the reciprocation of her attention. She is brutally raped in the temple of Athena by God Poseidon as a result of the rejection of his advances. Enraged by the desacralization of her temple, Athena curses Medusa, turning her hair turned into snakes, metamorphosing her into a monstrous form armed with a glare that petrified anyone who dared to meet her eyes.

As if Medusa hadn’t suffered enough, she was later beheaded by demigod Perseus. Many men had tried to behead her prior to Perseus, but all had been turned into stone at the sight of her petrifying glare. Perseus however, was clever enough to stare into the mirror moments before the beheading, instead of in her eyes. As he flew over Libya with Medusa’s decapitated in his hands, blood dripped on the soil and snakes sprout from the droplets. Medusa’s head is later gifted to Athena, whom attaches it to her shield, supplying her with the power of Medusa’s deadly glare in combat.

The legend of Medusa is one of horrific injustice and betrayal. After the violation of her person through the act of rape, her boss, Athena, does the unimaginable: curse her. The ancient equivalent to the modern-day slut shame of a genuine victim of rape. The horrors of rape alone didn’t metamorphize her hair into serpents, it was that the aftermath of her rape was followed by the ultimate betrayal by a deity she had bestowed with trust.

If Kali’s fury has lit her heart on fire, then Athena’s betrayal has frozen Medusa’s heart into ice. In Kali, the Nietzschean will to power is alive and striving, but in Medusa it is nowhere to be found. Medusa, as a beautiful maiden was pure, pure in the sense that she couldn’t conceive of the unfathomable betrayal of Athena, thus when it dawned upon her hope in both humanity and divinity was lost. Anyone who’s superego isn’t as disturbed as that of Athena and Poseidon will be overwhelmed by their conscience upon meeting Medusa’s gaze. The burden of her victimization is a collective bearing for all to carry, reminding us of the consequences of vicious cruelty.

Every young boy has looked into the eyes of Medusa as their, otherwise loving, mother coolly hit them with the “I’m not mad, I’m disappointed,” remark. Such disappointment, from women, causes a man to cringe in an instinctive act of clenching the gut muscles.

In yogic philosophy, masculine consciousness is associated with fire and believed to reside in the solar plexus. One believes to be speaking figuratively when alluding to bravery as “having guts” but embodied bravery, is quite literally impossible without having a strong presence in the gut area.

The act of cringing is the act of shame as a biological reaction rather than an emotion. Medusa’s ice-cold gaze, cursing one to cringe in shame, is the true extinguisher of a man’s masculine consciousness, making him think twice before he acts next time, however since Medusa has lost hope in the redeeming qualities of man, there will be no next time, whomever meeting her gaze is doomed to freeze for all eternity. The many men whom attempted to behead her prior to Perseus couldn’t bear the collective burden of a restless conscience and thus instinctively attempt to rescue their phallus from the prospect of psychic castration through beheading the source of their restlessness. Such an act of profanity, is nothing short from foolish desperation, a last resort for restoring balance in one’s psyche, bound to fail from the get go, which is why all men prior to Perseus freeze to stone upon their attempted murder.

Perseus only finds success through looking in the mirror at the moment of execution, sparing his phallus from castration as his conscience remains unaffected, but his heinous crime is not without consequence as Medusa’s spilled blood sprout to life venomous serpents on Libyan soil. Medusa is Mahsa Amini, as the Iranian morality police seem to mistake the beauty of a woman’s hair for poisonous serpents. The serpents sprung to life by Medusa’s blood are the many Iranian women unleashing the terror of their liberated hair upon the morality police. Nothing terrifies fundamentalist Islamists more than the emergence of their own anima, as it becomes projected upon an enchanting woman.

Raktabīja’s blood stains produce duplicates as a reaction to fair female resistance, Medusa’s blood stains produce serpents as a reaction to horrific injustice and a cowardice murder. The moral of the story is that injustice and disrespect of self-assertion lay the groundworks in which mayhem may flourish.

Lastly, Athena attaching Medusa’s head to her shield is a ploy to harness the power of a victim’s hopeless disappointment and masquerade it as her own. Athena, despite being a deity, could impossibly freeze her opponents with her own gaze, as she created Medusa’s through initiating the destruction of her reputation. It is solely through a masquerade in which Athena cosplays victimhood that she can harness the powers of it.

#kali #medusa #greek mythology #ancient greek #greek texts #greek posts #hinduism #hindu mythology #psychoanalysis #sigmund freud #freud #carl jung #analytical psychology #feminism #rapeculture #superego #literary criticism

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chelseachilly · 2 years ago

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king of my heart - pt 2

and all the pieces fall right into place getting caught up in the moment, lipstick on your face i’m yours to keep and i’m yours to lose you know i’m not a bad girl but i’ll do bad things with you

pairings: reader x ben chilwell chapter summary: despite your better judgement, you go over to ben’s place for the first time. warnings: smut, 18+ word count: 1.9k

a/n: thank you for reading part one, i hope you enjoy the (much steamier) part 2 lol - more coming soon! pls let me know what u think 🖤

read part one

Three days later, you somehow find yourself standing in front of your bathroom mirror, putting on lip gloss, getting ready to go over to Ben Chilwell’s house.

You were admittedly on the fence when you first talked to Charlotte about it after receiving his message after the party.

“He’s a footballer, I’m sure he just wants to hook up,” you said to her as you both scrolled through his Instagram.

“Isn’t that what you want, too? You said you’re not looking for anything serious,” Charlotte pointed out. When you lingered a bit too long on a post of him sitting shirtless on a yacht somewhere, she chuckled lightly. “Plus, you’re clearly into him.”

You couldn’t deny that to be true; there was something so unique and interesting about Ben, something that captivated you instantly in the short time you spent with him.

The butterflies in your stomach while talking to him at the party were unlike anything you’ve ever felt. You’ve been trying to convince yourself since that it was just because he’s famous and a great player and obviously attractive, not indicative of something more.

In all honesty, your fear isn’t that he’ll want to keep things casual - you’re worried that he won’t, or that you’ll catch feelings for him and they won’t be returned. You’ve had enough heartache the past few years, you’re not sure you could handle that.

Regardless, you decided to respond to his DM a few hours after he sent it, unable to resist the temptation.

yourinstagram Hey, it was great meeting you too! Sure, I’d be up for something 😊

You did worry you seemed overly eager, but he didn’t take long to respond.

benchilwell Perfect, I’ve got Wednesday off training. Wanna come to mine on Tuesday night and we can order dinner? You good with Indian?

yourinstagram Sounds good, just send me the details!

When Tuesday finally rolls around, you feel more nervous than you expected but excited nonetheless. You get home from work around six and immediately start getting ready even though you don’t have to be at Ben’s until eight.

Charlotte is out at a work event, so you have no one to advise you, but you decide on jeans and a white long-sleeve tee. It’s a simple outfit, but you feel both relaxed and confident in it, which is perfect for…whatever this is.

You take the tube and show up at Ben’s right on time. You briefly consider if you should’ve played it cool and been a bit late, but you’ve already rung the doorbell and it’s too late to turn back now.

The door swings open, revealing a brightly smiling Ben, in a fleecy black sweatshirt and matching joggers, knocking the wind out of you just as much as he did the first time.

“Hey, Y/N,” he smiles, stepping out of the way so you can come in. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“You too,” you say sincerely, slipping your shoes off in the entry hall. “How was your day?”

“Not bad,” Ben shrugs, beginning to lead you further into the house. “Much better now, though. How about you?”

You can feel yourself blushing as he flashes you a cheeky grin before turning around to walk into the next room.

“Mine was good, yeah,” you mumble, trying to regain your composure.

Without Ben’s gaze on you, you look around the house for the first time - it’s massive, with marble floors and sky-high ceilings. Honestly, it might be the nicest house you’ve ever been in.

As you enter the kitchen, there’s a huge spread of food out on the island.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got one of everything,” Ben says a bit shyly. “Indian makes for good leftovers, though, right?”

“Yeah, it does,” you agree, smiling at him. “Thanks, Ben, this looks delicious.”

He passes you a plate to fill up, him following suit as you load yours with a bit of everything.

“I’m sorry I didn’t suggest a restaurant, it’s just that there can be paps or fans taking photos a lot of the time and I didn’t want to subject you to that,” Ben says as you sit down at the table to eat.

“Of course, I get it,” you say. “And I’m good with staying in, really. Honestly, I kind of prefer it.”

“Yeah, same here,” Ben smiles. “Especially after a long day.”

You share stories of your work days as you eat what’s probably the best food you’ve had since moving to London. Once you’re done, Ben offers you a glass of wine as he cleans up and puts the rest in the fridge.

You sip the cold Chardonnay and sit back, feeling hopelessly giddy as you watch Ben hum some song you faintly recognize and move around the kitchen tidying up.

“You feel like watching a film?” Ben asks when he’s done.

You nod and he takes you to another room, with a huge couch and a TV nearly the size of the wall. He sits and you sit next to him, leaving about an arm’s length of separation between the two of you.

You settle on a scary movie called Smile after Ben suggests it. You’re not much for the horror genre but you agree anyway, not wanting to seem lame in front of this guy you barely know. You get comfortable on the couch, inching slightly closer to Ben so you can stretch your legs out on the sectional in front of him.

You can feel Ben’s gaze on you from time to time, but you keep your eyes glued to the screen to avoid eye contact. He’s fairly close to you now, and you’re worried if you look at him you won’t be able to resist kissing him. You don’t usually mind making the first move, but something about this feels different.

All of a sudden, a jump scare on the screen makes you reflexively turn your head away, and your face ends up landing on Ben’s shoulder. Although he jolted at the sudden scare as well, he immediately wraps an arm around you and begins to run his hand up and down your arm.

“You alright?” Ben asks, his breath warm on your ear.

“Yeah, it’s just a film,” you laugh softly, not moving an inch. You feel so comfortable and safe right now considering you just met this guy a few days ago. It’s like you’ve known him for years. “Not much of a scary movie person, to be honest.”

“I’m sorry, you should’ve said something,” Ben says gently. “You wanna pick something else?”

He pauses the film and you raise your head from his shoulder, now meeting his eyes with your faces only inches apart.

About three seconds pass before you both dive in to kiss each other, your lips meeting seamlessly.

His hands are on your back as you begin to make out with more intensity, scrambling to get closer to him. You end up straddling his lap, running your hands through his hair - which is just as soft as you imagined - as he pulls you as close as possible.

You carry on like this for god knows how long, unable to get enough of each other. Eventually, you have to come up for air, both of you completely out of breath.

You remain in his lap as he rests his forehead against yours.

“Wow,” you breathe, admiring his slightly swollen lips and enjoying the feeling of his strong arms wrapped around you. “That was-“

“Yeah,” Ben finishes, placing a lighter kiss on your lips. “Do you want to…”

“Yes,” you reply, diving in to kiss him again and tugging at the bottom of his sweatshirt.

He gets the hint and takes it off, along with the white t-shirt underneath. You can’t help but pull away to look at him for a moment, your eyes scanning the many small tattoos you saw on his Instagram.

And his abs, obviously.

As you continue to kiss, he starts to take off your shirt as well, and you nod in consent before he removes it fully.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, staring at your breasts as he begins to kiss your neck and jawline, making you moan.

You continue to undress until there’s nothing left. Ben reaches down and can immediately feel how ready you are for him, making you tremble when his finger touches your sensitive spot.

“I want you,” you mumble against his lips. “Now.”

“I need to get a-”

You cut him off by reaching over and pulling what he’s looking for out of your purse on the floor.

“Modern women come prepared,” you smirk, passing him the condom.

“Damn, you’re amazing,” Ben grins as he opens the wrapper with his teeth and begins to roll it on his hard cock.

Ben flips you both over on the couch and sinks in to you slowly, making both of you moan with pleasure. He asks if you’re alright as he begins to thrust into you slightly faster, and you can only nod as your brain goes fuzzy with pure bliss.

Before it’s even over, you can tell this is the best sex you’ve ever had. It’s not just the technique, though obviously his toned, athletic body is improving the experience, but something more than that too. He feels so right inside of you, so perfect.

“Y/N,” Ben moans, “I’m close, love.”

“That’s ok, go ahead.”

He lets out another low groan as he comes, and you feel a bit bereft as he pulls out and collapses on the couch next to you. After he’s had the chance to catch his breath, he gets up on his knees and begins to trail kisses down your body, making you tremble with anticipation.

It’s even more perfect when he goes down on you, making you see stars within seconds of his mouth on you. By the time you finish, you’re screaming his name in pleasure.

After he’s passed you a tissue to clean yourself up, Ben leans back against the couch cushions and pulls you into his arms, draping a blanket over your naked and now a bit sweaty bodies.

“That was amazing,” you can’t help but admit, your head resting on his chest and your eyes fluttering shut with contentment.

“So amazing,” he agrees, kissing your forehead in a way that feels almost too intimate, despite the activities you just engaged in. “You’re incredible, Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Not so bad yourself, Ben Chilwell,” you chuckle. “Where did you learn to - you know what, never mind.”

You both laugh, but you suddenly remember what you came here for. The sex, although not a guarantee, was not unexpected and certainly not unwelcome.

Everything else, though - the butterflies in your stomach when he laughs, the tender forehead kisses after sex - is strictly off-limits if you want to retain your sanity.

You don’t need a boyfriend at all right now, let alone a footballer. Even if that footballer makes your heart want to leap right out of your chest.

“Ben, I just wanna be clear,” you say after a few minutes of enjoying each other’s touch in silence. “This was really fun, and I would love to keep seeing you, but that’s all this is, right? Fun?”

Ben hesitates for a moment, and you’re suddenly concerned that he expected more from this evening.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly. “I just assumed since you’re a professional athlete and busy with football and everything that you wouldn’t be looking for-“

“Yeah, of course,” Ben interrupts, smiling and kissing you again. “That’s perfect, actually. Having no strings attached makes everything easier.”

“Okay, great,” you smile, kissing him again. “Now, do you wanna pick another film or do you wanna go for round two?”

Ben stares at you, looking a bit awestruck for a moment, before leaning in to kiss you again.

Somehow, the second time is even better.

next chapter 💙

#ben chilwell x reader #ben chilwell x y/n #ben chilwell imagine #ben chilwell #chelsea fc imagine #komh

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