#memoria accepted

[soultiio]

reference: job, orpen william

[gael-garcia]

what does he see in her like this much

[rxqueenotd]

damnatio memoriae: PART III

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.

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warnings: oral m receiving, arranged marriage, foul language, mentions of blood, bodily fluids, Ancient Rome as a warning within itself.

notes: i am tired. no big notes today, just the chapter and a huge thanks to @trashmouth-richie for beta’ing for me even though we’re dying and surrounded by the plague.

⟡ Imperator- Septimius Severus

⟡ Augustus- Marcus Aurelius Antoninus “Caracalla”

⟡ Caesar- ⟡ Publius Septimius Geta “Geta”

III

“Brother,” Caracalla chuckled, surrounded by the finest of the court—his beloved whores, concubines, and every fair face that caught his eye—turned to his sibling, “have you laid eyes on my wife?”

Geta, his fingers entwined with his main flame to his right, shook his head slowly. “No, the better question would be: have you seen your wife?”

A silver platter brimming with powder was offered to Caracalla, who eagerly partook, stumbling backward, snorting and sniffling, until he finally crashed into his gilded seat.

“I thought we agreed to save the Rhino’s Horn for Saturnalia,” Geta shot a glance at the bearer of the silver dish, waving them off.

“Why not seize the day, brother?” Caracalla replied, “Father has departed for uncle’s villa, my wife is… well, lost to me at the moment, but that matters not. Let us enjoy these days of luxury.”

The two had been drunk for much of the day, with Caracalla lost in a haze of whatever was handed to him: Devil’s Breath, opium, Rhino’s Horn—none mattered. If it was offered, it was his. Geta, however, stayed pleasantly tipsy on sweet wine, his cup never empty, his tongue loosening enough to spill secrets like a river.

“Brother, I must share something with you.” Geta’s gaze met Caracalla’s, who leaned in, all ears.

Caracalla clapped his hands, a crooked grin spreading across his face. “At last, something of interest! Amuse me, brother.”

“Gracchus’s wife,” Geta began, “on the night of your wedding, her lips were wrapped so divinely around my cock.”

Caracalla nodded, interrupting, “A wondrous thing, indeed.”

Geta pressed on, “And Prima came to my chambers, asking to help you to bed while you were busy with one of your legendary displays.”

This piqued Caracalla’s interest. He sat up straight, eyes locked onto Geta’s face, lips pressed tight, nostrils flaring.

“And?” he urged Geta to continue.

“And, well, I commanded her to stay, to savor the moment.” Geta caressed the cheek of the woman at his side, who purred in delight, momentarily diverting his gaze from his brother.

Caracalla, though not entirely impressed, was curious. He grasped his brother’s arm firmly. “And she complied? She truly remained and watched?”

“Yes,” Geta affirmed with a nod, “who would dare refuse the command of a son of the emperor?”

Caracalla’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face before he leaned down and whispered to one of the servants who knelt before them, awaiting his command.

It wasn’t long before you made your entrance into the chamber, a mix of confusion and acceptance washing over you at being summoned after a week of silence. You stood before the two brothers, maintaining a stoic expression while disregarding the crowd surrounding them, who now beheld the new Augusta. Most gazed at you in wonder, some wore expressions of intrigue, while others looked as if they were ready to eat you, relishing every moment they stood in your presence.

“Has someone died?” Caracalla asked, his brow furrowed as he took in your appearance from head to toe.

The toga you donned was a careful choice. Its deep black hue a sign of mourning, a garment you had worn through various times of grief. The black veil draped softly over your shoulders, trailing down the back of your dress and nearly brushing the floor, swaying gently with the warm breeze that flowed in from the balconies on either side. You adorned yourself with jewels—a delicate headpiece that held the veil in place, a gift from the Imperator himself, paired with his late wife's stunning collection of rubies that gleamed on your fingers. A golden cuff encircled your bicep, intricately designed with fine lines weaving a lace-like pattern, complemented by matching earrings and your family’s cherished wrist cuffs, passed down through generations.

“No one that I know of,” you replied, a hint of mischief in your voice. “I just figured that if I dressed the part, perhaps the gods would take notice of my urgent prayers and send me off to the underworld with haste.”

A chorus of gasps filled the room, and you had to bite your lip to keep from grinning.

Caracalla staggered over, getting right in your face.

“Everyone, out!” he barked, his eyes locked on yours. When no one moved, he shouted, “Get out or live to regret it!” That was all it took for the crowd to scurry away like frightened mice.

“Tell me,” he said, dragging a finger down the bridge of your nose—an odd move, but on-brand for Caracalla, “did it make your cunt throb to see my brother getting his cock sucked?”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him. “Do not talk to me about implied infidelities when you’re surrounded by people the likes of which do not even make a good meal for a dog.”

Caracalla's expression shifted to a dangerous glint, his lips curling into a smirk. “Ah, so we’re playing at words now, are we? You think you can wound me with your tongue? I have better plans for that mouth of yours.”

“Brother,” Geta said, rising to his feet, “don’t do something you’ll come to regret.”

Caracalla pulled a dagger from his belt, pointing it at Geta. “You’ll sit down and keep your mouth shut, brother.”

And there you were, caught in the middle of two prideful men, like a sweet nectar drawing them in.

Geta lifted his hands in a gesture of defense, retreating toward his chair in defeat.

“On your knees, wench!” Caracalla bellowed, fury blazing in his eyes like a stormy sky.

Your gaze flickered to Geta, but Caracalla, with the edge of his sword pressed against your cheek, forcefully turned your head to face him.

“Is it not enough that you dared to speak with him? Must you also look upon him in my presence?” Caracalla whined, his naturally raspy voice sounding even more gravelly in his drug addled state.

“Are you deaf?!” he roared, “On your knees!”

You felt the cold of the sword as it slid from your cheek to your neck, pressing firmly against your carotid. With a heavy heart, you sank to your knees, shame washing over you.

As you gazed up at him, angry tears welled in your eyes. The golden laurel wreath tangled in his wild hair sat crookedly above his brows, as he looked down at you with a wild glint.

“Show me how well Gracchus’s wife treated my dear brother!” he cackled, delighting in the raunchiness of his demand.

“Absolutely not,” you spat through clenched teeth, attempting to rise once more, only to be met with his rough hands shoving you back down against the cold marble.

“Must I flog you for your insolence?!” he howled, spit flying from his lips, “Must I?!”

“Not here,” you pleaded, all pride abandoned as your knees ground into the cold marble, “Not like this.”

“Just like this,” he replied, smirking down at you as he pulled back his flowing robes to reveal his hard cock.

“Come on,” he flicked his tip against your lips, “open up for me.”

With angry tears stinging your eyes, you wrapped your lips around him, his velvet tip sliding past your lips, brushing heavily against your tongue.

“Should you dare use your teeth against me, I’ll have them knocked from your jaw with the hilt of my sword. Rome has no place for a wild, toothless harlot.”

He carelessly rolled his hips toward your face, swaying unsteadily with each thrust as you fought back the bile rising in your throat. When you didn’t please him the way he wished, he fucked your face with such fervor that he nearly lost his balance. You gagged as hot tears streamed down your cheeks, saliva dripping from the corners of your mouth like a hungry dog.

“You must not have impressed her with your little show, brother,” he bellowed over his shoulder, gripping the roots of your hair, chuckling as you gagged even harder, pressing your nails into his thighs for fear you might topple over. “I have had better pleasure alone.”

He continued his brutal assault until finally he pulled you snug to the base of his cock, letting out a guttural groan, his legs nearly giving way beneath him as he released his hot seed into your mouth.

He stumbled back, shaky hands letting you go, but not fast enough to dodge the glob of cum you spat at his feet.

“You stupid whore—” he screamed, reaching for his sword again, but Geta grabbed him.

"‘Enough, brother,’ Geta commanded, gesturing toward the door. At once, two guards rushed in, seizing Caracalla, wrestling the blade from his grip, placing it firmly in Geta's hand.

A smirk crept across your lips as you met Caracalla's furious gaze, his struggles useless against the guards' hold. You wiped the last traces from your mouth, unflinching, while he spat threats of every punishment under the sun. His voice faded into the distance, growing fainter with each step as the guards dragged him away.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

As soon as you stepped into your chambers, you snatched up a decorative vase, your stomach churning from the memory of his touch as you unceremoniously emptied its contents into the vase. A pang of guilt washed over you for the poor servant who would later have the misfortune of clearing it out, but you quickly brushed it aside; purging any trace of Caracalla from your system took precedence above all else.

As you crossed the threshold to the adjoining balneum, the air was thick with steam, a sensation that caused you to groan in pleasure. The gentle sound of water splashing filled the space while the frescoes adorning the walls told stories of playful nymphs dancing amongst the clouds lost amongst a blue sky. The buff marble floor cooled your feet, contrasting with the warmth of your skin.

The bathing area itself featured a large, sunken pool, its waters shimmering under the soft glow of oil lamps. To one side, a small fountain trickled water into a basin, where fresh rose petals floated, adjacent to a nearby selection of oils: patchouli, lavender, rosemary, their scents mingled in the heady, warm atmosphere. A strigil and pumice stone awaited on a shelf built into the wall, along with fine linen towels, and cloths, all carefully placed for your use.

With a soft sigh, you dipped your toes into the inviting water, allowing the robe you had worn in to drop to the marbled floor behind you. You relished the sensation as you waded in deeper, the water rising to your ankles, then your calves. Each step felt like a release, the warmth washing over you, dissolving the tension that had clung to you throughout the day.

As you reached the center of the pool, the water enveloped you completely. You closed your eyes, letting your head fall back as you floated for a moment, allowing the water to cradle you. Everything felt so distant, so unimportant. The world outside faded away, and for a fleeting moment, it was just you and the serenity of the private sanctuary. You let your mind wander, thoughts drifting like the petals floating in the nearby basin.

Reaching for the bottle of patchouli oil resting on the edge of the bath, you poured a small amount into your palm, the rich, earthy scent wafting into the space. With your fingers slicked with the oil, you began to comb it carefully through your hair, taking your time to work out any knots and tame the unruly strands. Once satisfied with your hair, you took a fine cloth, its texture soft as silk against your skin, and began to bathe yourself with the perfumed oil.

With deliberate movements, you sloshed water along your body, enjoying the feeling of it cascading over your skin like a gentle waterfall. When you were ready, you dove under the water once more, the coolness contrasting deliciously with the warmth of the oil. As you rinsed yourself, you felt the excess oils wash away, the strigil waiting nearby for the final touch.

“Domina.” The tranquil moment shattered as one of your newly assigned servants peeked through the ornate doorway, her voice breaking the soothing silence.

“What is it?” you asked, trying to stall for just a moment longer.

“You’ve been summoned.”

Of course you had. It only made sense that your peaceful escape would be interrupted. You emerged from the water, droplets glistening on your skin, and caught the nervous gaze of the servant as she shifted from foot to foot.

“Come inside,” you beckoned her, and she hesitantly approached, holding out a towel like it was a fragile offering.

“Do you know how to use a strigil?” you asked, and she nodded, though her eyes betrayed her anxiety.

“Very well.” You dried your face with the towel, then reached for the strigil and handed it to her. “Quickly.”

With shaky hands, she began to scrape off the excess oils.

“What is your name?” you asked, trying to ease the tension as she glided the strigil along your shoulder.

“Cassia,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Cassia,” you repeated, letting the name linger in the air. “Is it Caracalla or Geta requesting me?”

“Neither, Domina,” she paused, placing the strigil back in its assigned place. “It is the Imperator.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

You quickly slipped into a sleeping gown—something informal yet appropriate for the presence of the Imperator. Cassia’s hands trembled slightly as she helped you into the nightgown made of fine, onyx silk. She draped a matching robe over your shoulders, guiding your arms into the sleeves with a gentleness that put you at ease. The fabric glided down your arms, flowing behind you like a shadow as you moved to comb your damp hair away from your face.

“I believe it would be nice if you left your hair down to dry,” Cassia suggested meekly, her eyes meeting yours through the reflection in the looking glass.

“I can braid it when you return. It is not wise to make the Imperator wait.” Her eyes told a story, hinting at the consequences of such delays, as if she had witnessed them firsthand.

“Very well,” you agreed, sensing the urgency in her tone. “Lead me there.”

Cassia walked quickly ahead, navigating through the maze of twists and turns that made up the opulent palace. The gilded walls shimmered under the flickering sconces, casting warm glows on the marble flooring. You passed by frescoes depicting grand tales of valor and myth, the ornate pieces of art adorning each wall, their beauty almost distracting you from the nervous feeling that swirled in your gut.

Finally, you arrived at an imposing set of doors, intricately carved and adorned with symbols befitting the Imperator’s status. Cassia hesitated for a moment, glancing back at you with a mix of awe and fear. “I’ll wait here, Domina.”

You nodded, taking a deep breath as you stepped forward. The doors swung open, revealing the dimly lit chamber beyond.

“Prima,” Septimius spoke from across the room, his voice smooth yet commanding. You crossed the threshold, your heart quickening as you made your way toward him. He sat at a side table, a decanter of wine glistening under the moonlight that spilled through the billowing curtains beside the table, casting soft shadows along the table and its contents.

“Thank you for joining me,” he said, standing to pull out a chair for you. You took your seat, the silk of your robe whispering against the chair as you settled in.

“Of course, Imperator,” you replied, keeping your tone steady. You studied his face, searching for clues about his intentions. Septimius possessed an air of authority, his graying hair slightly tousled, and his sharp features illuminated by the silvery light.

He poured a glass of wine, the deep red liquid swirling as he filled it, and then slid it across the table toward you. “A toast, Prima. To new beginnings.”

You accepted the glass, “To new beginnings,” you echoed, raising the glass slightly before taking a sip. As you caught his gaze, a flicker of something unreadable passed in his eyes.

“Tell me,” he began, leaning forward slightly, “how do you find your new role here? The palace can be overwhelming, even for those accustomed to such grandeur.”

You considered his question carefully, weighing your words. “It is… a lot to take in,” you admitted.

“As to be expected,” he assured you, his gaze unwavering. “How are things with your new husband?”

“May I be bold, Imperator?” you asked, setting your glass down with a gentle clink, smoothing the fabric of your robe against your thighs to calm the tension that had begun to build within you.

“Go ahead,” he nodded, his expression encouraging.

You took a moment, drawing in a steadying breath. “I believe I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already know how things have been going.” You reached for the glass of wine again, taking a sip to wet your drying, anxious mouth.

Septimius leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look crossing his features. You spotted Geta right away in him, the way his eyes were shaped and how he looked at you like you were the most confusing thing in the world that he sought to understand. But Caracalla was there too—his fingers digging into the armrest, his middle and pointer fingers tapping an offbeat rhythm against the leather. Caracalla's fierce gaze matched Septimius’s as well as his wild curls, both full of intensity.

“True enough. The palace is a place of whispers, and my son’s reputation precedes him. Yet I am interested in your perspective—how you truly feel about your situation.”

“May I ask what brought you back early from your trip to Baiae?” you asked, genuinely curious about the reason for his fast return.

“Word travels fast,” he leaned in, lowering his voice. “I—” he paused, selecting his words with care, “am aware of what transpired earlier today.”

You nodded, a wave of shame washing over you as you pictured someone recounting the scene to the Imperator.

“I also know that you and Caracalla have not shared a bed since your wedding night.”

“I…” you sighed, “truly am doing my best. It’s just that he and I are two very different people, and I’m trying to navigate the ocean of differences between us.” You explained, your tone almost pleading.

Carefully, he slid a familiar piece of parchment your way. No need to touch it; you knew well what it said.

“How did you come by that?” you asked, brow furrowed.

“Never mind that,” he waved a hand dismissively. “Do the words in this letter truly speak to your feelings?”

With a weary sigh, you opened it, your fingers dancing along its edges.

“If you wished me dead, you could’ve driven the blade yourself.” The words were yours, penned to your father a few days prior, when you felt as if being married to Caracalla was a death sentence, when tensions were at a high and you needed someone to hear you.

“It was confiscated before it left the palace,” he replied, his gaze steady as it met yours over the parchment.

“May I ask who thought it wise to spy on me and read my letters?” You laid the parchment flat, smoothing out the creases.

“You may not.” His expression was as stoic as a statue.

“I feel as if I’m being set up to fail, Imperator, as if your son wishes to see this marriage crumble, and I’ll be cast aside when I inevitably fail in my duties.” You spoke the truth plainly, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

“When he was, I don’t know,” he sighed, “seven or eight, we campaigned through Syria and up into the Taurus mountains.”

You leaned in, sitting up straighter, eager for him to continue.

“And I remember him shouting, ‘I’ve found another three!’ I turned around, and there he was, standing among a sea of headless corpses, yelling when he found one with its head still on. He took such joy in it; it became a sort of game for him.”

“Isn’t that what a man wants? A son who isn’t squeamish about death and war?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“Of course, but not one who brings that chaos within his own walls, in his own home.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out with a weary sigh.

“And Geta,” he closed his eyes, “maybe I wasn’t hard enough on him. Maybe I learned my lesson with Caracalla. Maybe Geta is just his mother’s son.” He waved a hand dismissively, letting out a heavy sigh. “But none of this is your worry.”

He stood, and you followed, walking with him to the grand doors.

“Go and rest. After tonight, all will be well.”

You turned to question him, to ask what the gods had happened between the two of you and why it had become your concern even if he had assured you it wasn’t, but the doors swung shut before you could speak. You exchanged a bewildered glance with Cassia before heading back to your chambers.

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Not long after, the harsh sound of screaming pulled you from your thoughts. You followed the noise, retracing Cassia’s steps from earlier in the night, until you stumbled into Geta’s chest as he stood by the entrance to his father’s chambers.

“What are you doing here?” he spat. You peered around him, drawn to the chaos behind the door.

“I heard the shouting and got worried,” you replied. “What’s happening?”

“None of your business.” He looked down at you, his expression cold.

“Back to your rooms,” he ordered, waving you away.

“You will take your wife back into your quarters immediately!” came the booming voice of Septimius. A loud crash echoed, and you and Geta exchanged alarmed glances.

“Perhaps you should show me some respect for the title you’ve given me,” Caracalla shouted back.

“Perhaps you should earn that title, boy,” Septimius seethed.

Another crash followed, accompanied by the sound of shuffling.

“You are only Augustus and emperor of Rome by my say, Marcus! I am your father and your emperor,” Septimius continued, his voice cutting through the chaos. “I will strip you of every title and give it to your brother, who might actually appreciate it!”

Geta’s ears perked up, and a flicker of hope crossed his face as he looked toward the door.

But Septimius’s next words dashed his hopes. “Perhaps I’ll take your wife into my quarters and father a son with her. A new line of succession could be just what Rome needs.”

Another crash echoed, and grunts erupted from behind the doors.

“Look at you, bleeding like a woman,” Septimius mocked. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you bled between your legs like one.”

The grand doors swung open, and Caracalla stormed toward you, his face smeared with blood. When he spat a crimson splash at your feet, you instinctively jumped back. He rushed past you, exchanging a quick glance with Geta.

“Do not follow him,” Geta warned, his voice low and tense.

But you didn’t heed his warning.

You navigated through winding hallways, twisting and turning until you reached Caracalla's chamber. He had thrown the doors open, pacing like a caged beast, blood streaming down his face.

“Get the hell out!” he bellowed, sending everything from the side table crashing to the floor.

“I refuse,” you shot back, firmly closing the door behind you.

“You went and lied to my father,” he hissed, stalking toward you like a predator. “You treacherous snake!”

“I did nothing of the sort!” you yelled back, your voice rising with anger. “He knew before he called for me.”

As he approached, the full extent of his injuries became clear. His nose was smashed, blood pouring from it, and his lip was split wide open. You roamed about his room scouring for supplies to clean him with until you found a few plain cloths on his dressing table.

“Sit.” You were shocked when he followed the command, sitting on the side of the bed, brow pinched at the way you had spoken to him.

“We must work together until I’m with child,” you said, as he winced a bit when you pressed a clean cloth against his split lip. “Then, once a son is born, you can send me off to whatever warm rock you fancy.”

“But first,” you said as you settled beside him on the bed, “we need to stop this bleeding.”

He placed his hand over yours, pressing down harder against his lip, a silent agreement forged in a simple touch.

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Tag list:

@alwaysahiccupandastrid

@justnobodynothingmore

Dividers:

@ghoulbloggerrr

[kiddysart]

I will draw a character at your request in the super cute style of the anime Puella Magi Madoka Magica!

( •̀ᄇ• ́ )ﻭ✧ I've drawn my friends and me in this style so much is not even funny!:

Head-Shot $25 Head-shot of 1 (one) character, full color, 1000x1000

Half-Body $35 Half-Body of 1 (one) character, full color, 2000x2000

Full-Body $50 Full-Body of 1 (one) character, full color, 3000x3000

Memoria Card +$15 Customize your commission to look like a card from the Magia Record Game!

Reference Sheet $90 Two Full-Body (Back and front) of 1 (one) character, full color, plus color palette 3000x3000

Detailed Background $15-40

What the commission entails:

For the time being, I'm only accepting paypal.

You give me references for both the character and pose if necessary.

You will receive a high resolution PNG File.

The commission prices include five revisions.

The delivery time is estimated between 20 and 30 business days, accordingly to both the contracter and the contratee (moi) timely communication via comment, chat, notes or email.

100% of the payment if required before I get started.

If not provided with reference for a certain aspect of the piece by the contracter, it's by default assumed to be left to the criteria and preference of the contratee, and any future changes in relation to this will be take into account at the time of charging revisions.

What I will draw:

FanArt.

Ocs.

Real people.

Furry.

Gore.

Diverse body types.

Simple armour.

What I NOT will draw:

Porn.

Complicated armour.

Mecha.

Hyper muscular bodies.

Hate speech/iconography.

Thank you for reading, cant wait to take your order! ⋆. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ✲ﾟ｡⋆.

[surly-sara]

jumping up and down pls pls pls tell me your thoughts on caleb’s lore in the main story and what u think after going through his memoria and bond. as soon as they brought up the chip in the main story i wanted to throw my ipad bc i thought they were gonna do the whole “oh he’s not actually like that his mind is twisted from the chip” thing. but then he directly addressed that idea so i was like ok wow i guess not but everyone seems to think he is actually being controlled by the chip??? idk

heey thank you for this ask, i have a lot of thoughts as usual, thank you for asking <3 just a note: i wholly accept the gege caleb is your adopted brother aspect of his story like in the CN, KR, and JP versions, so i'm referring to him as mc's brother below. you can switch out brother for childhood friend; in either case, mc has a deeply rooted relationship with him.

First off, if I had a braincell I might have worried about the chip controlling his brain as a plot device, but I got the yandere vibes from him before he blew up, so that didn't even occur to me. But who are these 'everyone' of whom you speak? I don't think he's being controlled by the chip to any extent that matters in regards to his feelings and behavior towards mc. He's actively fighting against the chip's influence with his wildly cute and bizarre little black hole in his brain blocking its further invasion into his mind. the cliffhanger is, can the EVER scientists figure out a way to work around the block he's thrown up to actually exert control over him? The answer will be -> fuck if I know, I've never played an infold/PG game to later stages, but this is a dating sim, i'm assuming he'll be fine.

But I do think that all of his obsession about MC is wholly his own. His only wish in high school was MC's name -> MC herself. His need to protect her, to provide for her, all his own. he's been wearing a mask his whole life, he tells MC straight up that 'maybe this is how i've always been' because that's who he has always been. he's just finally "done playing these games" and is finally unapologetic about what he wants and is tired of fighting himself in getting it. I love him so much for it. "I know best, I'm the only one who can do this for you, and i'm going to do it whether you like it or not." and then if MC refuses to listen to him, if she pushes back, he looks like a kicked puppy and still keeps doing it. He's Like That without the chip. Is what he's doing okay? No man, this is unhealthy as fuck. if you want a healthy relationship based on mutual trust and support, you don't lie to and drug your sister-girlfriend. you don't urge her to be a hunter and then not trust that she can also take care of herself. you don't loom outside the cafe she's out at friends with and scare her friends into thinking you're some kind of abusive controlling asshole. I mean, unless you're caleb, and he doesn't care, he's finally owning his red flags. But I think it's fabulous to see his pikachu face when MC is like, i don't know you anymore, I might not want to see you for awhile, i'm pissed that you're still treating me like a defenseless little girl when i'm a trained killer now too. he deserves to look like that after all the shit he pulls. i like that infold just takes him right to the edge but doesn't push him over into 'okay this isn't fun anymore' territory with all of his core traits and motivations. he does let her go in the end, he lets her get in the airplane, escape the cage he's dying to put her in. with just the little card, begging her forgiveness, the forgiveness she promised him years ago.

But i digress. I really like the main storyline, but it's not without its flaws. So the things I liked: i'm shocked and happy that they made him full on yandere with the drugging mc and locking her in the house and then locking her in the infirmary and sidelining her at every opportunity in order to protect her. Those parts were great. I think the main story line was a wonderful showcase of how him as a character. I love his tenderness, and his suffocating presence were really well done. I loved how unhinged he is when MC says she doesn't need him, and he knocks over the apples and is laughing in breathless disbelief. Unmasked caleb = hot and a little scary. but please note! even when he's really upset, he does not hurt her! he's a hell of a lot more gentle than sylus! just, you know, throwing that out there.

What I didn't like: I thought that the plot was kind of all over the place. and like they often do in games like these, they nerfed MC in order to emphasize caleb's personality and traits and strengths. the whole mia and kevi storyline was a tragedy, and MC made some stupid-ass choices in it for an elite hunter. Like, the parallels with CalebMC were really clumsy, it felt a bit exploitative because they were such little kids, and for me its only value was highlighting how little Caleb cares about collateral damage in his quest to protect MC. He does not give a fuck if a little girl just like MC dies, as long as MC herself lives. That's some stone-cold villain shit, and I like it. They gave me my green flag with Sylus, I'm happy to have someone with such chilling aspects to his character as a nice balance. ALSO with the main storyline: Look, I love the other LIs. But Zayne, you're green grass, you're so lovely, but i am here for my toxic brother-boyfriend, why are you showing up and making me love how gentle and tender you are, genuinely are, unlike the fucked up walking disaster of a man i'm absolutely swooning over, who is gentle and tender in the way a child is when accidentally suffocating carefully-caught butterfly under a glass bell. Go on zayne, back to akso, I want more of the insecure border collie/german shepard crossbreed puppy masquerading as a colonel.

So because I am mainly interested in this game for the characters and their relationships to MC, I don't really mind that my low expectations for the the actual plot of the game tend to be proven correct and leave so much to be desired. but, If the plot was perfect I wouldn't feel the need to write fic to fix it, so I'm not too upset.

Another thing I hated, but I knew i'd hate: their reunion was so tepid. MC's joy in seeing him again, the relief that he's actually alive, her rage, her grief, everything he put her through in the past year -> like with sylus, glossed over, not addressed to the full extent necessary for a fun story or for emotional catharsis. i thought it was hilarious that mc is like, oh my brother is now a space nazi, and she is immediately ride-or-die, 'i don't even care that you're doing such awful shit, i've got your back no matter what,' even though he put her through so much and reveals himself through the whole main story to be Not The Brother She Knew. Who is this stranger? Apparently MC doesn't care, he wears caleb's face, so she's going to trust him. incredible. stupid. hilarious. but, oh well, that's what fic is for, to fix this nonsense. sidenote: Sylus didn't get this level of benefit of the doubt! MC made him suffer for SO long, suspecting him, not trusting anything he did! justice for sylus! and he had done way less horrible shit than MC watches caleb do!

As for the memoria and the bond: i love that he's been obsessed and nuts about her since high school, long before he left for the DAA. I love that the 4 star cards are all set in the past, but slowly show their growing romantic feelings for each other in high school, and don't just focus exclusively on cute childhood nostalgia. i love that they show how loving caleb is, when he's not wearing his space nazi uniform. because yes he's controlling, possessive, ruthless in a way that not even sylus is, but he really does love mc. he really does want whats best for her, and i think one of his character developments in the game will be learning to let her walk next to him instead of always sidelining her and making her feel less-than as a result. i love that she and caleb fight, and get in spats, and then make up, and he shows all of his emotions on his face. I love that in his memories he tells her that she's beautiful, that he thinks she's amazing. he's so open with his affection for her, and i love that so much, it's heart-fluttering.

Also some more thoughts about Caleb and Sylus I was sharing with @minniestarmj today: i love that caleb and sylus are two sides of the same coin. they're both caretakers, they both are obsessive about mc, they both track her and stalk her, and want what's best for her and to be the ones to give it, but Sylus never considered himself human but slowly finds his humanity in mc, and caleb, if he ever had humanity, slowly loses it because of mc.

they're both brain-empty, only-mc levels of motivation. sylus, though not being human, cares about weaker creatures. caleb only cares about mc, despite being human.

sylus is assured, stable, deeply devoted, MC is his other half, and just as strong and capable as he is. caleb is deeply insecure, unstable, has a trouble keeping a lid on his need for control of and protection of mc. sylus fully respects mc, trusts she can do anything, and is just waiting to step in to support when/if necessary. caleb is fear motivated-i think he does respect, admires, worships mc, but is too afraid of anything happening to her and leaving him alone to give her the freedom she craves/needs.

I love that sylus is the king of control, and can give it up so easily to MC, whereas Caleb is so desperate for control, and is always on the verge of losing it around MC. that's a nice fucking contrast to play with in their respective romances.

All in all, with both Sylus and Caleb, I get my healthy, sweetest beyond measure dragon boy and i get my unhinged yandere cyborg boy, and i love them both very much. i'm happy with the caleb as a character, and all the content they've given us so far. it's a mess, just like him.

So! despite all my bitching i love it and I'm having a great time! Thanks for the ask and making it this far in this rambling diatribe!!

[atamascolily]

Building off my earlier analysis of Kyouko Sakura's original Magia Record transformation, here's her "Doppel Version":

For those who are unfamiliar with Magia Record, Doppels are a game mechanic allowing magical girls to temporarily manifest their witch forms. A later story expands on this by introducing the awkwardly-named "Doppel Version" for Kyouko, allowing her to become fused with her Doppel (as opposed to having it attached like a conjoined twin to a certain part of her body, like typical Doppels) and this is reflected in the transformation.

Kyouko stares into a flame floating in midair, which ultimately manifests into a figure covered in flames (compare with her original MR transformation, where this is a temporary intermediate state between ordinary girl and magical girl forms). Note that Kyouko is already in her magical girl form here; we are basically picking up where her original MR transformation ended.

Surprised to recognize the figure in the flames (it's herself, of course; it's always been herself), Kyouko reaches out to it, wincing at the heat of it. I appreciate the animators' dedication to her little fang, though.

When their hands meet, there is an explosion, and Kyouko is once again surrounded by flames burning away her old identity and reforging a new one. Her spear descends and she reaches to catch it, throwing herself at the camera; when the flames die down, she is dressed in the outfit worn by her Doppel, but still manifestly herself.

From an animation standpoint, this is far from the flashiest or most polished transformation sequence. It's the symbolism, simple as it is, that captures my attention. Magical girl transformations frequently feature doubles (compare Madoka's transformation in the opening credits of the orginal series) and the word 'Doppel' is German for 'Double', so that part isn't surprising--what's new is the merger of the two, and the acceptance of it.

I've written a ridiculously long essay about how this, or something very much like it, where magical girls accept and merge with their witches in some capacity, is both a logical extension of the original premise as well as its ultimate end game and here we see that actually playing out in Magia Record, even if it was only a blip in the grand scheme of things.

For various reasons, I have not watched the entire "Homecoming ~ Three Days of Kyoko Sakura" event in full, so while my knowledge is far from comprehensive, I still want to make a few notes.

First, some words about Kyouko's Doppel. It is based on her witch Ophelia, who does not appear in the original series, only in the PSP game. The name parallels Sayaka's witch Oktavia, as does her elemental affinity--if Sayaka is the Little Mermaid, Kyouko is the Little Match Girl, and her witch is literally a candle flame dressed as a wǔdàn, a character archetype of a warrior maiden from Chinese opera.

In keeping with PMMM's emphasis on performance, her labyrinth is a stage (compare also the labyrinth-like animation, complete with candle flames, when Kyouko narrates her backstory to Sayaka in the original anime). It also is yet another parallel with Oktavia, whose labyrinth is a music hall in which an orchestra plays.

Witch (left) vs. Doppel (right). Note that the body of the witch is replaced by Kyouko, although the two are still represented as distinct entities, with the magical girl "controlling" the witch part.

Also, yes, that is her sister Momo's head attached to the Doppel.

As you might expect from all of the imagery, Kyouko merging with her Doppel goes hand in hand with her accepting her painful past, as the two are inextricably linked. This is vividly apparent in one of the event CGs, which also features mirrored Kyoukos:

This image was also used in one of the event's Memoria cards, the text which reads (translation from the Puella Magi Wiki), which adds some additional context:

I was trying to leave everything in my past behind and become something else. Because if I didn't, I wouldn't have survived tomorrow. ...But I couldn't throw it away. I couldn't just pretend that my past self didn't exist.

Kyouko's past literally catches up with her in the form of herself, who kicks her ass and knocks her to the ground. Seems fitting, doesn't it?

This, as I've said before, is the ultimate "good end" for magical girls--to be able to accept the past that led them to make a contract while consciously drawing on the powers and abilities that they gained from it instead of being consumed by it. To be a psychologically whole person, rather than stuck forever in the magical girl-witch dichotomy. This is is everything I want to see in the PMMM franchise!!

And then, having done this extraordinary thing.... Magia Record steps back from it and, as far as I can tell, completely sweeps it under the rug. Kyouko is the only character to have this experience and there's a lot of shrugging of, "huh, wonder what that's about" in-universe as it's a completely new thing that nobody knows anything about... and doesn't seem interested in exploring.

I mean, I can tell you why on a meta, Doylist level--it's because Doppels are a game mechanic and Magia Record, like all of these kinds of games, requires a certain level of stasis and stability. It's fine for a one-time limited event as a novelty, but changing Doppels would require changing the fundamental structure of the game, which is just not happening. So instead, the plot goes back to reinforcing the status quo in Kamihama, instead of following this new and intriguing development.

It's completely understandable--and yet at the same time, it's infuriating because it's the most interesting thing to happen in the game since Doppels were first introduced--they were literally right there and didn't do anything with it beyond this one event!! And I'd be very surprised if Exedra developed it, for similar reasons--what little we've seen of the game makes it seem like it will be rehashing pre-existing storylines as opposed to completely new ones (at least at first) and if it does, it will likely go in very different directions.

As you can tell, I have a lot of strong feelings about this, as it's both fundamental to my personal interpretation of the show, and a topic I've been exploring in my fanworks for several years now. Suffice to say, I'm very happy that this exists, limited as it is, and I hope they'll do more with this sort of thing in future installments.

[commsroom]

first of all thank you so much for having this blog and sharing your thoughts!! your eiffelposting (and heraposting) has literally got me through the post w359 Grieving Process after running though the whole thing in about 2 weeks and your character insight is. well. chefs kiss. Eiffel Understander Of All Time. 2 things: 1, if it’s ok, you’ve mentioned before about an eiffel version of change of mind, and the idea has (1/2)

(2/2) literally stuck with me since and i’d love to hear your thoughts on that if you have any! 2, are there active w359 discords about bc i got a deep need to yap about all this (apologies if the first msg came through twice, tumblr's being weird)

oh, it makes me very happy to hear that!! your art is a gift, and i'm glad i can offer you something in return.

as for your question... yes! okay. the basic premise is to frame eiffel losing (and regaining) his memory as a catalyst for character growth, as a narrative parallel to lovelace's death and resurrection, rather than a resolution. i think it's noteworthy that the finale has eiffel faced with himself from first a very internal (the final confrontation literally taking place inside his head) and then a very external (hearing his logs as an outsider after losing his memory) perspective and i think the natural extension of this is, well. to confront him with himself.

one of the most key things about eiffel's character arc is that he wants to escape himself. "it's taken me this long to realize that running from everyone else means that you're alone with yourself" but, as addressed in constructive criticism, he's also running from himself. he doesn't like what he hears on those tapes, but the eiffel of succulent rat-killing tar both is and isn't the eiffel of brave new world, and i think that's what's being set up/suggested at the end.

i think viewing eiffel's memory loss as a death is incomplete, while viewing it as a "fresh start" or anything of the sort is incompatible with his existing character arc. but if you think of it as part of this pattern of eiffel trying to escape himself, and ending up still stuck with himself...? if he makes the big sacrifice, "escapes" the person he is as much as anyone can, and then finds he's still stuck with himself, still has to live as the person he is...? then, what next?

(i think this also ties in well with maintaining sobriety; addiction, self-destructive impulses and the desire to not be present in his life, etc. are all rooted in the same things.)

my concept of eiffel regaining his memory would be this sort of... fever dream "life flashing before his eyes" sequence of stepping into significant moments in his life (as a stranger) and interacting with himself, and needing to accept / reintegrating all of these versions of who doug eiffel is and has been. that the question of "am i still doug eiffel?" is one of accountability for his past but that he's always been changing and will continue to grow. i think a key part of this would be him seeing these moments through a pop culture lens / as if it's a movie and then more gradually seeing what they really are. ideally, these would be moments tied to specific songs for him; eiffel's internal soundtrack is well beyond wolf 359's budget, i'm sure, but it's a hypothetical anyway. these would be real memories, in some form, but obviously none of this would be happening for real; it's just how i think his brain would make sense of it (while he's presumably unconscious.) it's like sarah shachat said about eiffel's story in limbo: to tell that story, he would first have to make it a story.

i like this because i think it works well with eiffel's existing arc. i like it because it provides a different angle on self-exploration via memory in the same vein as memoria and change of mind. i like it because it makes a good potential parallel to shut up and listen/constructive criticism, and to mayday (eiffel alone with the voices of others vs. eiffel literally alone with himself.) it feels like a natural extension + heightened conclusion to things that i feel are already implied + set up. and, while i like where wolf 359 ended and would never want to add to it, i like imagining what zach valenti would do with a bunch of different versions of eiffel at different stages of his life interacting; i think he would knock it out of the park with material like that.

i think the real core of identity in wolf 359 is in these moments where people assert who they are, or decide to be who they are. again, in parallel to lovelace... the same way that lovelace decides to be isabel lovelace, "even if [she] never has been before", eiffel would decide to be doug eiffel, all the people he's been, the person he is now, and all the people he's going to be.

(as for discord... i think there are some, but unfortunately i don't know of any that i would personally recommend. you are always welcome to ramble at Me on discord, but i know that's probably not the same.)

[ghostlude]

morgan brainrot at full blast tonite, have this.

file is unceremoniously titled “oh god please” and is about a recurring nightmare our silly little blueberry has been having. contains theorized major character death because im nutso.

Morgan thinks he’s never dreamt this much in a long time, not counting the memoria-induced one he had before his arrival in Penacony. It was manageable at first— dreaming of his mama and his siblings, of friends he used to play with, of a family he so looked forward to starting.

It was manageable. These were dreams that Morgan had long since accepted as impossible… but recently these dreams have started intensifying, and he has no clue why. A quick chat with the newest addition to the Astral Express crew suggests that maybe there’s still some remnants of memoria lingering within him after drifting in the Asdana System for weeks.

Boothill thinks it’s something else— “a sign for you to take a damn break, stop and smell the roses,” he tells Morgan, who would much rather bury himself in his side projects than rest. He doesn’t even give his partner a proper response, humming in acknowledgement of his words while his hands idle with a miniature engine he’d been fixated on recently. Only when Boothill grasps at his wrist does Morgan stop to look up at him with weary eyes, and the cowboy sighs through his nose.

“I mean it, sugar.”

And so, begrudgingly, Morgan takes a break as Boothill requested. The ship is left on autopilot for the duration of their current trip, and the cowboy has taken up the role as the engineer for now in his place. It makes Morgan uncomfortable, being this empty handed— not because he doesn’t trust Boothill, but because he can no longer keep his mind off of the dreams he’s been having all week.

Dreams of fire and smoke, of Boothill disappearing behind the flames— of him crumbling to pieces in Morgan’s hands. It recurs once more tonight, playing vividly behind his eyelids like a trainwreck you can’t tear your eyes away from, until he feels like he’s falling, falling— and he’s awake in his sleeping quarters, Boothill sleeping soundly right next to him.

Staring out into the stars does nothing to calm Morgan’s racing heart, but his eyes are glued to the window anyway. He can’t bring himself to look at Boothill after a dream like that.

What if he’s broken when I turn my head? What if he’s rusted, limbs eroded and core fried beyond repair?

What if he tells me to let him go?

The thought only makes Morgan’s heart go into overdrive, and he gives himself a stomach ache as a result as well. The fear and anxiety rushing through his veins is too much for him to bear as he grips the blanket tightly, tears welling up in his eyes and a lump forming in his throat as he struggles and fails to keep it all under control.

What-if scenarios of the future start playing out wildly, like a million screens on display at once, and it overwhelms Morgan— he can’t stop thinking about it, about what will happen if Boothill really does exact his revenge. He sees it so fucking vividly, images of his partner dead and broken, of him being pushed away and told to let him go.

… it takes effort, but Morgan manages to slip away from his room without waking up Boothill or even looking at him either. His hands feel too empty, too idle, and so he quietly makes a beeline for his workbench. He can barely see that miniature engine behind his tears, but he silently tinkers away at it anyway. He would rather bury himself in his work than relive a memory he has yet to experience.

[heavenshardware]

thinking about heras and maxwells characters paralleling each other in regards to their autonomy and i just. aughhhh this is gonna be long and incoherent so i’m apologizing now

the obvious, both of them begin their careers at goddard by being forced into a corner. with hera being threatened with lobotomization/“decommission” and maxwell being stalked and harassed by goddard for 6+ months until accepting their offer, there was forethought put into their acceptance of [lack thereof] control over their autonomy. they both share loud inferiority complexes coded (literally and figuratively) into them by society with quiet superiority complexes. they both know they are capable of something greater, but are unable to do so due to social isolation, giving them the inability to ever advocate for themselves. the main reason kepler even brings her on the hephaestus mission is because she is incredible at talking to things that aren’t human (and i believe in an ama Somewhere agresti shares that maxwell forming friendships with People is incredibly rare). hera shares a similar language barrier; she is expected to be able to fully and effectively communicate with everyone around her no matter the circumstance despite having never had any social experience. she’s been isolated and hidden on purpose, to formulate her language in a way that is passive. both of them have also had to fight to prove that they deserve to exist [as women] in the roles that they reserve. maxwell is well aware that she lacks autonomy in field that (as far as i have heard about within wolf specifically) is male dominated which is why kepler is easily able to pull her in with the promise of control. hera, additionally, is also convinced to work with the hephaestus with the promise that she will have control over her existence within the ship.

which is why the second they meet they immediately feel a deep trust within each other. there is an immediate fundamental understanding of who they both are and how they came to be. their whole lives they’ve been playing chess in a world full of checkers, and someone else finally comes to them, sitting down completing their set of chess pieces.

in memoria, even though maxwells primary motivation is to get hera working again, she really spends the entire episode kind of projecting onto her.

being inherently broken is a theme in both of their pasts. with maxwell refusing to share anything about her family outside of the fact that she has a restraining order against them as well as pryce designing hera to have an anxiety disorder to ensure she could never reach her full potential, it is safe to assume they could have trouble asserting themselves. with hera it is internal, but with maxwell it is fairly external. despite maxwells betrayal, they both help each other become better. they make each other feel heard and they have nothing to hide. they don’t have to tone themselves down in order to interact. even though maxwell ends up siding with the si-5 in the s3 finale, her and hera both help each other come to the conclusion of who/what their common oppressor is, forever changing the way they interact with those who suppress them

[bunnybird-afk]

OK, ACABO DE LEER ALGUNAS RESPUESTAS DEL LORE SE SENA Y ME SURGIERON DOS PREGUNTAS

La primera (y la más corta): ¿Cómo terminó Dolly al servicio de Sena y que es ella exactamente?

Y la segunda (en la que amaría que te extendieras: ¿El niño que adoptó Sena antes de perder la memoria era Valen, verdad? ¿Cómo impactó en Valen ver a quien lo cuidó todo ese tiempo perder sus recuerdos? ¿Es apegado a Dolly, Chippy y Hammie en ese caso en tu canon? ¿Cómo se enteró Hogan de su existencia y lo terminó criando? ¿Hogan se siente culpable por enseñarle el camino de la espada, algo con lo que Sena quizás no hubiera estado de acuerdo?

Y una duda que me ha surgido ahora que lo pienso, ¿ese niño sabía de la existencia de Mirael? ¿Cómo reaccionaría ante ella y su molestia por no ser recordada? ¿Lo sentiría familiar o algo casi injusto?

Translation (via google translate):

OK, I JUST READ SOME ANSWERS FROM THE LORE SE SENA AND I HAD TWO QUESTIONS

The first (and shortest): How did Dolly end up in Sena's service and what exactly is she?

And the second (in which I would love you to expand: The child Sena adopted before losing his memory was Valen, right? How did it impact Valen to see who took care of him all that time lose his memories? Is he attached to Dolly, Chippy and Hammie in that case in your canon? How did Hogan find out about his existence and end up raising him? Does Hogan feel guilty for teaching him the way of the sword, something Sena might not have agreed with?

And a doubt that has arisen now that I think about it, did that child know about the existence of Mirael? How would you react to her and her annoyance at not being remembered? Would it feel familiar or something almost unfair?

Hey, Mcnana! Thank you so much for the ask, and holy heck this is a major part of Sena's lore actually! Though I'm gonna split this up into two parts, this one focusing on Sena & Dolly and the next on Sena & Valen.

Sena & Dolly

Sena met Dolly after the Immortal War, soon after getting his divine core shattered and waking up with no memories.

Unsure of what to do, Sena made his way to a nearby village, finding it in disrepair with the people struggling. He later found out that it was because of the collateral damage caused by the Immortal War, with the dust finally settling after the war had ended half a century ago.

Though Sena had no memories of his own part in the war or his identity as Merlin, he still felt an odd sense of responsibility and an innate urge to help people, so he stuck around to help rebuild.

It was during this time that Sena met a headstrong young girl with long red hair and while she was polite and tactful, Sena could tell that she was acutely aware of how the world worked and wasn't afraid to use that knowledge to her advantage (or rather to ensure her own survival and well-being).

Sena later found out that Dolly had lost her parents to the effects of the war, her father to hypofiends and her mother to grief, leaving Dolly to fend for herself, though the people of her village had been kind enough to help where they could, even with resources being scarce.

Eventually, Sena and Dolly grew closer. Sena soon began to see Dolly as a younger sister, and with the way Dolly began to joke with and look out for Sena it was pretty clear she had accepted the role, too.

Over the months spent in that village, Sena's memories slowly trickle in and while he doesn't remember being a god, he does remember being Merlin.

When he tells Dolly about this revelation she's only partially surprised, saying that she had her suspicions after seeing how strong his magic was, even through his amnesia.

When it's eventually time to move on (Sena knows in his soul that there are other people out there in need of Merlin's aid. He feels it), Sena goes to bid farewell to Dolly, to let her now that he's going to miss her and to take care of herself while he's gone.

Instead, he finds Dolly fully packed and ready to follow him on his journey.

"If you think I'm going to let you wander around Esperia with barely any memories and no guide, you're wrong! You may be Merlin, Sena, but you're also way too trusting! Someone's gotta look out for you!"

Sena smiled fondly, letting out a soft sigh, "I guess we'll look out for each other then."

After that, Dolly was Sena's constant companion, holding true to her promise of looking out for him the same way he did for her. And while Sena was skilled with magic, combat and personal interactions, Dolly excelled at the more mundane aspects of their journey (though Sena would often joke that she had the more important job out of the two of them).

It was over a decade later that Sena remembered his divinity, tears running down his cheeks as he traced his hand over the inscription of an old shrine. One of his old shrines.

Dolly watched as he let out a pathetic, self-deprecating little laugh, placing a hand over his mouth to stifle the sobs that followed. She listened as he poured his heart out, telling her about how everyone he knew and loved was gone, how he'd never meant to leave Esperia to fend for itself for so long, how he felt like he'd failed in his duties as both Merlin and as The People's God...How he couldn't believe he had abandoned them...

That was the only time Sena remembers Dolly being genuinely angry with him.

"Don't you dare talk about yourself that way!" she yelled, grabbing Sena's attention immediately. He had never heard her yell like that before at least not at him. But what really caught him off guard was the conviction burning in her eyes like a flame.

"Growing up, my parents always told me stories about The People's God! A god who was kind and compassionate and loved Esperia more than anything! And travelling with you, Sena...I got to see that first hand...you love Esperia just as much as it loved you..."

Sena felt his heart clench painfully at the proclamation.

"And not once did anyone think you abandoned us...We all thought you were lost to us, just like the other gods were...you just being here- coming back to help us! That's a miracle in its own right! You came back to fix things that were never your responsibility to begin with, letting us rely on you when you could have left us to fend for ourselves...you never failed us Sena..."

"Dolly, I-...Thank you..."

She smiled at that, straightening her posture and placing a hand over her heart, bowing her head.

"It is an honour to serve as the retainer to The Protector of Esperia, the great Magister Merlin and People's God, Sena..."

Sena barely had a shred of his old divinity left in him at that point. But it was enough for the title to be binding.

And so Dolly became Sena's official retainer, soon earning the title of Keeper of the Mystical House once Sena had established it as his domain. Tasked with helping Sena keep the peace and in his absence, prepare for his return.

They'd worked together like that for almost a century before Sena had to rest again, discussing the details with Dolly before he left. Planning what she should tell him should he wake up without any memories again. Deciding that it was important he remember his title as Merlin, but that everything else should be allowed to come back naturally so as to not overwhelm him in such a fresh state.

When Sena does reawaken, just as they had anticipated, Dolly can't help but feel an odd sense of protectiveness seeing how young and naïve the mage now seemed.

In a past life Sena had been her guardian, so she supposed that in this life, she would be his.

[rxqueenotd]

damnatio memoriae: PART V

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.

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warnings: blood, knife play (?), foul language, pnv penetration, BDSM-ish situations, bloodletting, wlw, drug use, digital penetration, Ancient Rome as a warning within itself.

notes: there are 12,437 words in this chapter alone. I would apologize for not posting for a month, but as you can see, I have been cooking. Made it through Christmas, Hanukkah, my birthday, new years, the fucking dystopian US election, got accepted back to college to try for my bachelors in a totally different sphere than the degree I already hold and let a Leo man take me for a ride all within thirty days so if this chapter is not to your liking, lie to me and tell you love it anyways. As always, thanks to @trashmouth-richie for listening to my ramblings and feeding me words of encouragement. You are my brotha for life. And to @londonfog-chan for putting up with my perpetual absence as I’ve been riding the rollercoaster that has been January. This chapter has been a labor of love but I think it might be my favorite so far. Enjoy!

V

Caracalla departed hastily, leaving you alone after taking you against the wall, his voice ringing with authority as he barked commands to his guards as he exited your chambers. He was intent on visiting a local taberna, and you felt a twinge of sympathy for the patrons and the staff of the venue of his choosing. The thought of anyone crossing his path in such a foul mood stirred a sense of unease within you, for you knew the trouble that often accompanied him in such a state.

Sleep found you swiftly, even after the events you had endured. You weren’t sure how long you had slept when your chamber door creaked open, revealing Caracalla’s silhouette in the doorway. He lurched inside, bracing himself against the wall as he swayed, then marched toward the bed with determination.

Hastily, he tore his tunic over his head, tossing it aside with little care, followed by his jewels, which he flung onto the chaise beside the bed. Once fully undressed, he climbed in beside you, rolling onto his side to mirror your position. The scent of wine clung to him as he pulled you closer, clumsily reaching for the hem of your sleeping gown to lift it from your body. You arched and moved as needed, assisting him in his endeavor. When you were laid bare before him, he drew you closer into his embrace, his hand grasped your thigh to drape it over his own. You inhaled sharply as his lips brushed over the tender bite mark he had left upon you, remaining still, wary that such a simple gesture might provoke him or send him into a fit of rage.

He nestled his head beneath your chin, pressing your body as close to his as possible, his breath settled into a steady rhythm as he relaxed.

“Tell me you love me.” His hoarse voice spoke softly against the column of your throat.

You sighed, thinking of a million things you would rather say.

“Tell me, Prima,” he leaned up, untucking his head, blue eyes piercing yours, “tell me you love me.”

“Lucius-,” you started, but stopped when a small smile cracked across his lips, a light chuckle falling out from behind them.

“Lucius,’” he parroted back to you, followed by his signature giggle, “it has been ages since I have been called that.”

You let a silence descend around the two of you, hoping he would drop the matter entirely, but he continued to stare at you expectantly.

“I love you. Now please go to sleep.”

With that he was content to reposition himself, breath reaching a steady rhythm against the tender flesh of your neck.

You found yourself thinking that perhaps this was why he surrounded himself with courtesans, like a collection of soothing melodies for his restless soul. Each woman a different remedy for his erratic moods. Then you realized that it mattered not, that they were gone, and the only thing left in their wake was you. A blessing and a curse. A heavy feeling swept over you, followed by a bout of light sleep.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

You awakened on your back, entirely naked, a thin linen sheet barely covering your form. Sunlight streamed in from the balcony, and you swiftly shielded your eyes, groaning at the brightness that pierced your sleepy vision. Heavy footfalls approached, and the sheet was suddenly yanked away.

“My father summoned you an hour past,” Caracalla declared bluntly. “Yet you lie here, sprawled out like a weary whore.”

You groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow.

“Leave me be to awaken properly,” you murmured, your voice muffled against the fabric.

“That is not possible,” he replied, reaching down to roll you over, pinching your nipple as he dragged you upright.

You yelped, swatting his hand away. He chuckled, a sound both throaty and high-pitched, echoing through your bedchamber as he backed away, holding the sheet with both hands.

You sat upright, narrowing your eyes at him. “Give me that,” you snapped, lunging forward to grab the sheet.

He sidestepped, holding it just out of reach with a smirk. “And here I thought you would be more gracious this morning.”

Ignoring his teasing, you reached again, this time managing to snag the edge of the fabric. With one sharp tug, you pulled it free from his grip, wrapping it around yourself as you stood.

“Out,” you commanded, pointing toward the door.

“Such gratitude for waking you,” he replied mockingly, backing away to give you space to get yourself together, ignoring your command.

You secured the sheet around your body and moved quickly to your wardrobe. You grabbed a plain linen robe, slipping it over your shoulders and tying it at the waist. The soft material was a stark contrast to the silk you often wore, but it would suffice.

The early morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting golden streaks across the marble floor. You quickly fastened your hair into a loose knot, pinning it in place with a bronze pin. You were out of time to indulge in the laziness the morning had offered.

The hallway was cool and quiet as you stepped out, the air brushing against your skin. Caracalla joined you without a word, falling into step as you navigated the twists and turns of the private residence. The faint scent of figs and incense lingered, mingling with the distant hum of servants going about their tasks.

Inside the Imperator’s quarters, the scene was surprisingly casual. Septimius lounged on a lectus, his feet wrapped in steaming cloths, hands resting across his chest as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

Geta stood near the terrace, wrapped in a silk robe, his back to the room. Sunlight spilled in through the open curtains, highlighting the slight tilt of his head as he gazed outside. At the sound of your entrance, he turned, his eyes sliding over you and Caracalla before landing on Septimius with an indifferent look.

“Ah, there you are,” Septimius said, waving you over. His tone was light, though his eyes had a way of lingering a little too long.

You moved to the lectus across from him, sitting carefully on the edge. Caracalla stayed behind it, silent but looming, his presence as steady as a beating heart.

Geta didn’t move from his spot by the terrace. His expression gave nothing away, but the weight of his gaze lingered a moment too long before he turned back toward the sunlight. The air in the room wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t exactly friendly either- tension you’d come to expect in their presence.

Septimius leaned forward, crossing his arms with a casual air. “You know, it’s remarkable how you manage to navigate such stormy weather,” he said, his voice dripping with feigned admiration. “Not everyone can handle the complexities of family... or the occasional stormy temperament.” He chuckled lightly, but the glint in his eyes suggested he was enjoying the game.

“I am no stranger to stormy temperament,” you stated, your expression steady as you reached for a cup of wine sitting among a tray of fruits and cheese.

Septimius raised an eyebrow, his smile shifting slightly as he leaned in, clearly intrigued. “Ah, but rain can be quite the tempest, can’t it? I admire your confidence. It takes a certain... resilience to weather it.” His tone was playful, but the underlying challenge was unmistakable.

You took a sip of the wine, letting it settle before responding. “Resilience is a necessity in a world like this. One must learn to enjoy the rain, or risk being swept away.” You glanced at Geta, who seemed to be absorbing the conversation from his spot by the terrace, his expression still unreadable.

“Wise words,” Septimius replied, his voice smooth as silk. “But I must wonder—what happens when the storm grows too fierce? Do you still enjoy it, or do you seek shelter?” He leaned back slightly, his gaze intense, as if he were gauging your every reaction.

You could feel the tension in the air, but you were determined to hold your ground. “Sometimes, shelter is just an illusion. It’s better to face the storm head-on than to hide away and hope it passes.”

Septimius chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the exchange. “A bold stance, indeed. I do appreciate your spirit. It makes for quite the captivating conversation.”

“Get on with it,” Caracalla huffed from behind you, impatience dripping from his words. “What business brings us here?”

Geta turned, arms crossed tightly over his chest, glancing between Caracalla and Septimius with a look of expectation.

“You have acted like children, reckless and foolish,” Septimius began, his tone shifting as he sat up, the gravity of his words settling in the room. He fixed his gaze on Caracalla, speaking over your head, “You cavort with whores right under our noses, and the whole of Rome bears witness to your folly. The taberna you visited last night was paranoid by your presence, and this morning, the staff and patrons are buzzing with tales of your indiscretions.”

“And let me guess,” Caracalla interjected, a smirk creeping onto his face, “Your faithful hound, Macrinus, has kept you well informed of the situation.”

Macrinus appeared at the terrace, a shadowy figure emerging into the room. You realized then what had drawn Geta’s gaze.

“It seems that by merely uttering his name, I have conjured him,” Caracalla remarked with a sarcastic laugh, clearly enjoying the unfolding drama.

Macrinus raised his hands, palms outward, a sign of mock surrender. He stepped forward with careful deliberation, stopping beside the lectus where Septimius lounged. Folding his hands in front of him, he inclined his head slightly.

“I am here by request,” Macrinus said, his tone calm but firm, “not to meddle in the quarrels of the Imperial household.” He tugged the edge of his toga across his shoulder, smoothing the fabric around him.

“And yet,” Caracalla cut in, moving closer to you, his voice sharper than a soldier’s blade, “here you are.”

Geta cocked his head to one side, studying Macrinus with a faint smirk. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the rustle of fabric as Geta moved closer.

“It is at my order that he is here, brother,” Geta said, spitting the word brother like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

You turned, casting a glance over your shoulder at Caracalla. Confusion flickered across your face as your gaze darted to meet his, searching for answers in his eyes.

“What is this about?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, though suspicion tugged at your tone.

“The empire needs an heir,” Septimius said sharply, his words cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. “It is your one duty—to give Rome a future. Yet here we are, without a successor, or any sign that one is to come. Is it your husband’s endless whoring that is to blame, or your taste for plotting with your maids to carry out your schemes? I know not, and frankly, I do not care. What I do know is that this cannot continue.”

His accusation hit like a slap, the air thickening around you. He had seen more than he let on, unraveling the plan you thought he had believed so easily.

“And now,” Caracalla murmured, his hand tightening on your shoulder, “you understand. He will extend the hand of favor even as he holds a dagger to your throat.”

Your jaw tightened, your gaze snapping back to Septimius. The weight of his scrutiny weighed down on you, but you met it with steel in your eyes. Whatever game he thought he played, you would not yield so easily.

“And yet, despite your shared transgressions, you two would make a match worthy of the gods themselves—if only you could cease your scheming against one another long enough to see it,” Septimius declared, his tone edged with amusement. “But because of those very transgressions, you shall both spend the remainder of the season in Baiae.”

His words hung heavy in the air, and you turned your gaze to Caracalla, whose face was a storm of fury.

“Exile?” Caracalla spat through gritted teeth. “You would exile the Augustus? The emperor of Rome?”

“How many times must I remind you,” Septimius said as he rose, his movements slow but deliberate. Geta stepped forward to steady him, while Macrinus bowed and retreated. “You are Augustus and emperor only by my will, Marcus.”

The lectus creaked as Caracalla lunged forward, but Geta steadied himself between Septimius and Caracalla, while Macrinus seized Caracalla by the shoulder, hauling him back. Amidst the sudden chaos, you realized your hand had found Caracalla’s, and his grip tightened with such ferocity that you feared your bones might snap.

Even in his weakened state, his feet swollen and discolored like a venomous wound, Septimius’s grin was sharp and unyielding.

“Perhaps a new line of succession is what Rome truly needs.” This time, his gaze did not fall on you, but on Geta, as though he had plucked the very stars from the heavens.

“You serpent!” Caracalla roared at his brother, struggling against Macrinus’s newfound hold, his voice raw with betrayal. His grip on your hand grew tighter, a reflection of his seething rage.

Geta, unmoved, merely smiled as he returned to Septimius’s side, tending to the aging emperor with practiced ease.

“Leave me,” Septimius commanded with a languid wave of his hand, his voice cold and final.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

“What ails him, exactly?” you asked at last, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the carriage. The rhythmic creaking and jolting of the wheels, each bump in the road, seemed a constant reminder of your shared exile to Baiae.

Caracalla turned his gaze to you for the first time since the journey began, his expression shadowed. “His feet swell,” he said, his tone flat. “To sizes unimaginable. They blacken, as you saw—purple and crude.” He grimaced, as if the very memory sickened him, before turning his eyes back to the window. “And then there is the plague. The dregs of it, lingering from the last campaign. The bloodletting, the vomiting. It comes and goes, but when it comes...” He trailed off, his lip curling slightly.

You grimaced at the image he painted, wondering how the truth about the Imperator had been kept so carefully concealed.

“This is your doing, you know,” Caracalla said suddenly, his voice devoid of inflection, raspy and light, as though he were stating some mundane fact.

“How do you reason that?” you asked, genuinely curious despite the sting of the accusation.

“Your very presence disturbs the balance,” he replied, his gaze fixed on the passing countryside. “And that little scheme of yours—” He turned his head slightly, though his eyes did not meet yours. “Amateur. Endearing, almost, the way you thought you had fooled us all.”

“I believe,” you said, your voice calm but firm, “that regardless of my presence, this house would have toppled under the weight of its own mistakes.”

“Do you?” he asked, tilting his head, studying you now with a glint of something between skepticism and intrigue.

“I tire of this,” you continued, your voice steady but carrying an edge of frustration. When he turned to look at you, you continued, “The endless back and forth. I wish you would decide whether you like me or loathe me.”

He laughed, his signature cackle, the corners of his lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Ah, but you will come to learn, dear wife,” he said, his tone laced with sardonic amusement, “that those two are often one and the same.”

“Macrinus,” you let his name roll off your tongue as you searched your memory. “I cannot say he is familiar to me.”

“He wouldn’t be,” Caracalla replied, his voice carrying a tone of indifference. “He was a slave in the reign of Marcus Aurelius, earned his freedom in the arena.”

“An extraordinary feat,” you remarked, glancing at him. “And his influence upon your father? What of that?”

Caracalla shrugged, shifting lower against the cushioned bench, his gaze wandering to the hills rolling past the window. The faint scent of cypress filtered into the carriage through the open slits. Outside, the road stretched ahead, bordered by rows of olive trees.

“The Garmantian campaign,” he began, his voice heavy with recollection. “A few years ago. Macrinus advised my father then. His blood ties him to that land, or so he claims—descended from those desert tribes.”

You nodded, studying him as the sunlight flickered over his pallid features. He turned back to you, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if wondering whether you deserved to know more.

“I led my first unit there,” he continued, almost reluctantly. “Macrinus was at my side. Geta—useless as ever—remained with father, an onlooker on a high ridge above the battle. A coward in all but name.” His lips curled into a sardonic smile. “He spent the rest of his time hidden away with the other scribes and so-called strategists, poring over scrolls instead of wielding a sword. A fitting place for him—among the weak and the overcautious.”

“He—” You shook your head, the words catching in your throat. You tried to push the thought away, to banish it to the shadows of your mind. But Caracalla was not one to let things lie.

“Say it,” he demanded, his voice low and sharp, like the scrape of a blade against stone. He leaned forward, his piercing gaze locking onto you as he reached out, fingers closing around your wrist with an iron grip. You reflexively tried to pull away, but his strength overpowered yours, dragging your hand back into his grasp.

“He is the one who told me about your courtesans,” you confessed, the words spilling out before you could reconsider. Your eyes darted anywhere but to his face, tracing the fine carvings on the wooden frame of the carriage, the dusty light filtering through its windows. “He showed me where you were that night—the last night you spent with them. I... I watched for a while, but I left when I had seen enough.”

For a moment, silence hung heavy between you. Then, with a snarl of disgust, he flung your hand aside, as if the very touch of you burned. His fist slammed into the roof of the carriage with such force that the wood creaked in protest, the sound echoing around you like a thunderclap.

“Stop!” he barked, his voice cut through the air. The driver obeyed instantly, pulling the horses to an abrupt halt. The jolt threw you forward, your palms bracing against the edge of the seat as the wheels ground to a halt on the gravel road.

You watched as Caracalla flung the carriage door open with a force that made the hinges groan. In a single, fluid motion, he bounded down the steps and onto the packed gravel. Two guards immediately stepped forward, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, their faces unreadable but watchful.

Alarmed, you slid closer to the window, gripping its edge. “What are you doing? What madness is this?”

“Horse!” he roared, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the countryside like a war cry. Moments later, a white stallion was led into view by a nervous stablehand, its mane gleaming like ivory under the midday sun.

You leaned farther out, your voice urgent. “Have you lost your senses? What has gotten into you?”

He ignored you, mounting the stallion with the practiced ease. From atop the horse, he turned his gaze back to you—a look of pure disdain etched into his face.

“I will see you in Baiae,” he spat, his tone laced with venom. Without waiting for a reply, he spurred the stallion into motion.

You could only watch as the beast surged forward, its hooves pounding against the earth, kicking up a cloud of dust that swirled in the air long after it had gone. The guards scrambled to follow, their own horses hurriedly prepared, but Caracalla was already disappearing into the horizon, leaving behind the echo of his fury.

Inside the now-emptied carriage, the silence pressed down on you, broken only by the distant cries of cicadas and the soft rustle of the olive trees.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Caracalla stayed gone for three days. On the third night, he finally returned, stumbling into the villa, drunker than a deckhand. His tunic was crooked, his hair disheveled, and he reeked of wine.

“Did you have fun while I sat alone?” you asked, not bothering to glance up from the scroll in your hands.

He stopped mid-stride, squinting at you with furrowed brows. His eyes landed on you, stretched out on the lectus, one foot dangling off the edge, your toes curling lazily as if you hadn’t a care in the world.

“You’re never alone,” he said flatly, his voice slurred, the sour tang of wine thick in the air around him.

“True,” you replied with a shrug, “but that is not the point.”

You rolled up the scroll with a sharp snap, the sound echoing through the atrium like a whip crack.

“Where have you been?” you demanded, your voice cutting through the quiet. “We were sent here for one reason: for me to conceive. Not for you to run around town acting like a whoring drunkard.”

You knew full well where he had been. Metella had been your eyes for the first two days, tailing him to the seedier corners of the city—brothels, taverns, gambling dens. By the third day, her reports were unnecessary. The smell of him now told you enough. Meanwhile, Cassia had stayed behind to tend to you, watching as you fumed, pacing the villa with balled fists.

Caracalla’s mouth twisted into a smirk, his flushed face shining in the lamplight. “You’ve grown bold, haven’t you?” he said, his tone mocking as he leaned against a marble column for balance. “What is it, cara mea? Have you grown bored of the luxury and servants here that you now pass the time by scolding me?”

You stood from the lectus, smoothing your stola with deliberate calm, the sound of the fabric brushing against the mosaic floor louder than it should have been.

“Luxury?” you snapped, stepping closer until you could see the hazy glaze in his eyes. “Do not mistake my patience for contentment. While you waste our time and fortune, the empire waits. Rome waits. You were sent here to do your duty, not to disgrace yourself in taverns and brothels. Or would you prefer I send word to Rome that Caracalla has no interest in producing heirs? That he remains flaccid?”

His smirk faded, and his hand shot out, gripping your wrist. It wasn’t rough, but it was firm enough to send a message. “You tread dangerous ground,” he growled, his voice low and menacing.

“And so do you,” you shot back, refusing to flinch. “But unlike you, I know how to keep my balance.”

For a long moment, the two of you stared at each other, the tension stretching thin. Then, his grip loosened, and he let your wrist fall.

“Fine,” he muttered, brushing past you, his steps uneven as he headed toward his quarters. “I’ll do what is required. But do not think for a moment you control me.”

You stood there in the silence, your wrist tingling where his hand had been. When his footsteps faded, you let out a slow breath, your face hardening.

It was only a moment later that you heard the sharp whinny of a horse and the steady thud of hooves on sand. With a grunt, you hauled yourself to the balcony, gripping the iron railing as you leaned out. Your eyes widened in disbelief as you spotted Caracalla, riding off into the darkening horizon. He was headed straight for the heart of the night’s chaos—the very center of hedonism and excess.

Hurling yourself from the railing, your bare feet slipping across the cool floor, you swiftly secured your sandals, the straps biting into your skin as you hurried down to the atrium. At the grand doorway, two guards stood at attention.

“Ready my horse,” you commanded, your voice firm as you draped the light folds of your palla loosely around your neck, a gesture that spoke of both urgency and authority.

One of the guards faltered, his eyes widening as though struck dumb by your words. “Do your ears fail you?” you snapped, your tone sharpened with impatience. “I said, ready my horse!”

“My lady, you cannot ride into the city,” the elder of the two guards replied, his voice steady though his posture betrayed hesitation. The younger guard straightened, his eyes darting nervously around, as if afraid to meet your gaze for long. “It is unseemly for one of your rank to travel without accompaniment, let alone on horseback.”

You closed your eyes, drawing a measured breath before exhaling sharply, a brisk sigh of exasperation.

“If you wish for the household slaves to find your corpse in the ocean and your head upon the beach come dawn, then by all means, ignore my command.”

The elder guard hesitated, his jaw tightening briefly before he turned on his heel, striding with purpose through the atrium and vanishing through the side passage that led to the stables.

The younger guard remained rooted in place, attempting to maintain composure. You began pacing the mosaic-tiled floor, your sandals echoing softly in the vast space as your hands twisted together. Frustration burned within you, like a wildfire sweeping through dry plains, all encompassing, devastating.

When the elder guard reappeared in the doorway, you strode past him without a word. Outside, the pale horse stood waiting. With practiced grace, you swung onto its back, dismissing the guard's offered hand as though it were an insult.

“I never intended to ride into the city alone, Praetorian,” you said, casting a sharp glance down the bridge of your nose at him. “The two of you will accompany me—if you can keep up.”

Without waiting for a reply, you tightened your grip on the reins and urged the horse forward. The stallion responded instantly, surging into motion as the dull nudge of your sandal found its mark against its flank.

The night wind tore at your palla as the world became a blur of shadow and moonlit sand. The rhythmic thud of hooves against the earth echoed like a battle drum. The roar of the distant sea mingled with the hiss of sand kicked up in your wake, but you paid it no mind.

Glancing back, you caught sight of the two Praetorians scrambling to mount their own steeds. Their movements seemed clumsy compared to your own, and you allowed yourself a fleeting smirk of satisfaction. If they meant to follow, they would have to earn their place at your side.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Baiae stretched out before you as the horse’s hooves hit cobblestone. The city shimmered even in the moonlight, its white marble villas gleaming like polished pearls, their red-tiled roofs descending toward the sea. Steam rose in ghostly plumes from the famed baths, filling the air with the smell of sulfur and salt.

As you rode deeper, the streets grew narrower, lined with colonnades that framed courtyards filled with flickering oil lamps. Laughter spilled out from wine-soaked feasts, the hymns of a lyre mingling with the rhythmic clapping of dancers. Even at this late hour, Baiae did not sleep.

To your right, the black expanse of the sea was alive with reflected light, where torch-lit barges and private vessels floated lazily. Beyond them, the looming shadow of Mount Vesuvius stood silent. The Praetorians, ever watchful, followed your lead as you turned down a quieter street, away from the bustle of the forums and toward the private quarter. The hum of activity dimmed, replaced by the presence of towering gates and high walls.

You slowed your horse as the entrance to your destination came into view—a grand domus perched high on a hill. The vast bronze gates were adorned with intricate mouldings of Neptune and his trident, and from beyond them came the faint sound of water cascading into a central atrium fountain. You had been here before, as a child, remembering its purpose and what you had witnessed of its opulence.

This was not the domain of commoners but of those whose power carried the fortunes of Rome itself.

“Guard the gate,” you instructed, your tone leaving no room for argument. You handed the reins to a waiting slave and stepped forward, the weight of the night’s purpose settling on your shoulders.

You paused at the gates of the grand domus, but before you could step forward, the elder Praetorian dismounted and approached, his expression unreadable.

“My lady,” he began cautiously, his voice low to avoid drawing the attention of the slaves nearby. “This is not where you will find him.”

Your gaze snapped to his, sharp and questioning. “Explain yourself.”

The Praetorian’s jaw tightened. “He…” The words hung uneasily in the air, “He resides elsewhere in Baiae—at an establishment by the lower harbor.”

You studied him for a moment, noting the flicker of discomfort in his demeanor. Finally, you gave a nod. “Then you will lead me there. Now.”

“As you command, Domina,” he said, bowing slightly before striding back to his horse. The younger Praetorian exchanged a nervous glance with you before following suit.

Once mounted, the elder guard took the lead, guiding you down winding streets that grew increasingly narrow and shadowed. The splendor of Baiae began to give way to a more primal energy. The laughter was harsher, the music seductive. The lower harbor stretched out before you. Tabernas and brothels clustered together, their facades painted in deep colors, their entrances crowded with figures cloaked in secrecy and sex. Men bellowed drunkenly, women beckoned from balconies draped in rich silks, and shadows moved between doorways.

The Praetorian pulled his horse to a stop before a particular building—modest compared to the grand villas of the upper city, yet unmistakably high class for its kind. Its doorway was framed by carved columns, and a faint, seductive melody drifted out.

“This is the place,” the elder guard said, dismounting and stepping aside. His expression was carefully neutral, though his clenched fists showed his discomfort.

You slid off your horse, handing the reins to the younger guard. The flickering light from a brazier near the entrance cast golden hues across your face as you stepped toward the door, the faint hum of voices and laughter growing louder with each step.

“Wait here,” you ordered, your voice firm. The Praetorians hesitated, exchanging a glance, but obeyed, remaining by the doorway.

Pushing aside the heavy curtain that covered the entrance, you stepped into the warmth and haze of the brothel. The air was thick with incense and wine, the light dim but gilded, as though the entire room were lost in a fog. Figures reclined on cushions and couches, their forms draped in flowing fabrics, their laughter rich and unrestrained.

Laughter rippled through the air, sharp and boisterous, as men gambled at low tables, surrounded by women who hung on their every word. You kept your face neutral, though anger simmered in your chest. As you stepped deeper into the room, making your way through clusters of loungers and revelers, your gaze caught on a scene at the far end of the chamber.

There he was.

Caracalla lounged at a table, his tunic loosely belted, his posture relaxed. His profile was illuminated by the golden light, the faint glint of rings on his fingers catching your eye as he threw dice onto the table with a triumphant laugh. The men around him roared with approval—or fear—it was difficult to tell.

What caught your attention more was the woman draped across his lap, her arm lazily curled around his neck. Her hair, pinned in loose waves, framed a face disturbingly familiar. Her features bore an uncanny resemblance to your own—enough to make your breath catch in your throat. She leaned into him, laughing softly as she whispered something in his ear.

Your stomach twisted, rage and disbelief stirring within you. For a moment, you stood stuck to the spot, your veil slipping further down your neck as you struggled to maintain your composure.

“My lady, are you lost?”

The voice startled you. A woman with a painted face and a sheer stola approached, her expression one of concern. Her kohl-lined eyes searched yours, and her hand reached out to gently touch your arm. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said softly, her tone maternal despite her surroundings. “It is dangerous to wander too close to him.”

You blinked, your focus shifting to her. “Dangerous?” you repeated, your voice calm but cold.

Her grip on your arm tightened ever so slightly as she leaned in, lowering her voice. “He’s not a man to trifle with. Especially not for a lady like you.” She glanced over her shoulder toward Caracalla, as if fearful he might see her speaking to you. “Come, I’ll take you somewhere safe before he notices you.”

You stiffened, pulling your arm free. “Do you know who I am?” you asked, your words sharp.

The woman hesitated, her brows furrowing slightly. “No, my lady, but it doesn’t matter. You’re too fine to be here.” Her gaze flicked to your attire, the richness of your fabric setting you apart from everyone else in the room. “You don’t want his attention, believe me. It will ruin you.”

Her words only fanned the flames of your fury. Your eyes drifted back toward Caracalla, who was oblivious to your presence, his focus entirely on the woman perched in his lap.

Your jaw tightened, and your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

The woman hesitated, her painted lips parting as though to protest. Taking pause, she stepped closer, her expression softening with concern.

“Caracalla is not the kind of man a woman like you should ever let too close. He... plays games. Dangerous ones.”

You frowned as her words sent a chill through you. “What do you mean by that?”

She tilted her head, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder like silk. She seemed to hesitate, wondering how much to reveal. Then she leaned back slightly, her expression grave, yet seductive.

“He has... peculiar appetites,” she said carefully, her voice almost teasing, her eyes betraying the seriousness of her words. “He likes to test people. Push them to their limits. He likes to play with swords—not just on the battlefield. He enjoys seeing how far he can go before someone breaks.”

You stiffened, the insinuation settling in your stomach. “What are you saying?”

Her lips curved into a slow, almost feline smile. “He enjoys pain. Giving it, taking it. There are whispers, my lady. Whispers of him bleeding women just to see how much they can endure. For his amusement. For his... pleasure.”

The air between you seemed to grow colder despite the warmth of the room. Your breath caught in your throat, a thousand questions circling your mind, but you couldn’t find the words.

“Wait,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost pleading. “You look unwell, Domina. Come with me—just for a moment. Some fresh air will do you good.”

You opened your mouth to dismiss her, but she took your arm again, this time more gently, and began guiding you back through the crowded room.

The din of laughter and gambling faded behind you as she led you through a side door, out into the cool night.

You found yourself standing in a small courtyard, enclosed by ivy-covered walls. A single olive tree stood at its center, its leaves shimmering faintly in the moonlight. The sounds of the brothel were distant now, muffled by the stone walls, leaving only the soft rustle of leaves and the distant crash of waves to fill the silence.

“Wait here,” the woman said, releasing your arm and disappearing briefly through another doorway. When she returned, she held a small clay cup of wine, the dark liquid sloshing slightly as she walked.

Her movements were fluid, as though she belonged more to the shadows than the smoky room she had found you in. Her piercing eyes studied you as she handed you the cup of wine, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity.

You accepted the cup, though you did not drink immediately. “You haven’t told me your name,” you said, your voice steadier.

She blinked, surprised, then gave a small smile. “Prosperina,” she said. “It’s what they call me here.”

Her eyes, sheer and piercing, were an unearthly shade of blue, a stark contrast against her tanned complexion.

“Why do you care if I am well?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

Prosperina hesitated, then shrugged. “Because I have seen what happens to women who cross his path.” She gestured vaguely to the brothel. “They’re drawn in, thinking they’ll find something—power, protection, even love. But he’s not a man who gives. He takes.” Her voice softened. “And you don’t belong here. Anyone can see that.”

You glanced down at the cup in your hands, the wine’s surface rippling faintly in the breeze.

“Do you have anything stronger?” you asked, your tone cool but deliberate.

Her painted lips parted in surprise, then curved into a faint smile, a flicker of amusement dancing in her gaze. “You don’t strike me as the type to indulge, my lady,” she said softly.

You raised an eyebrow, meeting her eyes with a look that left no room for argument. “Tonight is an exception.”

Prosperina studied you for a long moment, her gaze calculating, as though weighing whether she should agree. Finally, she nodded, the golden bracelets on her wrists clinking softly as she turned. “Come with me,” she said, her voice low and inviting.

She led you through a narrow passage on the side of the courtyard. A small doorway opened into her quarters. The walls were painted with faded frescoes of nymphs and satyrs, the colors dulled by time. A low couch covered in silken throws occupied the center, while an assortment of small, clay jars and glass vials lined a wooden table nearby.

Her sheer gown clung to her curves like a second skin as she leaned against the edge of the table in her quarters, the lamplight highlighting the rich tan of her skin and the piercing ice-blue of her eyes. She studied you with a gaze that seemed to see more than it should, her lips curving into a faint, knowing smile.

She held up a pipe delicately, her fingers adorned with gold rings that caught the light. The gesture was casual and playful, but there was confidence in her tone, as though she already knew your answer.

When you hesitated, her smile deepened, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Don’t look at me like that,” she teased, moving closer. “I don’t bite—unless you would like me to.”

She moved like a cat, her steps deliberate and silent, her gaze never leaving yours. When she extended the pipe toward you, her fingers brushed yours, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

“Go on,” she urged, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It will help you forget, just for a little while.”

Prosperina tilted her head, her lips curving into a sly smile as she held the pipe closer. “A bold woman deserves bold choices,” she murmured, her voice low and inviting. “Breathe in. Let go of everything else.”

Without a word, you lifted the pipe to your lips and inhaled deeply, the smoke burning slightly as it filled your lungs.

The effect was instant. Your chest tightened for a heartbeat before a rush of warmth spread throughout your body, followed by a dizzying sensation that sent you sprawling backward onto the plush couch. The room seemed to tilt and spin, the dim lamp light splitting into ribbons of gold that danced across the walls.

Shapes and colors began to swirl, cascading like liquid through your vision, while Prosperina’s voice became an echo, far away yet hauntingly close. “There it is,” she purred, leaning over you, her dark hair cascading like a curtain around her face. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

You blinked, but the world refused to focus. Shadows danced and shifted, morphing into figures that were familiar and strange. You saw flashes of faces—some from memory, others from dreams. The air felt electric against your skin.

Prosperina knelt beside you, her fingers brushing your temple as she studied you with fascination. “You’re caught between worlds now,” she whispered, her voice velvety and hypnotic. “Do you feel it?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, a strange, breathless laugh escaped, the sound foreign even to your own ears. Your body felt weightless, as though the couch beneath you had disappeared.

“Relax,” Prosperina cooed, her touch sliding down your arm in a slow motion. “Let it take you. There’s no need to fight.”

The room twisted and blurred, melting into something unfamiliar, but familiar at the same time. Prosperina’s face hovered above you briefly, her sharp features smearing like wet paint before disappearing into the shadows. In their place, a figure emerged—a face both familiar and haunting. Geta.

His expression was soft, kind, the way you remembered it when you were children, before the weight of politics and betrayal had driven a wedge between everyone you had once cared for. His lips moved, though no sound came, his words carried away by the same wind that seemed to swirl through your mind.

“Geta,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, thick with longing and confusion. You reached for him, but your hand passed through his form like smoke, the edges of his figure distorting before re-forming. His eyes—so familiar, so painfully warm—locked with yours. For a moment, you thought he might speak, but the image shifted violently.

Suddenly, Caracalla’s face loomed in front of you, his blue eyes filled with anger and frustration. “What are you doing, Prima?” his voice boomed, though you couldn’t tell if it was real or imagined. “You think you can escape this? Escape me?”

The world around you shattered like glass, fragments of Caracalla’s image reforming. Now he was standing over you, his hand gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him. “You’re mine,” he said, his voice a growl, filled with something dangerous. “No matter what you tell yourself. No matter who you try to run to.”

You flinched, but the vision changed again. Geta reappeared, his expression now filled with sorrow as though he could see what you had become. He extended his hand, his mouth forming the words Come back to me, though you couldn’t hear him. The image of Caracalla stood behind him, watching with a mixture of rage and jealousy.

The two brothers began to blur together, their features morphing and overlapping until you couldn’t tell them apart. The figures around you spun faster, their voices rising in a symphony of anger, sorrow, and something else—something deeper and more primal, echoing through your bones.

Your chest tightened, the sensations pulsing through your body becoming almost unbearable. You gasped for air, your vision blurred, as a shadow loomed over you again. This time, it was Prosperina, her voice cutting through the confusion.

“Easy, Domina,” she murmured, her tone soothing yet laced with amusement. “You’re seeing the truth you’ve buried deep. Let it come. Let it free you.”

Prosperina’s piercing blue eyes locked onto yours as the swirling haze of the hallucinations ebbed and flowed like the Tiber. Her touch became firmer, her hand trailing from your arm to your shoulder, her fingers brushing the curve of your neck. The room felt distant, the visions melting into shadows as her presence anchored you back in the present.

“The gods have chosen you,” she whispered, her lips so close to your ear that her breath sent shivers down your spine. “And I can see why. You are a force.”

Prosperina’s hands moved along the length of your body, her touch tracing the curve of your waist. Her fingers slipped beneath the fabric of your stola, their warmth igniting a fire that burned through you. You gasped as her touch grew bolder, her hands exploring your skin with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

Your body arched instinctively into her as her pointer finger stroked your weeping slit, prying you open gently, her name escaping your lips in a whisper as your fingers tangled in her dark hair. Her touch was intoxicating, sending waves of pleasure through you, dull and aching.

She leaned closer, her breath hot against your ear. “Domina,” she murmured, her voice low, “you are divine.”

She worked you expertly, finding the spot within you that you had never known existed. Your cunt pulsated around her slender digits, eyes rolling closed, legs trembling. The pleasure was overwhelming, a pressure building within you that left you trembling, on the edge of something you had never experienced before.

Then, without warning, a cry escaped your lips. It echoed softly in the room, but it felt foreign, as if it belonged to someone else. But before you could experience the sensation– give it a name and truly define it– the door slammed open.

The sound shattered the moment like a roll of thunder. Your head snapped toward the doorway, your body stiffening as a wave of cold panic washed over you.

There, silhouetted in the flickering lamplight, stood Caracalla. His piercing eyes blazed with fury, his face twisted in an expression that was equal parts shock and rage.

“What is this?” he roared, his voice cutting through the room.

Prosperina froze, her hands still on you, though the warmth of her touch now felt like fire against your skin. She quickly withdrew, her movements sharp, as she turned to face him.

You sat up, your breathing ragged, your mind racing to catch up with what had just happened. The haze of the devil’s breath made it hard to think clearly, but the sight of Caracalla’s seething form brought you into the present.

“Answer me, Prima!” he snarled, his voice dripping with venom as he stepped into the room, his gaze darting between you and Prosperina.

Prosperina’s eyes flickered to you, a silent question flashed behind them, but she said nothing, her lips pressed into a tight line.

Caracalla’s fury filled the room, oppressive and suffocating. “My empress,” he spat, the word laced with mockery, “consorting with a whore? Do you have no shame?”

“Leave her out of this,” you said, your voice cold and commanding despite the tremors running through you.

Caracalla let out a harsh laugh, stepping closer, his expression that of twisted rage and cruel satisfaction. “Out of this? She was in you, Prima. Or were you going to pretend she wasn’t just defiling what belongs to me?”

The words hung in the air, cutting through the thick tension. Prosperina’s piercing blue eyes widened, flicking between you and the emperor.

“Empress?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. The color drained from her face as the full weight of what had just transpired crashed down on her. “You’re the empress?”

You turned your gaze to her, an unspoken apology crossed your features for the secret you’d let her unknowingly cross.

But the moment was short lived, shattered as Caracalla’s harsh laugh filled the room again. He gestured toward Prosperina with a flick of his hand. “Yes, Prosperina. Behold your empress—on her knees for you like a common slave.”

“Stop,” you said sharply, your voice cutting through his mocking tone.

As he reached out to grab you, the world around you seemed to tilt, and the ground beneath your feet felt unstable. The effects of the drug were too strong, and your head spun. You reached out to steady yourself but couldn’t find anything solid to hold on to.

“Stop,” you gasped, your legs buckling beneath you.

But Caracalla wasn’t interested in mercy. In one swift motion, he gripped you by the arm, his fingers tightening around your wrist with an iron grip. “You are coming with me,” he growled, dragging you out of the room with no consideration for your protests.

Your mind was a whirl of incoherent thoughts, and you stumbled as he pulled you through the corridors, your vision growing darker at the edges. The air felt thick, and you couldn’t focus—couldn’t think.

“Stop,” you tried again, but your voice was little more than a rasp.

Caracalla wasn’t listening. He half-carried, half-dragged you through the back entrance of the brothel and out into the courtyard. The cool night air bit at your skin, but it did nothing to clear the fog in your mind.

“Up,” Caracalla ordered, his voice harsh, commanding. He threw you onto a horse, and before you could protest or struggle, he was behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist with a grip like iron, holding you steady against him.

The world around you seemed to collapse as the horse jolted into motion. You could barely keep your eyes open, every movement sending another wave of dizziness through you. The drugs had taken hold fully now, and you felt detached from your own body, like you were watching yourself from far away.

Your body felt heavy, your head lolling against Caracalla’s chest.

“Don’t you dare pass out on me,” his voice snapped, sharp and commanding in your ear. His arm tightened around your waist, holding you firmly in place against him. “Stay awake, Prima. You wouldn’t want to miss this, would you?”

A weak sound escaped your lips, somewhere between a groan and a whimper. “Can’t...too much,” you murmured.

“Oh no, you don’t get to escape this,” he hissed, his tone low and cruel. “You’re not going to float away into whatever little fantasy that woman put into your head. You stay here—with me.”

You felt his lips brush the shell of your ear, not tenderly but deliberately, his words dripping with venom. “Do you think she could give you what I can? Hmm? Is that what you were dreaming about, Prima? Another woman’s touch? Or maybe it’s Geta, whispering sweet nothings to you while you drift away.”

You stirred weakly, your fingers curling against the reins.

“That’s it,” he continued, his voice a mix of mockery and seduction. “Stay awake. Don’t disappoint me now. Tell me, Prima—did you like it? Did you like the way she touched you? Or was it the thought of me finding you like that thrilled you?”

Your breath hitched, your head turning slightly as though to respond, but your thoughts were too scattered to form words. He laughed softly, a bitter, dark sound. “No clever reply? No self righteous fury? Maybe you’re finally realizing how easily you can be undone.”

His hand, steady on the reins, pressed against your thigh, his grip firm and possessive. “You don’t get to slip away, Prima. Not now, not ever. Whatever you felt back there, whatever fantasies she gave you, they’re nothing compared to what I can make you feel.”

The words were both a taunt and a promise. You shivered, your body betraying you as his breath brushed against your neck, sending a cold shiver down your spine.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice softer but no less dangerous. “Stay with me. You belong to me, Prima, whether you want to admit it or not.”

“Why?” The word slipped from your lips, barely a whisper.

Caracalla’s grip on your waist tightened slightly. “Why what?” he demanded, his tone sharp and impatient.

You took a shuddering breath, your voice trembling as you managed to form the words. “Why have you never made me feel like that before?”

He stiffened behind you, the tension in his body palpable. For a moment, the only sound was the rhythmic beat of the horse’s hooves against the ground, the weight of your question hanging heavily between you.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and edged with frustration. “What are you asking me, Prima? Why I haven’t coddled you? Why I haven’t wasted time on fantasies and false promises?”

You turned your head slightly, your cheek brushing against his chest. “That’s not what I mean,” you murmured, your voice raw with vulnerability. “I mean... why have you never touched me like I mattered? Like you wanted me?”

His breath hitched, and for a brief moment, you thought you felt him falter. But when he answered, his tone was bitter, almost defensive. “Wanting you isn’t the issue,” he said harshly. “Feelings, tenderness—that’s not what matters. An heir is what matters. Duty is what matters. You think this is a game, Prima? That this empire is built on emotions?”

You swallowed hard, his words cutting through you like a blade. “So that’s it?” you whispered. “I’m just a vessel to you? Nothing more?”

He didn’t respond immediately, his silence deafening. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, almost grudging. “Wanting you, needing you—that doesn’t change what I am. What we are.”

"What are we?" you asked, feeling a mix of confusion and disbelief.

"Nothing but a fleeting thought until that cursed cunt of yours does what it’s meant to—until your womb carries my heir," he shot back, kicking the horse into a faster stride.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Dismounting the horse proved more challenging than anticipated. With Caracalla already on the ground, his gaze burning into you, you shook your head and released the reins. Your feet met the sand, sinking deep into its grains, and you stumbled. As you fumbled, he stepped forward, his hand outstretched to steady you, but you pushed it away, catching yourself just before falling.

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed, brushing your windswept hair out of your face.

He loomed closer, his brow furrowing in frustration. “You’ve done enough tonight, Prima. Enough of this madness.”

“Madness?” You whirled to face him, your voice ringing out in the silence of the night. “The only madness here is yours!”

Before he could respond, you lunged forward and snatched the dagger from his belt. The two guards stationed at the villa’s entrance stiffened instantly, their hands flying to the hilt of their swords.

“Prima,” Caracalla growled,“Put it down.”

You ignored him, your grip tightening on the blade. “Must I bleed for you, Caracalla? Would that finally make me real to you? Would that amuse you?”

“Enough of this nonsense,” he snapped. He took a step closer, his hands clenched into fists.

You backed away as you held the blade out between you. “Isn’t that what you like?” you demanded, your voice rising, trembling with anger. “I’ve heard the whispers, Caracalla. You like to bleed women for fun. You like to push them until they break, to see how far they can go before they shatter.”

His expression darkened, jaw tightening. The guards glanced at one another, uncertain whether to intervene.

“And tonight—tonight, you sat there with a woman who looked just like me.” Your voice broke, your eyes stinging with tears you refused to shed. “She had my face, my hair... Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t care? You sat there with her on your lap, touching her, gambling with her like she was some pale imitation of what you already have!”

He froze for a moment, your words seeming to hit a nerve, but then his expression twisted into something dark and unreadable.

“You know nothing,” he said coldly.

“Don’t I?” you shot back, your voice trembling with fury. “You think I don’t hear the rumors? About the swords, the games, the bleeding?” You took a step closer, your eyes locking with his, refusing to back down. “Well, here I am, Caracalla. Bleed me, if that’s what you want. Push me to the edge like you do to all the others.”

Without waiting for his reaction, you pressed the blade against your palm, the sharp edge biting into your skin. You flinched as blood welled and trickled down your wrist, pooling onto the marble floor.

His hand shot out faster than you could react, gripping your wrist and forcing the dagger from your grasp. It clattered to the ground, the sound echoing through the villa. He yanked you toward him, his grip bruising as his face hovered inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin.

Before he could speak, you wrenched your hand free and swung it hard against his face. The sound of the slap echoed through the space, your blood smearing across his cheek like a brand.

He froze, his head snapping to the side from the force of your blow. Slowly, he turned back to face you, his dark eyes blazing with fury. He drug you to a chaise, twisting your body around to lay across his lap.

Caracalla’s grip on you tightened, his fingers digging into your waist as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. “You don’t learn through words, Prima. Perhaps pain will remind you of who you’re speaking to.”

You froze, your breath hitching at his words, the threat lingering in the air like smoke. Before you could summon a retort, his voice cut through the silence, cold and commanding.

“Fetch me a whip,” he barked, his head turning slightly toward the guards who still stood by the entrance, their eyes wide with apprehension.

For a moment, neither guard moved, exchanging uneasy glances.

“Now,” Caracalla snapped, his tone sharp enough to make both men flinch. One of them nodded and stepped away, his footsteps echoing in the atrium as he disappeared into an adjoining room.

Your heart pounded, each beat loud in your ears as you twisted against his hold, desperate to break free. “Caracalla, don’t you dare,” you hissed, your voice dripping with venom even as your stomach knotted with a mixture of anger and dread. Perhaps, something else. Something you had never experienced under the circumstances you found yourself in.

“Quiet,” he commanded, his hand pressing more firmly against your back. “You wanted my attention, didn’t you? Now you have it. Let’s see if you still crave it when I’m finished with you.”

Moments later, the guard returned, his face pale as he held out the braided leather flogger with trembling hands. Caracalla took it without a word, dismissing the man with a wave. The guard quickly retreated, leaving you alone with your husband and the weight of what was about to unfold.

He held the flogger in his hand, letting the strands sway lightly, almost thoughtfully, as he regarded you with a dark, calculating gaze.

“Caracalla,” you said, your voice low and sharp as you craned your neck to glare at him. “You’re not doing this.”

“Oh, I am,” he replied, his tone cold and resolute. “Because this is what you want, isn’t it? You want to push me, to test me. Well, here I am, Prima. Let’s see how far you’re willing to go.”

He let the flogger brush lightly against the back of your thighs, dragging the fabric of your stola with it, the sensation sending a shiver up your spine. The teasing motion wasn’t meant to hurt—not yet—but it was a warning of what was to come.

“You bleed for me,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You slap me like you’re my equal. And now, you’ll learn what it means to be mine.”

The leather strands trailed over your skin, their touch deceptively gentle as Caracalla hovered in silence. You could feel his gaze boring into you, and despite the fury burning in your chest, your body trembled under his hold.

“You’ve always wanted to test me,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, cutting through the tense air. “So tell me, Prima, are you ready for the lesson you asked for?”

“Let me go,” you snapped, twisting against him, but his iron grip on your waist didn’t falter.

“You think I don’t see it?” he continued, ignoring your protests, the flogger now coiled loosely in his hand. “You thrive on this—on defiance, on rebellion. You provoke me, hoping I’ll break, hoping I’ll lose control.”

The strands of leather flicked against the back of your thighs, sharp enough to sting but not yet hard enough to leave a mark. Your breath hitched involuntarily, and Caracalla’s lips curled into a grim, humorless smile.

“But that’s the thing about me, Prima,” he said darkly, his voice dropping lower. “I don’t break. I’m the one who does the breaking.”

The next strike came without warning against the bare flesh of your ass, the flogger snapping against your skin with enough force to make you gasp. The sting bloomed instantly, hot and sharp, radiating.

“Caracalla!” you cried out, your voice a mixture of fury and disbelief.

“Don’t call me that,” he growled, his tone cutting through the room like a blade. “When you speak to me, you will remember who I am to you. Say it.”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Another strike followed, harder this time, and you bit down on your lip to stifle the sound that threatened to escape.

“Say it,” he repeated, his hand pressing down against the reddened flesh of your ass to hold you steady.

The heat of the blows, the tension in his voice, and the humiliation of your position all made your head spin. The drugs still lingered in your system, dulling some of the pain but amplifying the intensity of the moment.

“You are my emperor,” you spat finally, your voice trembling but laced with venom.

“That’s right,” he said, his voice dark with satisfaction. “And you will remember that.”

He let the flogger fall again, a calculated punishment meant to remind you of his dominance. Each strike sent a jolt through you, but it was the weight of his dominating presence, the control he exerted, that stung more than the blows.

Caracalla’s strikes came slower now, deliberate, as if he wanted you to feel every ounce of control he wielded. The leather strands snapped against the soft flesh of your ass, leaving a burning heat that spread through your skin, through your core. Your breath came in shallow gasps, and you bit down on your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a cry, though the pain blurred into a strange, disorienting feeling, manifesting an ache between your thighs, and warmth wetness as you squeezed them together.

"Still defiant," he murmured, his tone laced with amusement. His hand settled on your lower back, holding you firmly against his lap, and you could feel the tension radiating from him, like a predator toying with its prey. "You think I don't know what you're doing? Pushing me like this, daring me to lose control?"

"You already have," you spat, your voice shaky but sharp, though you could even hear the vulnerability beneath it. "Look at yourself, Caracalla. Do you think this proves your strength? That this—" You twisted beneath his grip, trying to pull free. "—makes you a ruler? It only makes you cruel."

His grip tightened, and he leaned down, his breath warm against the back of your neck. "You call me cruel, Prima, but you're the one who brought us here." The flogger trailed across your skin now, the sting replaced by a soft drag that only heightened the tension in the air. "You taunt me. Defy me. Challenge me in front of my guards like you're untouchable. And yet, here you are, over my knee, bleeding for my attention."

"You make me hate you," you hissed, though the venom in your words was laced with something deeper, something even you couldn't quite name.

"Do I?" he asked, his voice a low growl. The flogger fell again, harder this time, and the sharp snap against your thigh drew a gasp from your lips before you could stop it. "Or do I make you feel something you can't control?"

The question struck a nerve, and your body tensed against him, though your mind was too clouded—by anger, by the lingering effects of the drugs, by the intensity of him—to form a coherent reply. His free hand slid up your back, the touch firm but not cruel sending a shiver through you.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice quiet but seething with authority. "Admit what we both know, Prima."

Your silence was the only defiance you had left, and it only seemed to fuel his frustration. He tossed the flogger aside, and the sharp clatter against the marble floor echoed in the atrium. Both of his hands gripped your waist now, pulling you upright and turning you to face him. His expression was a storm—anger, desire, and something unspoken all in the depths of his ocean eyes.

"You want to hate me," he said, his voice low and steady, though there was a rawness to it that made your breath hitch. "But hate is still a feeling, isn't it, Prima? It's still mine to take from you."

You were a mess, your breathing shallow and uneven, tears pooling in your eyes though you refused to let them fall. Your hair clung to your damp skin, and your body trembled—not just from the pain but from the weight of everything you were feeling, everything that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. Your cut palm, still slick with blood, trembled as you tried to keep it from view, as if that small act could give you back some semblance of control.

"Look at you," he said, his voice low and rough, his hands tightening their hold on you as if he were afraid you might collapse. "You think you can sit here, defiant and proud, but you're barely holding yourself together. You're trembling, Prima."

Your eyes narrowed, though the tears made it hard to focus. "And whose fault is that?" you spat, your voice shaking. "You—you make me feel like I'm nothing. You take every piece of me and break it, twist it until I don’t even recognize myself."

His expression flickered for the briefest moment—something like guilt passing over his face before it hardened again. "I break you?" he said, his voice quiet but cutting. "Do you think I don’t feel the same? You think I don’t see how you look at me like I’m a monster, like every choice I make is a crime against you?"

"Because it is!" you cried, your voice cracking as the tears finally spilled over, hot and unrelenting. "You tell me I belong to you, but you push me away, humiliate me, treat me like I’m nothing more than a tool for your empire! How can you expect me to feel anything but hatred for you when you don’t even try to understand me?"

His hands moved to your shoulders, and for a moment, his grip softened. "You think I don’t understand?" he murmured, his voice quieter now, though no less intense. "You think I don’t see you, Prima? I see you more clearly than anyone else ever has.”

The admission stunned you into silence. For a moment, the room seemed to close in around you, the world narrowing to just the two of you. His words hung in the air, and you could feel the sincerity in them, even if you didn’t want to. Being understood by Caracalla meant, by some measure, you could possibly be like him.

"If you see me so clearly," you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper, "then why do you treat me like this? Why do you make it so impossible for us to be anything but enemies?"

He closed his eyes briefly, as though steadying himself, before looking at you again. "Because it’s easier to push you away than to let you see how much I want you," he said, his voice breaking just slightly on the last word.

You felt your knees buckle, and this time, you didn’t pull away when he steadied you, his arms wrapping around you almost protectively as he laid you back against the plush cushioned chaise.

"I hate you," you whispered against his chest, though the words lacked the fire they once had.

"I know," he replied softly, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. "But that doesn’t make any of this less true."

He tilted your face up to meet his gaze. “I don’t need to remind you that you belong to me,” Caracalla said softly, his voice smooth with an edge of menace. “But I will... just to make sure you’re never in doubt. Everything you are, every breath you take... it's mine to command.” His eyes darkened, “And when I’m finished with you, you’ll know it, deep down in your bones.”

It wasn’t long before he traced a path of bites and kisses along your neck and chest, relishing the softness of your belly, his warm hand resting possessively over your mound. A groan escaped his lips as a finger slipped between your folds, the wetness glistening on his finger.

Your response was hushed, tired from the hours of emotionality, from the ecstasy, from the devil’s breath; all you could manage was a soft moan, your head falling to the side in surrender.

“No,” he insisted, shaking his head, his hand tilting your chin to meet his gaze, your own wetness marking the curve of your cheek, “You shall not drift away from me again.”

He knelt on the chaise, pulling you gently by the back of your knees until your thighs rested on either side of his head. You inhaled a shaky breath as his fingers dug into your wounded backside, descending upon you like a man starved for your flesh. In just moments, the coil within you tightened, reminiscent of the pleasure Prosperina had given you earlier that night but even more intense. You tangled your bloodied fingers in his hair, urging him closer to your core, and finally, your voice returned, a wail escaping your lips as you released around his eager tongue.

Your vision blurred as you arched into his mouth, and when you came to, you looked down to find him sucking at the gash on your palm, as if your very essence was the only thing that could nourish him.

He quickly pulled away, his hand gliding across the marble floor until it found what he was searching for. The dagger sparkled in the candlelight, and a knot tightened in your stomach as you wondered what he was about to do. With a quick slash, he cut into his own palm, and you shuddered at the sound of his flesh parting.

When he pressed your wounded hands together, you couldn’t help but groan.

For two nights, you remained entwined with him in bloodied sheets, surrendering to him in every way. His seed marked your skin, streaking your thighs, mingling with the blood from kisses pressed too hard and bites that left their imprints upon taut flesh. He commanded you to learn his desires—to ride him with purpose, to take him deeply enough for your own pleasure, to find ecstasy in his dominance. In turn, he pushed you to your limits, coaxing cries from your lips that echoed through the chamber like prayers to the gods. By the end, your body wore the evidence of him—smudged, crimson handprints and bruises scattered like spoils of war. Exhaustion claimed you, pulling you into the softness of the bed, your heavy-lidded gaze stayed on him as he laid beside you.

Servants had come and gone during the two days, dismissed by his growled commands before they could enter. You caught the sound of his voice—low and steady, discussing affairs of the empire. Peeking through half-lidded eyes, you saw him framed in the doorway, a sheet draped loosely around his waist as he murmured to messengers. Without fail, he returned to you each time, sinking back into the bed to linger at your side, his gaze fixed upon you as you slipped once more to sleep.

The door flew open without warning, slamming against the wall with a force that shook the bed. You laid on your stomach, your battered body half-draped in the stained sheets, your wounded hand dangling limply from the edge of the bed. The cool breeze drifting in from the balcony made your exposed skin prickle, and the intrusion startled Caracalla from his place beside you.

“By the gods, you’ve nearly killed her.” Geta’s accusatory voice broke through the silence.

Caracalla jerked upright, his hand shot out to grab the sheet, draping it over your body before he swung his legs to the floor. “What in all the hells are you doing here, brother?” he growled.

“You’ve ignored every messenger I’ve sent,” Geta snapped, stepping into the room with no regard for the scene surrounding him. His eyes flicked briefly to you, his expression unreadable, before returning to his brother.

“As you can see, I’ve been busy,” Caracalla bit back, the sarcasm dripping from his words as he gestured dismissively toward you.

“And yet Rome burns in your absence,” Geta countered sharply. “But this isn’t about me, nor the senate’s growing distaste for your escapades.”

Caracalla leaned forward, his jaw tightening as he spat, “Then get to the point, unless you came to gawk.”

Geta’s eyes narrowed, his temper held in check by a thread. “It’s Father,” he finally said, his voice breaking faintly on the word. “He is not well.”

Caracalla froze for a beat, “How do you mean?” he demanded, his voice quieter now.

You stirred beneath the sheet, the ache in your body throbbing as you rolled onto your back, pulling the sheet around you. Squinting against the sunlight streaming in, you took in the two brothers.

Geta hesitated, “His condition has worsened,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “He has been unconscious for days.”

For the first time, Caracalla’s composure seemed to crack. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, his eyes darkening. “And you waited until now to tell me?” he snapped, though the anger in his tone seemed to mask something else.

“I’ve sent word,” Geta replied sharply, his frustration palpable. “You ignored it. You locked yourself away with her—” his gaze flicked to you briefly before returning to his brother “—and the empire be damned.”

Caracalla stood, his movements abrupt and dominating. “I will decide what damns the empire,” he said coldly, stepping toward Geta. “But if what you say is true, I will not be kept from Rome.” He turned to you, his gaze lingering on your exhausted form, his expression unreadable. “Get dressed. We leave at once.”

⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡

Taglist:

@alwaysahiccupandastrid

@justnobodynothingmore

@miamariposita

@niungguang

Dividers: @ghoulbloggerrr

[emryses]

2024 Writing in Review!

thank you @hartigays & @babyseraphim for the tag! i ordered these in date posted order, so any that were multichapters: it reflects the month the first chapter was posted.

JANUARY

memoria (come as you are) | steddie | A story about finding the people you’ve lost, healing rifts (the personal kind, not the supernatural kind) and maybe for once, finally, falling in love.

MARCH

stick a pin in it | steddie | ~380 | During the summer of 1986, Eddie makes himself a new battle vest. Try as they might, they can't quite get Steve Harrington's blood out of the first one; and though Eddie thinks that may add a certain…je no say whatever to it, in the end, he finds an old jean jacket of Wayne’s, chops the arms off and starts all over again. (for steddie microfic)

tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice? | a RARE bbcm fic!! | mergwen | 9.1k | In the aftermath of it all, the only thing the two of them were left with was the other person. They were both so intimately familiar with the nauseating ache that was the human experience of love and loss that it came easily to them; the falling into one another.

MAY

so give me hope in the darkness | dead boy detectives | 2.3k | Four times Edwin saw Charles, before Charles saw him.

JUNE

you will never be unloved by me (you are too well tangled in my soul) | payneland | ~4k | A night in Port Townsend, after Hell, Charles and Edwin talk.

now i wanna hold you, i don't wanna ever have to let you go | payneland(ish) | 4k | As payment for solving a case, Edwin and Charles accept an experimental medicine from a client: iron pills, that do not cause pain but allow ghosts to be corporeal for just a tick, and otherwise, regain feeling as if they were living. Charles thinks it’s brilliant, Edwin feels a bit more complicated about it all.

JULY

TIMESTAMP: April 10, 1989 | steddie | 1,111 | One thousand, one hundred, eleven and one days; but it only took Eddie the one to fall in love. (for steddie microfic)

FOOL FOR LOVE | fucked up, eddie centric little background fic for the btvs au i hope to one day post.

AUGUST

strange what desire will make foolish people do | steddie | 10.4k | eddie pov of memoria.

Suo Gân | payneland + edwin mom case fic | ~35k | It's been a year and some change since Edwin stood on a step below Charles, bloody, beaten, eyes sparkling, and told Charles that he was in love with him. He told Edwin it didn't change anything between them, and it didn't. But it didn’t necessarily do nothing to Charles. No, he actually thinks it might have changed him irrevocably and all that. Because lately, when it comes to Edwin, he's been aching.

OCTOBER

tell me about it, stud | payneland | 5.8k | Charles and Edwin attend a Halloween party. Featuring Niko's immaculate costume preparation skills, Charles' bone deep dislike for fuckass Thomas King, and Edwin's exceptionally grabbable waist.

not really sure whose been tagged in this. so zero pressure tags for @queerofthedagger @insane-ohwhyfandoms @idliketobeatree @wordsinhaled @postmodernau

[greenthena]

No sleep. Only Good Omens

Today in 3am theories I don't really believe: All the shopkeepers on Whickber street are angels or demons who've had their memories erased.

My evidence: I have none, your honor. They're just all weird, and I like that.

My reasoning: Whenever an ethereal or occult being gets to be too much to handle, their memory gets erased by Heaven or Hell. Some angels and demons are just too much of a liability, so they get their memories SUPER-erased and sent to live as humans. BUT. They are different and have behaviors that can't be easily explained. They believe they're human, so they act human-ish. But it's sketchy.

So one day, oh say maybe one hundred years ago, The Metatron looks down at A.Z. Fell & Co. in the middle of the neighborhood that was growing up into the Soho we know today, and thinks. "Aziraphale, odd little angel that he is, has managed to blend into this bizarre neighborhood. Maybe I can dump the other reject angels here, as well." Hell catches on and starts doing the same thing. Before you know it, Whickber Street is chock-full of angels and demons who were generally too much trouble for Heaven or Hell to bother with them anymore. These sweet babies have all had their memories erased and, like Muriel who thinks humans often live two hundred years, or so, just accept that they are people with long life spans and go about their lives making coffee, selling records, and "hemming" men's "clothes."

And Aziraphale and Crowley, being the most wonderful and absolute dumbasses that they are, haven't noticed a thing.

Flaws in the theory: Maggie says she inherited the record shop, which was originally owned by her great grandmother. Solution? Ummmm....Heaven just gave her another memory wipe. Problem solved. Deus ex machina memoria.

Is this a hill I am willing to die on?: Abso-fucking-lutely not. I just want to read the fanfic, please and thank you.

For the record, Nina does NOT approve of this theory, at all.

[salubriwrites-blog]

The Amnesia Game

A Mr. Reca/Black Swan romance.

I made the first chapter. This is shaping out to be a 2-3 chapter story, and it's my current palette cleanser, so I hope you enjoy!

I'll be putting this up on ao3 when its complete. Contains 2.6 spoilers, proceed with caution. CW: Manipulation (no matter how consensual)

You can find Part 2 here!

Part 1: Homecoming

Penacony was a beautiful planet, and returning to its orbit always warmed a forgotten part of his soul. One that lay dormant and was only stirred to life by almost familiar sights and sounds on the Planet of Festivities. Reca’s last visit home was at least a hundred Amber Eras ago, it had felt like returning to an empty childhood home. Even the memoria sounded and tasted different when he stepped into his room at the Reverie. What was that feeling called? He asked himself now as he stepped off the lift and into the claustrophobic halls of the habitation complex. To be homesick for a place to which you cannot return? 

“Hiraeth,” he exclaimed, echoing his Assistant Director. “It is hiraeth, a sharp memory.” Reca chuckled and as he juggled his keys in his hand a comforting, more familiar sensation greeted him. The apartment was usually empty, a shell of a home that Reca had to resuscitate every time he returned from traveling abroad. Not this time though, the apartment’s heartbeat was steady and solid as he hurried to its front door. Usually around this time all of the other studios and habitats were alive and breathing with conversation and dinner time aromas. At the welcome mat, the smell of a warm meal permeated under the door and weaved through his feet like a feline. It could only mean one thing, the Memokeeper thought as he patted his hair down.

“You’re here,” he declared musically, swinging the front door open to the sight within. Reca’s heart played monkey bars on his ribs and he felt like a child again, smiling like this for Black Swan. Leaning against his kitchen counters, turning only her head to face him, she was tasting the contents of a pot. Her purple hair was wound up tight into an elegant twist that accentuated her profile, neck adorned with jewelry befitting her rank as Memokeeper. Amber eyes glittered anew as Reca dropped his bag at the still open door and strode inward to her. 

“Of course, it wouldn’t be home without me here,” Black Swan laughed, throwing her head back as his lips reached for her bejeweled neck. Lifting her off the ground, Reca half spun her before setting her back on her two feet. Not that she had to fall far, Black Swan was taller than him by a foot, she held his face and tilted it upwards, admiring his face like she hadn’t been able to for months. Her lips were plump and glistened with gloss when they kissed, warming his shoulders and dragging him in. “Welcome home, Elias dear.” 

“Why thank you, darling.” Elias Reca pressed his nose into her neck. She smelled divine, brushing his lips at her nape before slumping to lean against the counters next to her. “You are absolutely right.” Tilting his head, the Memokeeper watched her pull his oven mitts on her hands and haul the pot from the stove. “You also didn’t have to do all of this.” 

“Nonsense, you are worth all this and more.” She mimicked him before stepping up to the stove. This was not her home, but you wouldn’t know that as the cutlery bent to her will, and the stove never complained of igniting at her touch. Maybe this would be the time she’d accept his invitation to move in with him. “Go shower, decompress, I’ll tell you when it's ready… without me!” She added with a melodic laugh, only half resisting as Reca pulled her out of the kitchen and towards the staircase. 

“I changed my mind,” he sang, snapping his fingers and illuminating the upstairs loft. With a creak the shower hummed to life as Ms. Swan allowed him to pull away her sweater. “I do want all of this.”

“Sounds like you had an eventful visit to Penacony,” Black Swan mused after dinner, readjusting her plush robe as she twisted her legs into his. They had been planning to eat at the table, but after that shower, replaying the sounds of water and soaking sounds bouncing off the tiles, they were left too satisfied. The candlelit dinner was meant to be part of the foreplay, but now that they were staggering back to eat in just their robes, the set table and flowers felt unnecessary. So they put one of Black Swan’s favorite movies on instead and collapsed into the large couch with the coffee table pulled close so that the wine was near.

“Eventful is certainly a word for that,” Elias groaned, rubbing her calves and enjoying how she felt under his hands. “I ended up having to resort to that silver haired Trailblazer to unlock the Galaxy Ranger’s memories after all.” 

“The Trailblazer’s fate is a uniquely entwined one… I wouldn’t let it bother you that that was what came to pass. Not to mention it was a Stellaron Hunter who warned you of this solution.” 

“Yes, but oh! To defy that damned Script and rub it in her smug face,” he sighed, clutching a fist dramatically to the air before letting his hand fall back down atop her thigh. In that reflective quiet, his gaze found hers, and they couldn’t stop themselves from laughing at the absurdity of his attempt to defy Stellaron Hunters and their unyielding mission. “I missed you, and I… needed this quite badly.” He gestured to the empty bowls, the bottle of wine, and the movie that quietly played in the background of his lush apartment. Behind them the auroras from the Garden cast Black Swan in fractured colors like she was a stained window come to life. “I owe you a night like this.” 

“Is there something you have in mind already, or maybe I can make a suggestion?” The Memokeeper asked, reaching to hold his legs as Reca pulled her in. Kissing and swooning, he exhaled the loneliness and inhaled Black Swan. She was right, home was wherever she went, and right now all he wanted was to unravel in each other’s arms and be at home.

“You are the professional on lovely evenings, I’ll hear you out.” 

“Would you,” she started, pushing her legs further into his lap, hugging his hips with her heels. “Like to fall in love with me?”

“Our Amnesia game?” Pursing his lips, Elias worked his hand underneath her robe to caress her legs. The Amnesia Game, as they uncreatively dubbed it, was one that he had come up with to keep their relationship satisfied. Being quasi immortal entities facing time, chance, and entropy’s cruel hands together meant that they were ever on the hunt for ways to stay in love. The last time they played the Amnesia game it had lasted months, almost spanning an Amber Era, and oh what fun it had been. The anticipation, the mystique their chemistry invoked, if he could get away with it he’d graft those moments into a movie to play at Penacony’s Golden Hour forever. However, as Reca ruminated on the idea his body was sinking further into the couch, happy to not be moving.

It had been many, long months in Penacony. The infiltration of his alma mater had been his strongest performance yet, and now that it was over all Reca wanted was to be quiet. Not have to breathe a word, just file paperwork, organize his films, and rest. It was hard to keep that boundary when he was welcomed home like this, brought inside like a hero and treated to wonderful sex and a home cooked meal. More than the quiet, more than the mundane aspects of Memokeeping, he missed Black Swan. How magnificent it was, to be adored and yearn for the charming woman, who was guiding his hand to part her bathrobe. Her energy left Reca feeling electrified and raring to do it all over again. To march back out that door and ruin another evil genius. Except he would miss her, if they played. He just wanted a few days at her side, resting against her while she stroked his shoulders and read her books. 

Still thoughtful, he watched Black Swan unhook her legs from each other and let one drop to the floor, pulling the robe even further apart. Maybe he would make that one of the rules, Reca smiled now as he watched Ms. Swan’s face twitched and tense to the rhythm of his teasing. “I only want to play for a month,” he mused aloud, leaning her to lie back against the couch. At first she sighed and relaxed, but when his shadow overtook her, Black Swan’s eyes snapped open with disbelief.

“Didn’t you say you were too tired?” She giggled, melting into a cooing sigh as his fingers reached for her lips beneath the robe.

“We don’t have to,” he teased, no longer sure if they were talking about playing the game, or his fingers playing over her body.

“Keep going,” the Memokeeper whispered, her face softening as he obeyed her demand. 

“I could be convinced for two months, but no more than that, and I want you to give me hints.” Elias carried on, leaning to sit back on his knees as he pulled her calve to rest on his shoulder. 

“Hints, hm?” Black Swan asked, her hands reaching out to wrap around his wrist, encouraging Reca as her spine tightened and her toes curled. With a wave of her hand the coffee table jutted across the room so that they could slip from the couch to the floor. He didn’t answer again until her sighs unfurled and she came apart like a thing that Reca could pick up and read for himself. Until they were left gasping and reaching for the wine, sharing a glass between them.

“Yes, I’ll reward you extra points if you can convince me up onto a rooftop for our first kiss,” he whispered to her, running half damp locks of purple through his fingers, leaving a trail of wet kisses over her neck. “Maybe this is the time I’ll conquer my vertigo.” Languishing in the quiet, he whispered sweet things into her ears, lips tickling her neck and the roots of her hair as Black Swan held him near. 

“Rooftop kisses and hints, I can work with that… where would you like us to meet?” 

Thinking, Elias snapped his fingers again and the screen mounted on the wall died, casting the pair in blue and green darkness. Together they lay, their fingers searching for the best places to hold one another, reacquainting themselves with how nice it was to be adored like this. “I have an interview at Pier Point about my project, I’ll be there for a week or two, what about then?” 

“Pier Point, look at you,” she teased, pushing her hair out of her face. “That makes things easier… What about starting? Maybe we can begin in a few days? I need some time to scheme,” Black Swan added, letting Reca help her off the floor as they drifted to the spiral staircase. 

Laughing at how they had to rely on the bannister and rails to climb the staircase, Reca crawled into bed beside her. 

“Give me a few more days of this,” he asked, letting her body eclipse him as she pressed herself against his back. Another wanting shudder played down his spine as Ms. Swan’s naked body pressed him, her hips contouring to fit his frame well. Alas, the flesh was in need of a deep slumber. “All of this is exactly what I needed.” 

Pushing his bangs from his face, Black Swan kissed his ears until his tiny snores reverberated against her chest. “I can’t wait for you to fall in love with me,” she whispered to him, knowing her voice would reach him deep in that dreamless place. “See you soon, dearest.” 

Morning always came too soon when Elias couldn’t fall asleep, he tossed to try and reach for a pillow to block out the cool, chiming ambiance that was his alarm clock. However he had tossed all of them to the floor in his restlessness. Rolling on his back, Reca squeezed his eyes tight before opening them to watch the morning light filter through his bedroom curtains. Pier Point was as contrasting to the Garden as a world of color being reduced to monochrome. Where Elias’ home was always lit up with gorgeous hues cast by the archive of memories, Pier Point was cold and corporate grays and blacks highlighted by industrial apathy. The night before Reca tossed and turned trying to fall asleep in this city of lights, longing for the quiet where he was lulled to sleep by only his breath. Though his bad nights sleep couldn’t be solely blamed on struggling to fall asleep in a new place.

“Good morning, Mira,” he groaned, pressing his palms to his face as around him the room came alive. The bedroom curtains opened slowly, and the alarm’s gentle chiming faded into a pair of talking heads yapping about an electrical storm in the Asdana system. It was harder than he thought, Elias’ head felt top heavy and was the last thing to become vertical as he forced himself up. “Kindly give me the briefing for today’s travel table, and start the coffee.” 

With a croak, the Assistant Director powered to life and sent a timetable to the screen in the shower for Elias to read as he began his morning. The IPC’s home planet was a cold place that only really cared for numbers and expansionism, but they knew how to make an exceptional hotel. Little tricks such as these were the ticket to keeping employees happy enough to work to death, and people like Mr. Reca unwilling to challenge their status quo. Stepping out onto the warmed floors of the bathroom, a cup of espresso waited for him as he stared at his naked reflection, where he transferred that data from the table. He felt as awful as he looked, the bags under his eyes were defined while his head and chest pounded as he reached for the bottle of pain relievers to quell this body ache. Squinting to himself as he gulped the pills down, Elias tried to remember if he’d done anything the night before to cause this. 

His heart fluttered in his chest with excitement for seemingly nothing, and his head moved between heavy and light as he checked the clock every few minutes. It was a feeling of nerves, that made sense in a way as he would be meeting galactical superstar Owlbert later that morning for his interview. That was something to be nervous about, but that wasn’t something that would make his stomach heavy with nerves and his fingers fidget as he gripped the gray sink. He hadn’t gone to bed drunk the night before, so he couldn’t chalk this feeling up to a hangover. It was like his body was counting down to a secret that was being kept from his mind.

He wanted to walk back into the shower and sit underneath the warm spray for a little while as he waited for relief to come. Fate wouldn’t have that, and Mira was calling for him from the bedroom. “Yes, yes, I won’t miss the train.” 

Painkillers did nothing to soothe Elias, who dressed incognito for the purpose of traveling to the IPC Studio. A black suit and pair of sunglasses to block the light from the trains and hide his telltale eyes from any possible fans. Mira hid in his breast pocket, peering over the lip of the fabric to take in the metropolitan surroundings before hiding again. He heard a few whispers as he clung to the overhead railing of the train, but they were easy to ignore. Of course, none of this was actually necessary. Mr. Reca could have requested a personal car be sent for him, and he could ride in style over the bustling tunnel ways and train system. He wanted to do it like this, though. It was good for his perspective to see and experience what every day people like these IPC drones went through. Even though he fumbled with payment to get into the station, and had to track down a station attendant to navigate the different lines, it was charming. Charming and engaging enough to help him forget about this heaviness in his body that was decidedly not the result of poor sleep. 

Unlike the rest of Pier Point, the studio had an art deco facade with abrasive bulbs that outlined the edges of the building. The marquis was backlit with bold, black font that read, Today Only! Owlbert’s Live Studio Interview featuring Special Guest Mr. Reca! Even this early in the morning, with still hours to go before his showtime, the line to get into the studio was trying to wrap around the building like an ouroboros. Keeping his head down, the whispers only got louder as he was ushered in the lobby of the recording studio. Inside it boasted plush rugs and comfortable arm chairs. Photographs of prolific idols hung around the front room, looking down on the director as he prepared himself to take a seat, looking for a chance to recline and soothe his discomfort. There was something more to this dull throb, and he wished he had the time to try and understand it. Honestly, it was best that Elias forced himself to ignore it for now, these kinds of things were bad for his nerves.

“You’re right,” he told Mira, dragging his finger affectionately across the frog’s head. “Interview first, we must put on our best performance.”

“Mr. Reca! Welcome to IPC’s Telecommunication Studio,” the receptionist at the front desk stood up to clap her hands together excitedly. “You’re early, would you like to wait in your dressing room?”

“That would be wonderful,” he supposed, dragging his fingers beneath his dark bags as he was taken away. Through the frosted, glass doors she ushered him through hallways that were similarly decorated. More faces and posters beamed down at him, and as Reca passed them he wondered hopefully if he’d be asked to sign his own portrait. 

A small flight of artists waited for Elias in his dressing room, where they helped him into colors and textures that were a little more familiar. That made the nerves flatten a bit, seeing himself in something that - compared to these corporate drones - burst with color and life. Most notably, the makeup artist worked wonders to save his complexion. A true talent, he thought admirably as he touched gingerly at the foundation. He would have to take care to not ruin it until he got home that night, Reca damn near felt alive now. Another cup of coffee and a few magazine articles later, a stage assistant knocked and appeared.

“Crew are ready to mic you up, sir.”

Walking through the back stage, Reca caught sight of the house. It was packed to the brim, not a single empty chair was facing Owlbert’s stage. 

“Go on, get the shot,” he lingered, pulling his assistant director from his pocket. With a lively croak, Mira leapt from Elias’ hand and she disappeared beneath the heavy curtains. He would enjoy rewatching this interview for himself later in the evening.

“Good morning, good afternoon, and goooooood evening!” A familiar, equally dramatic voice hooted from the stage as Mr. Reca held still, allowing the technician to snap his microphone to his coat collar. 

“Break a leg out there,” the crew told him as he fixed himself. 

“One of our guests today is a five time winner of the Galaxy Awards, just returned from the set of his latest and hottest production that will be up for consideration this year. Guests from afar, please put your hands together for-” Owlbert’s words were drowned out as the crowd had already begun to applaud and scream. 

Exuding confidence, but still thankful for the makeup that concealed his flustered skin tone, Mr. Reca bowed deeply to the audience and walked slowly across the stage. He even stepped off into the House and shook a few hands of the front row guests. It was controlled chaos as they screamed and bounced in their seats, but never rose from them to lay hands on Elias. After he had milked that attention from those rabid fans, he turned and held his arms out as if surprised to see Owlbert waiting before approaching a familiar sofa. 

Owlbert rose from his seat to shake the director’s hand before they both took their seats. Mr. Reca was also obviously a fan of the show, and knew just how to sit on the cushions that would make the light fall properly over his shoulders. Resting an arm out across the back of the couch, Reca angled himself to face the host before raising a hand in the air. Waving it and then dramatically closing his fist, like they were well trained performers who had been rehearsing together for months, the studio audience fell silent. 

“Very impressive, Mr. Reca,” the host laughed, applauding the director in turn as the man offered a small bow from his seat. “This is your first time on our stage, and yet you command like it was always yours.” 

 “You know, Owlbert,” Elias laughed, winking to the camera, where Mira was sitting in one of the aisles, completely unseen by the audience members. “Every stage I’m on becomes my stage. Though I thank you for sharing this beautiful space with me.” 

Yes it was true, this was his first time on a stage like this, but it was just another performance. Elias was dreading the pounding in his temple that would come from this. None of the pain relievers that he nor the studio offered him had kicked in yet. Knowing that relief would not come, Reca hoped that he could hold his head to nurse his headache in a way that wouldn’t raise questions or suggest disinterest. The crowd ate up his commentary, while Owlbert was impressed and breath taken by their on stage chemistry. Their easy banter made it difficult for the host to naturally pivot to the purpose of that day’s interview. 

“Now, Mr. Reca,” the host began, finally finding a pause to catch his breath and wrest control from the director. “I want to turn the scope onto your most recent work, which will be hitting theaters later this month, Cosmic Ninjutsu Inscriptions.” The crowd turned to stare at the director expectantly, a normal person may have buckled underneath the weight of all those eyes. Not he though, as Reca leaned back and shifted his anchorpoint, crossing one leg over the other.  “Your newest film follows a young apprentice who has forsaken the path of her master’s, seeking out a colorful - both literally and figuratively - new way of the ninja for herself. While striking out to blaze this trail of hers, old shadows rise up and she must use her new code of honor to defeat them. Tell us a bit about your decision to weave this tale.” 

Chuckling to himself, Elias winked into the crowd, where a handful of audience members swooned, believing that the sweet gesture was for them. “It’s quite simple, Owlbert. Why would I deprive anyone of my talent? By expanding into… nuanced genres such as the gritty fantasy of Cosmic Ninjutsu Inscriptions, I can share my talent with even more fans.” Oh, this was too easy, he thought confidently, watching as Mira zoomed in to capture the awe struck expressions of the audience.

“Of course, that’s a generous approach, no one should be denied a good story.” 

“Indeed - I recently paid a visit to the Planet of Festivities, Penacony. My alma mater - Paperfold University - was hosting their anniversary celebrations. As I’m sure we’re all aware, the Dreamscape is a frenetic and dynamic culture, ideas echo through the memoria and just a whisper,” he emphasized by leaning forward and dropping his voice, though the microphone captured him. There was a thrilling moment as the audience leaned in too. “Just a whisper of a new idea may ripple and expand into a tsunami, affecting the dreamscape. I witnessed one such ripple while touring as a guest lecturer for the college, ninjas! Wayward warriors who stride over galaxies and systems, an army of one in many cases, chasing the wayward gales of evil. I fell in love with my fellow student’s fascination and determination to forge their own mantra, and what better way to spread my alma mater’s motto, ‘color your dreams, free your ideals’?”

Both the audience and Owlbert ate up his response, and once again he cast his gaze out toward the crowd, where he saw Mira. She had taken a seat pressed up against one of the stairs, that way if a guest were to come down the aisle she wouldn’t be stepped on. Except she wasn’t looking at him, the assistant director was distracted by a member of the audience in an aisle seat. Her lens was zoomed in on the guest’s face, and perhaps most shockingly, the guest was looking back at Mira. Large eyes like an inverted sunset, yellow that drained to black, were staring dreamily down at the frog. Seemingly more interested in that than the once in a lifetime interview she must have paid thousands of credits to be here for. A wellspring of thick, lilac curls poured down her shoulders and back, one lock was being twisted around her finger. It was mind boggling to Reca that this strange woman was aware of Mira, and giving her the light of day that he was entitled to-

“Mr. Reca?” His thoughts burst as the director blinked and returned to the present, with Owlbert leaning against his desk with a cheeky smile. “Didn’t stump you, did I?” 

“I- apologies, I was a little star struck by this gorgeous audience,” Elias explained smoothly, and the crowd applauded at his recovery. Notably again, she did not applaud him, instead resting her chin in her hand  and smiling dreamily at him. Now why was that the panacea to his discomfort? The knot in his chest loosened at her gaze, but Elias could not allow himself to be taken by this strange occurrence, and forced himself to look back at Owlbert. “Could you repeat your question, dear Owlbert?” Stealing little glances into the crowd, the man couldn’t quite know what it was because he was forced to continue to engage in the interview. All he knew is whenever he had a moment to lay eyes on her, the pain in his body ebbed away. The hour dragged on with only little reprieves when he could look into the crowd and look for her. For his final applause, Reca stood from his seat in hopes to see her in the ovation, but his heart dropped to see her seat suddenly empty. How could she have slipped away? He wondered as his feet were carrying him off stage as music played him out. 

The applause continued on even after Reca was gone and his microphone had been taken from his coat. 

“Are you alright, Elias?” Owlbert appeared at the director’s elbow after the show, big eyes watching keenly as Reca attempted to swat away the concern. “You got a little spacey in the middle of those questions.”

“No no, everything is fine, you are a wonderful host, thank you once again for having me on,” Mr. Reca clasped their hands together as he bowed once more. “I think I’m still a little travel weary still, I only got into Pier Point yesterday evening.” 

“That’s okay, these are things that we can edit in post,” the show host laughed, and laughed even harder when Elias joined in. “You’re more than welcome to rest in the dressing room before your signing.” 

“My signing?” The director echoed, doing the mental gymnastics to try and remember if this was part of the invitation. “I… I can’t recall agreeing to that.”

“Oh, well let me find your contract for you,” Owlbert said easily, and like magic produced a tablet, handing it to Elias. “During one of the IPC’s charity events, we hosted a silent auction. You volunteered an additional hour of your time to participate in a meet and greet to the highest bidder. Your time is precious, Mr. Reca, and fetches quite a hefty price I might add.” 

“No surprises there,” he mumbled to himself, staring at his flowing signature written on the screen. Thankfully he didn’t doublebook and dispelled the tablet. “I think I will take you up on that offer.” First to find Mira, he thought to himself as he peeked back through the thick curtains to see the studio. It was empty, only the ghost light illuminated the room as the director stepped back onto the stage. His footsteps echoed on the lacquered wood finish, and his shadow was cast long and deathly over Owlbert’s desk. 

“Mira,” he called out, his voice carried into the dark. No answer, well, not the one he was looking for. A whisper of fabric and leather squeezing against each other, followed by a familiar croak rose up from the house. Wheeling around, Elias’ body froze and found a pair of exquisite eyes that accompanied beady ones sitting in the stands. With another croak the assistant director jumped down the steps and toward the stage. 

“Mira,” a cool voice echoed him, and the woman stayed in her seat. “A fitting name: to look, to see. Very romantic of you.” It was her, the woman who had distracted him during the interview, right where he had seen her. Sitting casually she crossed her leg one over the other, the stretch of her skin tight pants was magnified in the quiet expanse. That purple hair was tied back elegantly now, spilling behind her and down the chair like an avalanche. As if it was planned, the lonely illumination from the ghost light cast her shape in exquisite shadow. Neither of them spoke while Mira hopped to his feet, waiting for him to return her to his place by his heart.

“That’s her… model name.” He had enough of the wherewithal to scoop the assistant director off the ground and hold her in both of his hands as he took a cautious step toward the steps. “You are… I’m not sure if you’re supposed to be here.” Reca admitted, giving the studio another expectant sweep, wondering if anyone would come in here and kick her out for sneaking back onto the set. Wondering if he had enough sway to stop them, because he needed to know who she was.

“Don’t you worry about me, Mr. Reca, I’m exactly where I need to be.” The strange woman replied coolly. Reca crossed his arms to seem indignant or impressed, truly though he did it to conceal his shiver. Her voice ran a finger down his spine, making him stand a little straighter.

“Are you a critic?” He squinted at her, watching for her expression to shift. It was a stony one, she had an excellent poker face as she rose from her place in the empty audience to descend the staircase. Goodness was she tall, Reca thought with the clench of his fist against his body as she stepped down to meet him. 

“Of course not, Mr. Reca,” the woman assured him, and it took some godly strength for him to stand his ground as she got close. This woman didn’t intimidate him, not one bit, but as her perfume swam into focus and he had to tilt his head backward to stare up at her his legs trembled with adrenaline. Why the sudden fight, flight, or freeze response? “In fact, you could say I’m your biggest fan.” 

“I’m flattered, truly,” the director lied, holding a hand to his chest as Mira croaked again. “Then may I ask what my biggest fan’s name is?” 

Appearing to think, she pressed a sharply manicured finger to her chin, seemingly not bothered by their striking proximity. Elias liked to think that he was a respectful and mindful gentleman, but could not bring himself to back away from her, even though his neck ached from having to lean back and look up. Maybe it was because of his pride, not wanting to back down from this challenging stranger. Yes, that had to be it. She was audacious and unyielding, she didn’t fluster or flinch at his words or presence. Instead she seemed… amused by him, and that annoyed Reca. Made him want to find what would get on her nerves and tease frustration out of her. 

“You may know me as Black Swan,” she seemed to decide, smiling down at Reca as his eyes must have twisted with confusion. A stage name?

“A pleasure to know you, Black Swan,” he bowed, and before he realized it he was kissing the top of her hand. How did that get there? He didn’t remember his brain giving the command to the rest of his body. Still, the gesture went a long way as her illegible face shifted into a warm smile. “I’d love to stay and get to know you better, but I’m afraid I have an obligation that I need to rest for.” 

Her smile remained eerily as Elias let go of her, pulling himself away from her, half wondering if she would try to follow him. In his time as a director, Reca had no choice but to master evading his fan’s attention. He wondered what kind of slip he would have to give her. Did he even want to?

“Of course, we’ll be seeing each other again soon,” Black Swan promised, twiddling her fingers as he gave the mysterious lady one more glance before slipping backstage again. 

[n0tyst4rs]

Presenting a peculiar character: Tim (or Timothy). A rare Marlon clone made of clay and slime :p

He appeared out of nowhere in Manglewood as a sticky mass until he met Marlon (Which was not a good welcome due to how it was presented), who now takes his appearance, only with different details.

He doesn't know how he got there or who he was in the past, but he has the memory of someone he loved and for that very reason he stayed with him to look for answers, which led to a very shocking conclusion (i won't tell what xd)

- His personality changed a lot. He went from being fearful and confused to a happy, friendly and a little crazy man. He usually sticks out his tongue out of habit.

- He likes hot dogs, cooking, his body, his little son (I'll show him later) and knives (he has a collection that he uses for cooking. Only for that!)

- Never dare to push him to his limits because Tim gets... very angry. And you don't want to see him when he turns into a lovecraftian monster.

And we have his little son: Newt! (Just like his father, but it's a light bulb).

This little boy loves his "pwapa" so much to the point that he keeps sleeping with him because he feels better being with his dad.

Tim created Newt unconsciously and the most curious thing is that both he and Tim have a heart (which gives them life. The mini Tims don't have one). I would say that Newt made his dad's life better since he was depressed about the discovery he made.

He managed to give importance to his existence and what he is. Basically, whether Tim remembers or not what he was, he already accepted his appearance. And with Newt he does it 10 times better >:3

/Español/

Resumen: Tim (o Timothy) es un clon de Marlon Random, con falta de memoria sobre lo que era debido a que esa no es su forma original. Aparecio en Manglewood y se encontró con el mismísimo hombre en persona (no fue una agradable bienvenida :/), terminando en quedarse con el para buscar respuestas de dónde viene y se lleva un descubrimiento impactante (no lo diré).

Antes era tímido y confundido, ahora es feliz, alegre y algo loco :p

Adora los hotdog, cocinar, su cuerpo, su hijito Newt y los cuchillos (descuiden, lo usa para cocinar!).

Nunca se atrevan a llevarlo a su límite o el se convierte en monstruo lovecraftiano xd (no es joda).

Newt es el pequeño hijo de Tim, creado sin darse cuenta pero que lo ha hecho ser más feliz por su existencia. Lo curioso es que el posee un corazón como el de su padre (los mini tims no lo poseen) , haciéndolo único en su especie.

Básicamente, Newt ayudo a su papá en el momento cuando descubrió aquel acontecimiento haciéndolo comprenderse y aceptar su forma actual.

Aunque Tim vaya o no a recordar su pasado, el ya ama ser Tim

[princeescaluswords]

Random question, Prince but do you think Victoria or Gerard had military backgrounds? Maybe serving themselves or had parents that served?

I want to preface this answer with a caveat: this might be the most speculative meta I've ever written. While I'm going to try to draw as much evidence as I can from canon, I don't think it would be out-of-the question for people to disregard it on its surface merits.

So, here goes. I don't think that the Argents would join the military and they would strongly discourage their children from joining the military. I'm sure that during the time of the draft there might have been some Argents serving, but it would be under duress. If you accept the same head canon that I do, that Victoria was also from a hunting family, she would not be either. I think the reasons would be historical, practical, and philosophical.

Historical: Of all the characters in the Teen Wolf series, Marie-Jeanne Argent née Valet had the most emotionally true (if not entirely rational) reaction to the discovery that her beloved relative turned out to be one of the most prolific serial killers in that world let alone a terrifying demonic werewolf. As we see in The Maid of Gévaudan (5x18), she reacted with outright condemnation, hunting him down over three years and destroying all trace of him with a damnatio memoriae, which in reality meant destroying her own past, too. We can assume that the Argent Code was written by her, including the part where any hunter who was Bit by a werewolf had to kill themselves. This is extreme behavior (even if valid) and it is echoed in the revulsion non-corrupted Argents like Chris and Allison had when discovering Kate's and Gerard's crimes. It was certainly less permissive than the Hale family's tendency to react to deaths caused by their family which ranged from outright condoning ("But still beautiful, just like the rest of you") to dismissive (after all, how many people did kooky Uncle Petey kill, including the guy he shoved alive into a burning barrel, and still have the keys to the family home?).

Considering that Sebastian became a demon wolf while he was serving in the French king's war with England across an entire ocean in their respective colonies, I don't think it's a stretch for Marie-Jeanne in establishing her code to steer her descendants away from military service. It might even have been a requirement.

Practical: While both the military and hunters use weapons, military service wouldn't seem to bear much resemblance to hunter training. It appears to me to be much closer to espionage or criminal work. Hunting werewolves requires training in specific weapons (bows, tasers, and poisons), technology (hypersonic emitters), and techniques (torture, infiltration, intimidation, and cleaning up evidence). In addition, the soldiers of the Argent family exhibit a level of discernment when it comes to tactics and targets that the military simply would not tolerate. Chris points as much out to Kate in Code Breaker (1x12):

Chris: No one asked you to murder innocent people. There were children in that house, ones who were human. Look what you're doing now. You're holding a gun on a 16-year-old boy with no proof he spilled human blood. 

Later on in Relics (6x04), Chris explains that he should have intervened when he saw how Gerard was training Kate. That implies to me that while Argent soldiers are supposed to follow the lead of the matriarch, they're also expected to do more than just follow orders. While civilization demands we hold individual military soldiers to answer for their conduct, I can tell you from personal experience that military training does not have a goal to instill a sense of individual agency.

Philosophical: In my encounters with real-life military people, it is my experience that they see themselves and the military as a whole as an immanent part of society itself. They enable civilization to exist; they uphold society's laws and mores as one of its pillars. I am sure that many people on this site would disagree with that assessment, but I'm talking about the perception within military culture itself. The military focus on being a vital part of their country, and when they err it is when they come to believe that they are the most important part and thus have a greater right to say how a country and a civilization will behave.

One of the things I've noticed about the Argents and the other hunting family feature, the Calaveras, is that they don't consider themselves part of the greater society. They see themselves as protecting it from monsters that the average person cannot comprehend, and while they certainly do infiltrate law enforcement and emergency services, they don't seek permanent authority over the mundane social institutions. This is one of the significant departures that marked Monroe as different from previous organized hunters, and one that made her more dangerous. Victoria, Araya, Chris and Allison (and when they weren't being selfishly corrupt, even Gerard and Kate) saw themselves as operating outside of it all as a necessity. They work with criminals like the yakuza; they hire mercenaries; and they understand that they will never be fully accepted.

Chris: We're gonna be pariahs in this town. Victoria: We can handle it.

Monroe, on the other hand, organized hunters to protect society, but she wanted to change society as well. She accused the werewolves not only of being monsters by virtue of their natures and by their acts, but by the power that privileged them ("No one should have this power"), and she accused people like Sheriff Stilinski of abetting that unfair advantage. (I will never forgive Teen Wolf for giving up on exploring that difference half-way through 6B.) Since Gerard was only interested in using Monroe, he didn't train to see herself the way he and his family saw themselves: protectors working from the outside.

All these things lead me to believe that the Argents wouldn't have military training, not even corrupt ones like Gerard or Victoria.