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windvexer · 4 months ago

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Crafts of the Witch Useful to Learn

Welcome to December 25th, here's some stuff about witchcraft to think about because you're on your phone looking for a distraction :)

So anyway here's stuff that's really useful to learn how to do before you actually need it because putting it all together for the first time on game day is stressful.

Creation and Desecration of a Poppet

A poppet is a deeply sympathetic representation of someone or something (usually another person).

According to the law of sympathy, whatever you do to the poppet will happen to the person it represents. You could cleanse and bless it, or smite it.

Poppets can be made in a wide variety of ways, from paper dolls, to clay figurines, to crocheted stuffies - anything you like. They also must be worked over magically to link them to their target.

The most ideal poppet is decorated to look very similar to the thing it represents, and is imbued with a taglock (such as hair, nail clippings, footprint dust, etc).

Learning Prompts:

The handicraft of creating the poppet - start with any arts and crafts you're interested in and see if they'll work for you

Practice making several poppets - you do not need to consecrate them. How easy is it for you to decorate it just like the real person? How easy is it for you to include taglocks?

Find a disposal plan. ""Voodoo dolls"" are steeped in public awareness; will it be safe for you to throw away the poppet in the trash when you're done with it?

Consecration or enlivening poppet as target. Find or develop a ritual to fill the poppet with magical life so that it becomes the target. Practice this once or twice (perhaps on a poppet of yourself, to cast blessings or prosperity magic on yourself)

Desecration or severing link. Find or develop a ritual to end the sympathetic link between the poppet and its target. Practice this once or twice.

Storage and tending of enlivened poppets. They are alive and they act like it. If you intend to have poppets sitting around for long-term spells or to use as-needed, you will need a system of storing them so that they "go to sleep" and remain undisturbed until you need them.

Consecration, In General

Here I mean "consecration" to be an act of magic which anoints an object as sacred unto a purpose, and therefore primed for magical use. In crude terms: you're making an object magical and giving it a purpose at the same time.

Consecration is a very useful thing to know how to do. In and of itself it can form a kind of minor enchantment (I consecrate this mug of oolong tea to be a potion of survival +1), but it can also prepare the way for powerful enchantments (I consecrate this ring to become a divine protector, ready to receive the powerful enchantment I soon cast upon it).

Learning Prompts:

Find or create a minor consecration spell which can be cast in under a minute. Strive to obtain one which is covert and can be done even in the presence of others. (Perhaps we could call this a 'cantrip'). Such a spell tends to be suitable for moving fate a few degrees over, or to dig a shallow pool in the tides of reality.

Find or create a hefty consecration spell. Consider what abilities or access you have that allows you to redefine the fate and purpose of an object. Contemplation of this spell can provide great insight into one's own belief and path. Such a spell may completely reorient fate, and carve new channels into the waterways of reality.

Practice minor consecrations on 5 different types of objects. Consecrating the tea, that's easy - stir it a few times. But how to consecrate a hairbrush? How to consecrate a mirror?

Practice major consecration twice, unto two very different domains. Perhaps a pepper oil of fiery smiting, and a crystal bracelet of deep soothing. This is an opportunity to compare and contrast the powers you raise when you work within different domains.

Desecration, In General; and Spell Reversal

To make profane; as in, to remove the magic from something and make it no more than a lump of physical matter, or a meaningless event like scattered dust on the winds of fate.

In my opinion, all witches should learn this - "don't raise up what you can't put down" also includes "don't enchant shit if you don't know how to undo enchantments."

To know how to nullify magic also means you can nullify unwanted and harmful things around you, and take the force and energy out of them.

Learning Prompts:

Find or create a minor desecration spell, one that you can cast on the fly and without tools or ingredients. Such a spell may be like a slapping a broom on a dusty rug; it will shake free things not tightly held.

Find or create a major desecration spell. Such a spell is like steam cleaning and shampooing a rug; it must remove every particle of magic and leave nothing behind but stripped fibers.

Practice minor desecrations 5 times in day-to-day life, targeting stank vibes and irritating situations that do not serve you.

Practice minor consecrations and desecrations 5 times by consecrating a stone, candle, etc., unto a magical purpose, and then removing the consecration.

Find an opportunity to cast a major desecration, which you may find the opportunity to do the next time the need for banishment comes up; or when sorting through old magical tools you no longer need, etc.

Find or create a solid spell reversal, one that you can use without having to have physical spell remnants on hand. Note that reverse to sender is not the same as nullifying your own magic.

Binding Divination Tools to Veracity, and Sundry Divination Management

Or if you like, binding veracity to divination tools. Binding is not baneful magic. Binding means to attach one thing to another thing, or to prevent something from being ways.

You can cast a binding on your divination tools to constrain them to only tell the truth, to truly peer beyond the veil, and only deliver what it can see; and never reflect your personal whims.

There's plenty of magic you can cast for your divinatory tools to make your life easier.

Prepare a binding spell to constrain a divination tool to only reflect the kind of truth you want. Do you want a tarot deck to only show your true state of mind? Do you want a set of runes to only read the will of the gods? Do you want your charm set to only read on the future, and not the past?

Find or create a protection spell to stop undue influence on a divination tool. This does not mean "evil spirits are manipulating your reading." Undue influence also means the strong emotions of querents, random psychic garbage, and the like; but it can also have an impact on the way you phrase questions and work with the tool itself.

Find or create a spell to enchant your tool as a magical seer/oracle. You can use a tarot deck out of the box, of course. You can also enchant it to be a magical object that obtains truth from mystical sources. Try it and see if you like the difference.

Find or create a charging ritual to revitalize your divination tools. This is a good opportunity to examine elemental energies; what kinds of energies are best suited to the purposes of divination and seeing beyond? The full moon is classically used for such purposes. Challenge yourself to recharge your divination tools once a month for 3 months, and see if you like the difference.

Blessing, In General

You have the power to generate and coalesce benevolent and helpful energies, and to distribute them into the world around you. You can bless anything you like, and perhaps the more the merrier; it's a very fine way to transform a space, and put love into the world.

Try considering blessings to have 2 parts; the first is to evoke a desirable force, and the second is to apply the force in a certain way: You could evoke the winter dawn as a blessing power, and then ask it to do something specific (provide a calm day, to make wise choices, to avoid bad traffic, etc).

Write your own minor blessing spell that you can perform in a minute or less. Try centering this blessing around a wonderful and benevolent force, whether it be a certain god, mushrooms, unconditional love, and so forth.

Write a separate minor blessing spell using a very different focus. Try the deep blue calming waters of the deep ocean, or the sprightly breezes of alpine hills, or the feeling of the first sip of a perfect bowl of soup; but make it have really different vibes from the first blessing.

Practice both minor blessings and see the difference. Challenge yourself to use each blessing cantrip 5 times. Try clustering the blessings to fill a space with that kind of energy (such as five items on desk blessed under the alpine breeze, and five items in the bathroom blessed under the deep ocean). Can you feel a difference in the spaces as you move in and out of them?

Write a major blessing using the various benevolent and lovely powers of your practice. This is another good opportunity to explore your practice. When you are in need of love, kindness, grace, and softness, what part of your path rises to meet your needs?

The Big Practice

Consecrate a poppet unto yourself. Bind and enchant a divination tool to be a powerful oracle of truth, and read on the most helpful equipment the poppet needs (RPG style: weapon, armor, familiar, potion?).

Whatever the answer, make a tiny container spell which serves the purpose. Consecrate it to be the tool that the poppet (you) needs.

Give the enchanted container spell to the poppet and cast a blessing on it, to be empowered with the new tool it has been granted in life.

Carefully store the poppet and its tool.

Periodically, perhaps between 1 to 6 times a year, recharge your divination tool and discern what new tools the poppet might need. Desecrate the old tool if you need to (or let them stack up), and consecrate new tools.

Keep the poppet and its tools for as long as you like, carefully severing the link between yourself and it when you're done with it.

#witchcraft #witchblr #spellcrafting #spells #consecration #desecration #blessing

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serpentface · 5 months ago

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Miniature dog and khait effigies for a Wardi funeral. These are clay figurines that have been painted and decorated with great care by a skilled artist. Both include real hairs from the individual animals they have been modeled after. The dog is collared, showing that it is a loyal pet rather than a lowly feral scrounger. The khait is fully bridled and ready to carry the deceased in their journey.

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It is believed that the souls of the deceased, once freed of their bodies, undergo a month-long journey to reach rebirth in the lunar lands. This journey is full of perils. It begins in the realm of the earth where the soul is naked and vulnerable and traveling through complete darkness. Evil spirits dwell within this realm and may try to capture the soul or lead them astray, and the way is twisting and obscured in shadows. Even after escaping this darkness, the soul still must travel an arduous and winding path through the realm of the sky in order to reach their destination.

A khait and a dog are traditionally offered as funerary goods (in addition to food, water, wine, clothing, weapons, and other needs) to assist the soul in their travels- the khait will ease their passage in their long journey and carry them swiftly, and the dog will navigate through earthly darkness and dense cloud by scent, and protect the soul from harm.

Ideally, one of the deceased's own living khait and hunting/guard dogs will be killed at the funeral (typically the most beloved of their animals, as who would be better company than that?) so that they can have familiar and loyal helpers in their lonely journey. However, there are tremendous class barriers to ownership and disposability of a khait, and well-bred working dogs (while significantly more accessible) aren't ubiquitously available, and many people do not consider captured feral dogs to be a worthy replacement. As such, funerals with full animal offerings tend to be limited to higher status individuals.

Everyday people still need protection on their journeys, and animal effigies can be appropriate replacements for the real thing. These effigies are usually designed with great specificity to represent known individual animals that have already died (often including the animal's actual hair, as seen here). The soul of the represented animal will recognize the effigy as its body, and can be called into the icon so that it may accompany the deceased. These effigies (along with any other necessary grave goods) will be placed onto the pyre and burned along with the body so that the traveling soul will be sent off with everything they need.

Some folk traditions have semi-legendary local animal spirits who will be represented instead of a personally familiar animal. This often develops around a small community 'sharing' one historically extant animal for their funeral effigies as a matter of practicality, developing a sense of attachment to this animal as an aspect of shared identity, and adding layers of legend to the animal's story with the passage of time.

For example, a very popular legendary guide in the northeastern rural parts of Ephennos is Chisnops-Inreña (which very closely translates to 'Orange Son Of A Bitch'), a legendary livestock guardian dog. The animal was said to have been the biggest, meanest, ugliest motherfucker around, but was an unshakably loyal and fierce guardian, as noble as a dog (not the noblest of animals by any means) can possibly be. He is said to have fought off everything from jackals to lions to cattle thieves in his day, and died protecting his herdsman master from an infamous man-eating king hyena, only succumbing to his own wounds when the great beast lay dead. His spirit was later used as a guide in his master's funeral, and local legend states that the same spirit has been seen following herdsmen and their cattle ever since, as not even death could keep him from his duties. Such a dog would make an excellent guide and protector in the journey to the afterlife, and effigies of him are favored in the funerals of northeastern Ephenni pastoralists.

A lovingly crafted Orange Son Of A Bitch

#Partly a rehash of prev post BUT WITH PICS!!!!!!!#chisnops more literally means 'bitch-born'. The word 'bitch' doesn't have the same breadth of connotations as in english #and pretty directly means 'female dog' but calling someone 'chisnops' is functionally Very close to 'son of a bitch'#Inrenna is a color word for orange. Most of the western Wardi dialects pronounce double N syllables like ñ (in- /rey/ - nya)#while others will enunciate like 'in- /reyn/- nah'. Spelled it inreña here to indicate Ephenni dialect

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obsessivevoidkitten · 2 years ago

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Between A Rock And A Hard Place

Male Yandere Human-like Golem x Gender Neutral Human Reader (CW: Noncon, huge dick, golem man, magic, fatal violence towards bandits, spit used as lube, general yandere behavior) Word Count: 1.8k (Sorry this took forever, was originally going to be a drabble and then kinda got away from me, hope you all enjoy huge dick golem man.)

The small town that you lived in, Somnheim, had been victim to a swathe of horrible luck. Raided by bandits, packs of beasts killing livestock, and enemy soldiers scavenging what they could. Finally the town had enough and sent for a practitioner of the magic arts to aid them in the defense of their village.

This was you.

They didn’t have much but they offered a home and food for your services. You figured you could help them and have a quiet place to conduct your research away from the prying eyes of the council, who liked to hold newer mages under their thumb. It would also just be something nice you could do for your fellow humans, and these folks clearly needed the help.

You didn’t want to stay in this place forever though, so your solution would have to be one that would last long after you were gone.

Given your expertise in summoning and animating the logical choice was a good, old fashioned, golem. A pentagram, some select incense, clay flesh molded to a slate skeleton and imbued with an amethyst heart carrying an artificial soul, some runes carved in, and a scroll inserted that would have him follow his purpose and give him personality.

Then just add in a spell that turned the humanoid clay man into something more human so as not to frighten the villagers too badly and make him able to experience a near human existence.

The ritual was a complete success. Of course it was. You were you after all, young but talented and more importantly utterly dedicated to your craft.

Somnheim now had a mighty protector. An artificial man over 9 feet tall, with huge bulging muscles, shaggy brown hair, stoic brown eyes that gave nothing away, and glowing green runes on his arms and legs. The spell that made him human-like was more than just visual, it gave him nearly all the functions of a human male, he’d be as durable and strong as the hardest metal, never age, and of course he was certainly infertile.

Not one for creative names, you named him Slate.

Eventually bandits came by and decided they would stock up in Somnheim before going on to bigger and better loot.

They did not live to regret that decision.

Slate simply rolled a massive boulder down the hill they approached from and flattened all but a couple. Those he took care of quickly with magically precise throws of average sized stones.

Over the months any threat he couldn’t flatten with a boulder or smack with a stone he would pop open with his mighty fists.

By the end of his first year as the village’s guardian he was beloved by every single townsperson. Even the tiny children, who would climb on him and put flowers in his shaggy hair as he smiled and watched, had no fear of him.

You had enjoyed your time there, but eventually it was time for a change of scenery. You wanted to do more field research and you had saved enough money up with side projects to be able to fund a trip to the other side of the country near The Great Forest.

The villagers were grateful and sad to see you go, but they were much more interested in Slate than you.

But when you packed your bags to leave behind your wattle and daub dwelling once and for all you found yourself blocked by Slate.

He uttered one word in that deep, almost monotone, voice of his.

“No.”

“What do you mean no? I have to leave.” You tried to squeeze past him but he was not having it.

“I must protect the village… Your presence here makes the village safer… I might need repairs… or reinforcements… And you also tasked me with keeping you safe…”

You fudged the wording. You, breather of life into stone, weaver of clay, and creator of souls, messed up the wording.

He picked you up like a box of luggage and sat you on a chair in your makeshift study before going over to the heaviest bookshelf, picking it up, and placing it in front of the only door so you couldn’t escape.

“I’ll move it when I need to leave… then I will put a rock outside to keep you here…”

And that became your life. A literal prisoner in your own home.

Your magical abilities were useless in this situation, you were not a battlemage that could explode a wall, you couldn’t teleport, you bent earth.

Of course you tried to tunnel your way out by making a hole under your bed, but Slate had walked in and caught you red handed. He had confiscated and locked away all your magical supplies and texts unless you needed them to repair him you were not getting them back.

Slate was tentative enough of your physical needs, bringing you food and water and taking you outside like some sort of pet for sunlight, fresh air, and exercise. You had tried to run away but of course he had inhuman speed. And the villagers refused to help. What if Slate refused to save them if they did that?

It was a fair concern, he was made to protect the village and not villagers, he may even see them as a threat if they assisted you. You were on your own.

Though you were healthy enough physically your mental condition was deteriorating rapidly. How could you not be? Being trapped in the same building, even with trips outside, was awful. The villagers only looked at you with pity if they looked at you at all, and no one would even talk to you anymore.

It got to the point where you barely eat, refused to go outside, and spent all your time laying in bed.

Slate was failing the magical directives that governed his personality and behavior. You were clearly not safe, he was convinced that you would die if this continued, and honestly you likely would… eventually…

But the golem was not incapable of learning. He observed the other humans to find out what he could add to your life to bring you back to your usual self.

One night, when he was sitting in front of the house watching the humans passing by and holding hands, he came to the conclusion that humans had families, they lived together in their dwellings and they loved each other. They coupled together and mated.

Up until this point Slate had only been directed by simple emotion and the unyielding parchment that had imbued him with his goals. But now his task demanded something more of him, it demanded a much more complex emotion. The magic in him allowed this evolution, and now he was much more dangerous because he loved you. But it wasn’t just love he felt for the first time, it was lust.

Slate’s expression became one of someone thinking about the one who they adored infinitely, an expression of a man thinking about the person he wanted to have writhing in pleasure beneath him, even his normally green runes and brown eyes took on an amorous pink glow.

When you heard the boulder blocking the door shift and then heard the bookshelf take its place as what was blocking your way out as Slate came lumbering in with his heavy steps you didn’t even glance up.

Not until he stood in front of you and you noticed his strange pink glow replacing his green one did you stir.

You sat up in bed and when you saw the strange way his normally near emotionless eyes were staring at you, and glowing, you scooted away.

“I know what you need now! I am so sorry for not realizing sooner…” He said in a surprisingly soothing tone, a stark departure from his normally deep monotone.

“What do yo-”

Your words were forgotten as he took off his shirt and pants revealing a sweaty body and a frighteningly large cock.

“You need a partner to be happy, like the other humans, and you need to mate!”

He sounded very eager.

“No! Uh… I don’t need to… mate. I need to lea-” he put a large finger over your lips and shushed you before gripping your pants and peeling them and your underwear away from you carefully.

There was no dissuading him from his chosen course of action, he would make you happy and keep you safe no matter what!

It’s what you needed.

Slate leaned forward and spit all over your hole, thoroughly lubing it with his spit, before pressing his big cock into your hole.

It was so large that you let out a whimper of pain at first, but he was somehow knowledgeable enough about sex to know he needed to let you adjust to the size rather than just ramming himself in.

You gasped and writhed but he held you still with his massive hands running up and down your sides as he slowly pulled you down on his prick.

Slate was in complete heaven, he had never really known much pleasure of any kind, let alone the type that came with burying his cock in someone he was now completely obsessed with.

He had no idea his dick could be used for this at all, but now that he did he would certainly be doing this everyday, maybe even a couple times a day! The perfect blend of heat and softness was amazing.

As he began to thrust slowly, with a blissed out expression as he stared up at nothing with drool coming out of his mouth, you couldn’t help but moan in pleasure as his cock caressed your depths perfectly.

Hearing your breathy moans snapped him back to reality. You were finally happy again~

The treatment was working! That settled it, he would do this every single day no matter what!

Carefully gripping your sides a bit more firmly he moved your entire body back and forth on his cock. You couldn’t help it, your whole body twitched with the force of a massive orgasm. The sensation of your body spasming around his previously virgin dick caused him to slam in deep and cum hard.

He pulled you close, holding your head into his muscular chest as he panted, his dick still firmly impaling your limp body. You hadn’t been eating much and this serious fucking had taken a lot out of you.

Slate cleaned the two of you up, bathing you gently before taking advantage of your compliant state by spoon feeding you some dinner he had brought from a town person.

Mating with you made you so pleasured and too tired to resist him when he took care of you, he almost couldn’t wait until you had enough energy to do it again, his cock strained in his pants with anticipation.

#yandere teratophilia #yandere monster #monster boyfriend #gender neutral reader #yandere boyfriend #male yandere x gn reader #yandere terato #my ocs #yandere x reader #male yandere #My OC Slate

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comatosebunny09 · 8 days ago

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@leighsartworks216

You, so unused to affection, the barest gesture of tenderness from Sylus makes you flinch.

You’ve spent years using your body to survive. To lure in your prey to be wiped out—businessmen who were the scourge of the underworld, cheery shop owners who were secretly serial killers, corrupt politicians, vengeful CEOs, and so on.

Most of them had one thing in common: they loved to be in control. Loved to make people cower beneath their feet. In flexing that control, they always wanted to choke you.

You’d often leave your missions with splotches of purple, green, and blue forming on your neck where their gnarled fingers had been. You’d derive more pleasure from strangling them to death with a garrote in the way they liked to suffocate you.

It’s been years since you gave up that life. You no longer have to kill to survive. No longer have to hide and change your name, your hair, your habits, or flee from city to city. Sylus provides the security you’ve sought for so long. The safety. The promise of waking up the following day unscathed.

You still have nights where you awaken in a cold sweat, gasping for air, rubbing your neck as if to ensure it’s still intact. That only your fingers reside over the scarred skin, and no one else’s.

You and Sylus are pretty close. He’s your employer—your protector, a pillar of strength. But how he looks at you spans far beyond that of a mere boss and his subordinate. The way he touches you like something to be revered. How his voice drops into something teasing and affectionate when it’s just the two of you in his office, car, mansion, club—wherever the moment allows.

Sometimes, your fingers will brush when you’re walking side by side. Your thighs will touch if you sit a little too close. He’ll raise a hand as if to caress your cheek, fingers twitching with a burning need to touch. But he’ll always retract it before he gives in to the impulse. Something gnawing at his conscience, telling him to stop.

But one day, he gives in.

You’re leaning over the second-floor railing at a venue, nursing a flute of champagne as revelers chatter and laugh below. Your hair is pinned up. Your gown boasts the shape of your body, the cowl devastatingly plunging in the back to reveal the notches of your spine, your soft nape. You’re so beautiful—something painted by Rembrandt himself.

A smile crooks Sylus’ lips. He pads up behind you, palm coasting up warm skin. You shiver, casting a glance over your shoulder. Your lips pull upwards, eyes alight with a muted fondness. You’re clay in warmed palms until his fingers slip around your neck.

He doesn’t intend to hurt you. In fact, he’s so gentle, so cautious, so reverent, it borders pain. You’re still, gritting your teeth. Petrified like an animal when he eases in to brush his lips along the outskirts of your ear. His scent—warm musk, cologne, raw energy—would normally bring you comfort. Would typically uncoil the knot in your gut. His voice. His breath.

But tonight, it makes you feel sick, swallowing you up like a tidal wave. You try to brush off the rush of memories playing in your mind like torn film reels. His thumb swipes along the delicate hairs at your nape as he rasps,

“You look ravishing tonight.”

You want to enjoy this—his proximity, his touch, his attempt to break the wall of tension that’s been erected between you for the past few years. But your throat thickens, and your heart hurls itself against your ribcage, begging to be set free. You clench your eyes shut against the throb in your temples, grip the rail until your knuckles pale.

You can’t take it. You can’t breathe. You can’t—

The champagne flute slips from your fingers, shattering on the floor. You use Sylus’ temporarily stunned demeanor as your chance to slip away, gathering up the tail of your dress to make your escape. You mutter an apology, your eyes throbbing with the threat of tears. He calls after you, his voice echoing off the venue’s hallway walls as you trudge through them to find the bathroom.

Your heart is still racing. You’re fighting to get your breath under control. Phosphenes dance behind your lids. You’re gripping your dress so harshly that you could rip it.

Sylus would never hurt you. He’s spent too much time garnering your trust to betray you. But his tenderness doesn’t outweigh the years’ worth of trauma still branded in your neck.

#sylus x non mc reader #sylus x reader #sylus x you #tw: choking #tw: violence #tw: death #tw: trauma

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22ayla21 · 17 days ago

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hellooo!! How are you doing!! I hope you are doing well and are hydrated🥰. I wanted to request, the amphoreus trio with a wife who is actually really strong in secret, maybe even knows how to fight. Like imagine her pretending to be really fragile and petite asking help but suddenly one dag she gets caught red handed lifting a heavy vase and putting it somewhere. And the men feel so betrayed🤣

I hope you have time to write my request! Stay well and happy<33

Deceptive Appearance

He always knew she was his fragile and delicate wife, but it turns out that wasn't the case.

Mydei always knew his wife was a delicate creature.

She seemed so fragile, so defenseless. When he was around, she let him take care of her: carrying heavy things for her, protecting her from trouble, shielding her from any difficulties. He felt like her shield, her support, her protector.

And he liked it.

So, the day he saw her carrying a heavy vase, his whole world cracked a little.

He was passing by the main hall when he heard a thud. Quick steps, the movement of air—and the sound of a heavy object being carefully placed on the stone floor.

He stopped. Turned around. And saw her.

She stood before a massive vase she had just placed on a pedestal. The vase was huge, decorated with gold patterns, and clearly impossible to lift. Even he would have found it difficult to move. But she handled it as easily as if it were an empty jug.

She wiped her palms on her dress and, with a satisfied smile, stepped back to admire the result.

Mydei stared at her, feeling something inside him… collapse.

"You…" his voice was quiet, almost disbelieving. She turned around.

"Oh, Mydei! You're back already?"

He looked at her, then at the vase.

"You… lifted that yourself?"

She blinked.

"Well, yeah. Why?"

He opened his mouth but couldn't find anything to say. It didn't make sense. All these years he had carried heavy things for her, helped her, thinking she was weak.

But she… She just let him think that.

"So, you could lift heavy things all this time?"

She looked away, embarrassed.

"Well… yes."

"And just pretended to be fragile?"

She shrugged.

"I liked it when you took care of me."

Mydei didn't know what to feel. Betrayal? Confusion? Or… Or admiration?

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

"I thought you needed me," he said quietly. She stepped closer, placed a hand on his chest, and smiled.

"I always need you, Mydei. Just not to carry vases."

He looked into her eyes. There was no lie in them. He sighed.

"You're a cunning woman."

She laughed.

"Don't you love me just like that?"

He rolled his eyes but smirked. Yes, that's exactly why he loved her.

Anaxa always thought his wife was the embodiment of tenderness and fragility. He was used to being her protector, a strong shoulder she could always lean on. When she asked him to help lift something heavy, he didn't even think twice. It was natural. He carried, she thanked him with a warm smile—everything as usual.

But one day he saw something that made him wonder if he had been, to put it mildly, deceived.

He entered the living room, expecting to see his wife peacefully arranging flowers in a vase, waiting for his help with something heavy. But instead, he froze in place, watching her effortlessly lift a massive stone vase, which he himself usually put in place with some strain. Lightly, almost casually, she moved it as if it were an ordinary clay pot.

He blinked.

She wiped her hands on her dress, clearly satisfied with her work, and didn't even notice his expression.

"You… could always do that yourself?" he said slowly, looking at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. She turned to him, raising an eyebrow.

"Well… yes?" she replied casually, as if it were an obvious fact.

His gaze darted to the vase, then back to her. Something unpleasant stung inside him. All these years he had carried heavy things for her, protected her, and she all this time… just let him think she was defenseless?

"So… you were pretending?" his voice was dangerously calm. She smiled, but more slyly.

"You like it, don't you? You love taking care of me. And I love it when you take care of me. So what's the problem?"

Anaxa was silent, staring at her intently. She knew he wasn't one to be easily fooled. But she wasn't one to reveal all her cards at once either.

"So, you just took advantage of my generosity, right?" He crossed his arms, still processing the truth he had just discovered.

She took a step closer, touched his hand, and said softly, smiling:

"Didn't take advantage. Just enjoyed you taking care of me. It's nice, isn't it?"

He looked at her, trying to decide whether he should feel betrayed or amazed by her cunning. Then he sighed.

"You're the most cunning creature I've ever encountered."

She laughed and hugged him.

"But you'll still help me, right?"

He shook his head, smirking.

"I'll think about it. Although, maybe now I'll ask you to carry things for me."

She chuckled cheerfully.

"Oh, I'd be happy to."

Phainon always saw tenderness in her. She was his jewel, his fragile goddess, requiring protection and care. It didn't mean he thought she was weak—not at all. She was smart, resourceful, and had a will capable of breaking even the most stubborn. But physically… she always seemed delicate, even a little defenseless.

He carried heavy bags for her, opened doors, helped move furniture. Not because she asked, but because he couldn't allow her to trouble herself. She accepted it with a light smile and gratitude, and he enjoyed being able to do something useful for her.

But today his world turned upside down.

Phainon entered the room just as she effortlessly lifted a huge stone vase—the same one he himself barely managed to handle. With a light movement, she placed it in place, as if it were a light decorative stand, not a massive piece of stone.

He froze.

"What… did you just do?" his voice sounded slow, with a dangerous note. She turned and blinked in surprise.

"Put the vase where it belongs?"

Phainon stared at her silently. He couldn't even find anything to say right away. His wife—the one he had helped carry even small bundles for years, whom he had protected from physical labor, carried over puddles and stairs… had just lifted a VASE that he himself had barely managed to move a couple of months ago.

"You… you were deceiving me?!" he finally exhaled, his eyes wide. She raised her eyebrows slightly, clearly amused by his reaction.

"No, I just liked you taking care of me."

Phainon sat down on the nearest chair, stunned, holding his head. His whole reality had cracked.

"You could handle it yourself all this time?"

She shrugged.

"Well… yes."

Phainon felt betrayed.

His beloved, gentle, fragile wife… had been teasing him all this time, letting him carry things for her, open heavy doors for her, take out grocery baskets, even though she could do it herself.

"I… I don't know what to do with this…" he muttered. She approached him and ran her fingers through his hair, leaning down to kiss his forehead softly.

"Just keep being my knight. I still like you taking care of me."

Phainon looked at her suspiciously.

"You didn't lift anything heavy just to make me feel like a hero, did you?"

She smiled mysteriously and said nothing. Phainon tiredly covered his face with his hands.

"You're a terrible woman…"

And she just laughed quietly, hugging his shoulders.

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr #mydei x reader #hsr mydei #mydei #mydeimos #anaxa #honkai star rail anaxa #hsr anaxa #anaxagoras #anaxa x reader #hsr phainon #phainon #phainon x reader

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scealaiscoite · 7 months ago

Text

.☽༊˚ three hundred one-word prompts

¹⁾ balcony

²⁾ sunlight

³⁾ voicemail

⁴⁾ hillside

⁵⁾ tent

⁶⁾ lavender

⁷⁾ candle

⁸⁾ hipbone

⁹⁾ bandaid

¹⁰⁾ wrinkle

¹¹⁾ scar

¹²⁾ curtains

¹³⁾ armory

¹⁴⁾ shell

¹⁵⁾ bouquet

¹⁶⁾ necklace

¹⁷⁾ shotgun

¹⁸⁾ apricot

¹⁹⁾ cheek

²⁰⁾ floorboards

²¹⁾ jacket

²²⁾ bruise

²³⁾ flight

²⁴⁾ streetlight

²⁵⁾ carafe

²⁶⁾ lipstick

²⁷⁾ scars

²⁸⁾ poolside

²⁹⁾ cockpit

³⁰⁾ petals

³¹⁾ mirror

³²⁾ lawyer

³³⁾ cloudy

³⁴⁾ butcher

³⁶⁾ bleach

³⁷⁾ sawdust

³⁸⁾ crib

³⁹⁾ ribbon

⁴⁰⁾ wallet

⁴¹⁾ pearls

⁴²⁾ steam

⁴³⁾ chain

⁴⁴⁾ deckhand

⁴⁵⁾ whiskey

⁴⁶⁾ frost

⁴⁷⁾ lace

⁴⁸⁾ camping

⁴⁹⁾ bakery

⁵⁰⁾ traitor

⁵¹⁾ cherries

⁵²⁾ lightning

⁵³⁾ hide

⁵⁴⁾ tattoo

⁵⁵⁾ bonfire

⁵⁶⁾ reverse

⁵⁷⁾ passenger

⁵⁸⁾ speedboat

⁵⁹⁾ bare

⁶⁰⁾ concrete

⁶¹⁾ lieutenant

⁶²⁾ chili

⁶³⁾ tiptoe

⁶⁴⁾ office

⁶⁵⁾ skull

⁶⁶⁾ bikini

⁶⁷⁾ cabinet

⁶⁸⁾ lumber

⁶⁹⁾ laboratory

⁷⁰⁾ paint

⁷¹⁾ arch

⁷²⁾ bitter

⁷³⁾ staircase

⁷⁴⁾ priority

⁷⁵⁾ cell

⁷⁶⁾ subordinate

⁷⁷⁾ tapes

⁷⁸⁾ mangoss

⁷⁹⁾ bralette

⁸⁰⁾ whiplash

⁸¹⁾ syringe

⁸²⁾ cinnamon

⁸³⁾ tequila

⁸⁴⁾ garden

⁸⁵⁾ cigarette

⁸⁶⁾ sofa

⁸⁷⁾ rain

⁸⁸⁾ teammate

⁸⁹⁾ oleander

⁹⁰⁾ boss

⁹¹⁾ pillar

⁹²⁾ amethyst

⁹³⁾ footpath

⁹⁴⁾ driver

⁹⁵⁾ massage

⁹⁶⁾ stitches

⁹⁷⁾ jeans

⁹⁸⁾ brand

⁹⁹⁾ blackout

¹⁰⁰⁾ sunglasses

¹⁰¹⁾ lunar

¹⁰²⁾ velvet

¹⁰³⁾ captain

¹⁰⁴⁾ afternoon

¹⁰⁵⁾ ivy

¹⁰⁶⁾ salty

¹⁰⁷⁾ portrait

¹⁰⁸⁾ strawberries

¹⁰⁹⁾ torn

¹¹⁰⁾ cocktails

¹¹¹⁾ roommate

¹¹²⁾ bridge

¹¹³⁾ table

¹¹⁴⁾ hotel

¹¹⁵⁾ jasmine

¹¹⁶⁾ armchair

¹¹⁷⁾ satin

¹¹⁸⁾ bedsheet

¹¹⁹⁾ hedgerow

¹²⁰⁾ thigh

¹²¹⁾ cliff

¹²²⁾ gravel

¹²³⁾ apartment

¹²⁴⁾ keycard

¹²⁵⁾ coffee

¹²⁶⁾ babysitter

¹²⁷⁾ fire

¹²⁸⁾ chalk

¹²⁹⁾ hurricane

¹³⁰⁾ crickets

¹³¹⁾ amber

¹³²⁾ sherriff

¹³³⁾ lamplight

¹³⁴⁾ flag

¹³⁵⁾ airport

¹³⁶⁾ gasoline

¹³⁷⁾ cherub

¹³⁸⁾ clementine

¹³⁹⁾ scalpel

¹⁴⁰⁾ motel

¹⁴¹⁾ parish

¹⁴²⁾ lighter

¹⁴³⁾ highrise

¹⁴⁴⁾ crowbar

¹⁴⁵⁾ sundress

¹⁴⁶⁾ newspaper

¹⁴⁷⁾ screws

¹⁴⁸⁾ uniform

¹⁴⁹⁾ gold

¹⁵⁰⁾ buckshots

¹⁵¹⁾ coast

¹⁵²⁾ handcuffs

¹⁵³⁾ gunpowder

¹⁵⁴⁾ badge

¹⁵⁵⁾ orchids

¹⁵⁶⁾ chef

¹⁵⁷⁾ levee

¹⁵⁸⁾ tea

¹⁵⁹⁾ helicopter

¹⁶⁰⁾ cemetery

¹⁶¹⁾ ice

¹⁶²⁾ heirloom

¹⁶³⁾ tarpaulin

¹⁶⁴⁾ rural

¹⁶⁵⁾ sergeant

¹⁶⁶⁾ tsunami

¹⁶⁷⁾ lemon

¹⁶⁸⁾ debt

¹⁶⁹⁾ skyscraper

¹⁷⁰⁾ caramel

¹⁷¹⁾ hottub

¹⁷²⁾ rum

¹⁷³⁾ pet

¹⁷⁴⁾ tradition

¹⁷⁵⁾ perfume

¹⁷⁶⁾ bracelet

¹⁷⁷⁾ secretary

¹⁷⁸⁾ degree

¹⁷⁹⁾ braids

¹⁸⁰⁾ prescription

¹⁸¹⁾ invitation

¹⁸²⁾ cocoa

¹⁸³⁾ ransom

¹⁸⁴⁾ boxers

¹⁸⁵⁾ theatre

¹⁸⁶⁾ mascara

¹⁸⁷⁾ sand

¹⁸⁸⁾ collar

¹⁸⁹⁾ shoulder

¹⁹⁰⁾ lipgloss

¹⁹¹⁾ membership

¹⁹²⁾ heatwave

¹⁹³⁾ disco

¹⁹⁴⁾ cabin

¹⁹⁵⁾ popcorn

¹⁹⁶⁾ altar

¹⁹⁷⁾ radio

¹⁹⁸⁾ bayou

¹⁹⁹⁾ bodyguard

²⁰⁰⁾ glitter

²⁰¹⁾ mustache

²⁰²⁾ protector

²⁰³⁾ contacts

²⁰⁴⁾ bullets

²⁰⁵⁾ groceries

²⁰⁶⁾ raspberry

²⁰⁷⁾ microphone

²⁰⁸⁾ coconut

²⁰⁹⁾ villain

²¹⁰⁾ earlobe

²¹¹⁾ purse

²¹²⁾ flood

²¹³⁾ shot

²¹⁴⁾ windbreaker

²¹⁵⁾ granite

²¹⁶⁾ highway

²¹⁷⁾ eggshells

²¹⁸⁾ hoarse

²¹⁹⁾ chocolates

²²⁰⁾ trembling

²²¹⁾ buttercream

²²²⁾ rings

²²³⁾ holster

²²⁴⁾ briefcase

²²⁵⁾ wrist

²²⁶⁾ piercings

²²⁷⁾ cowboy

²²⁸⁾ ashes

²²⁹⁾ ankle

²³⁰⁾ neroli

²³¹⁾ orchard

²³²⁾ tires

²³³⁾ salmon

²³⁴⁾ peaches

²³⁵⁾ rooftop

²³⁶⁾ toast

²³⁷⁾ gala

²³⁸⁾ sage

²³⁹⁾ graduation

²⁴⁰⁾ reporter

²⁴¹⁾ belt

²⁴²⁾ antidote

²⁴³⁾ ship

²⁴⁴⁾ officer

²⁴⁵⁾ wine

²⁴⁶⁾ corridor

²⁴⁷⁾ cold

²⁴⁸⁾ hangover

²⁴⁹⁾ fingertip

²⁵⁰⁾ vintage

²⁵¹⁾ cupcake

²⁵²⁾ saviour

²⁵³⁾ gentleman

²⁵⁴⁾ loan

²⁵⁵⁾ hostage

²⁵⁶⁾ evergreen

²⁵⁷⁾ denial

²⁵⁸⁾ housewife

²⁵⁹⁾ riverbank

²⁶⁰⁾ marshmallows

²⁶¹⁾ books

²⁶²⁾ hockey

²⁶³⁾ lizard

²⁶⁴⁾ silver

²⁶⁵⁾ dinner

²⁶⁶⁾ pear

²⁶⁷⁾ bound

²⁶⁸⁾ waiter

²⁶⁹⁾ tender

²⁷⁰⁾ fallen

²⁷¹⁾ banquet

²⁷²⁾ announcement

²⁷³⁾ roast

²⁷⁴⁾ sneer

²⁷⁵⁾ exes

²⁷⁶⁾ stovetop

²⁷⁷⁾ brass

²⁷⁸⁾ clay

²⁷⁹⁾ valet

²⁸⁰⁾ schoolbus

²⁸¹⁾ exhausted

²⁸²⁾ field

²⁸³⁾ hoodie

²⁸⁴⁾ sugar

²⁸⁵⁾ palmtree

²⁸⁶⁾ burnt

²⁸⁷⁾ diner

²⁸⁸⁾ snake

²⁸⁹⁾ fever

²⁹⁰⁾ domestic

²⁹¹⁾ plaid

²⁹²⁾ wreck

²⁹³⁾ courtyard

²⁹⁴⁾ dozen

²⁹⁵⁾ earphones

²⁹⁶⁾ blueberry

²⁹⁷⁾ anklet

²⁹⁸⁾ shower

²⁹⁹⁾ venom

³⁰⁰⁾ lover

#for those of you who also need to find one singular Perfect word to get you to start writing. ily we are cursed to be like this 😔#prompts #one word prompts #one word prompt list #prompt list #writing prompts #writing exercise #rp meme #otp prompts #soft prompts #imagine your otp #otp writing #aesthetic prompts #word prompts

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causeimhappinesss · 28 days ago

Text

Rome's Devotion (final part)

Warnings: Emperors Geta & Caracalla are warnings themselves, (slight?) blasphemy, slight non-con/dub-con, misogyny (Ancient Rome, so…)

Pairing: Geta x Christian!reader x Caracalla

Words: 6,6k

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m French), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

Masterlist

Important author's notes to read at the end 🙏

Weeks later

The temple is hushed, but the silence hums with tension. Dozens of torches flicker against the towering marble columns, their golden light reflecting off the polished floor. The scent of incense coils thick in the air, frankincense with myrrh, clinging to my skin as it mixes with the heavy perfume of crushed bay leaves and burnt offerings. Statues of the gods rise above us, their carved expressions unreadable, their eternal gaze fixed upon the ceremony unfolding beneath them.

I stand beside Geta, my hands folded in front of me, the flammeum, my orange veil, cast a soft glow over my vision. My wedding tunic, woven in pure white, is cinched at the waist with the nodus Herculaneus, the knot of Hercules. Only Geta will be allowed to untie it. My heart pounds beneath the silk, but my face remains still. The empire is watching. The gods are watching.

A priest in deep purple robes steps forward, his weathered hands lifting a golden vessel filled with consecrated water. He dips a laurel branch inside and flicks droplets over us. Cool beads strike my skin, sliding down my wrist.

“Purified in the sight of the gods.” He intones, his voice echoing against the vast temple walls.

The first sacrifice is for Jupiter Optimus Maximus, guardian of Rome, keeper of fate, ruler of all. A white bull, its muscles rippling beneath a flawless hide, is led forward. Its horns are gilded, its eyes calm. A priest circles the beast, whispering sacred words, his fingers trailing over its flank. This is an omen in itself, should the bull shudder, should it falter, the gods might withdraw their favor. But the creature stands still, as if it knows its purpose.

The victimarius, the sacred butcher, steps in, raising his knife. The crowd holds its breath.

The blade sinks deep. The bull exhales sharply, legs trembling, before it collapses. Blood spills onto the marble, a crimson river pooling at our feet. The sacrificer kneels, tracing his fingers through the warm liquid, watching how it flows, how it spreads. Then he nods.

“The signs are good.” The high priest declares. “Jupiter blesses this union. May your bond be as strong as Rome itself.”

The next offering is for Juno Regina, goddess of marriage, protector of wives. A white dove flutters in the priest’s hands, its tiny chest rising and falling in quick, panicked bursts. Juno demands purity, devotion. The priest murmurs his prayer, then tilts the bird’s delicate head. With one swift movement, he cuts its throat. A single drop of blood falls onto the altar before the dove’s body stills. The haruspex, the augur who reads omens in the flesh of the sacrificed, steps forward. He carefully opens the bird, sifting through the soft entrails, searching for divine messages hidden within its tiny form.

A moment of silence. Then a slow, satisfied nod.

“Juno smiles upon the bride.” The augur announces. “She shall be blessed with harmony, strength, and sons to continue the imperial line.”

Sons. The senators nod approvingly. Rome needs heirs.

The final offering is for Vesta Mater, guardian of the hearth, protector of home and family. A small clay dish is brought forth, filled with wheat and barley, symbols of prosperity. A priest lifts a flask of honeyed wine, tilting it carefully over the altar. The golden liquid drips into the flames, hissing as it evaporates into fragrant steam. A handful of grains are scattered into the fire. They crackle as they burn.

“For Vesta, who keeps the sacred fire alight. May your household be strong, your love enduring, your home a place of peace.” The priest calls out, with a deep voice.

The rituals are complete. The omens must now be read.

The augur steps forward. An old man, his face lined with age and wisdom, draped in a heavy woolen cloak. He carries a staff of sacred oak, its smooth surface polished from decades of use. Silence falls as he kneels beside the altar, his keen eyes tracing the blood patterns, the scattered ashes, the way the smoke curls toward the vaulted ceiling.

The man reaches for the dove’s bones, lifting them carefully, tilting them in his palm. He breathes deeply, his fingers brushing over the delicate remains. The tension in the temple is suffocating. Even the senators lean forward, their polished togas shifting against the marble.

Then, the augur speaks.

“The omens are strong.” His voice is steady, unwavering. “The gods favor this union.”

A collective breath is released. The tension dissolves into murmurs of approval. The priests step back, their sacred duties fulfilled.

I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of expectation settle over me.

Rome has spoken.

The gods have spoken.

Geta turns to face me, and the dextrarum iunctio begins. The emperor reaches for my hand, his fingers warm as they fold over mine. The gesture is simple, but in it, a world of meaning. The joining of hands. The union of two souls, witnessed by gods and men alike.

“Rome has a new empress!” He declared with a proud smile.

The ceremony continues in a blur of faces and ritual. I keep my gaze steady, my breath even, as Geta stands beside me, his hand clasped around mine. The crowd seems to fade, the only sounds filling my ears the murmurs of the priest and the faint rustle of the toga of the man standing to my right. I can feel the weight of it all, the expectations, the promises that come with such an event, but I push it down, focusing on Geta’s steady presence.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Caracalla. His form is standing near the back, eyes fixed on the altar, but I can feel his gaze tugging at me. I know what he’s thinking. I can see it in the flush of his face, the way his jaw tightens, the way he grips the edge of his cloak as though he might step forward at any moment. The hurt is there, hidden beneath the surface, masked by the weight of his brother’s presence beside me.

He wishes it were him, I think. He wishes he had married me.

I almost turn to him, to offer some kind of comfort, but I know better. The last few weeks have been a delicate balance. Relations between him and Geta have eased, but not completely. There are moments of tension, of old grudges surfacing, but it’s been smoother than I’d imagined. Somehow, it’s as though they are listening to me, more than they ever did before. I’ve tried to be the calm between the storms, the peace offering that keeps them from each other’s throats.

Caracalla doesn’t realize how much his mood shifts when I’m near. Several times, he’s come to me in tears, eyes wide with desperation, confessing how much he wants me, how much he regrets not marrying me. He says I’m the one who can fix everything, who can make it all better. But each time, I’ve been able to push those thoughts from his clouded mind, soothing him like I would a child.

He listens to me. I know he does, even if it’s not always the way I want him to. It’s just… Not enough. Not for me. Not for what he wants.

The priest finishes his chant, and I turn back to Geta, my hand in his. His smile turns out to be soft, warm, and it fills me with a strange sense of calm that I didn’t think I’d feel today. He leans in just slightly, his breath warm against my ear, and his voice is barely a whisper.

“Let’s make this right, carissima.” He whispers, his hand tightening around mine.

I nod, knowing full well the weight of his words. Right. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours. I smile back at him and straighten, ready to face whatever comes next. The final part of the ceremony is a blur, more prayers, more gestures of commitment, while I mentally pray my own God. It feels like the world is holding its breath. When the priest announces that we are now bound, my pulse quickens in my throat.

The guests shift restlessly in their seats, waiting for the banquet, for the celebration to follow. But I’m still standing at the altar with Geta. I don’t know what the future holds, but right now, in this moment, it feels like the right thing to do.

The guests begin to rise, and the sounds of congratulations fill the air. Caracalla doesn’t come forward, though. He remains in the shadows, his hands clenched at his sides, watching us. I catch his eye again, and I know he’s struggling to keep his composure, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. I look away quickly, not wanting to see the turmoil in his eyes. I focus on Geta, on the warmth of his hand in mine, on the promises we’ve just made. We walk together, our movements synchronized, toward the banquet hall.

The guests cheer. A procession of servants begins bringing in dishes of fruit and roasted meats, bowls of honeyed wine, and baskets of bread. The banquet is lavish, as expected, and the laughter of senators and priests fills the air. Geta and I sit at the head of the table, surrounded by the most powerful men in Rome, but there’s a strange emptiness in the air, something I can’t quite place.

As the evening stretches on, I notice Caracalla lingering by the side of the room, eyes still on me. He doesn’t approach, doesn’t make any moves, but I can feel the weight of his gaze like a pressure against my skin. He’s lost in thought, his face tight with frustration. I don’t know how much longer he’ll be able to stand it.

I can only hope he can see, in time, that his place in my heart was never meant to be. Not like this.

But for now, I keep my smile in place and my hand in Geta’s, and the feast continues.

The banquet hall is full of noise, the clinking of silver, the whispers of conversation, the low hum of laughter. The tables are laden with food, the air rich with the scent of roasted meats and sweet wine. Guests move about, engaging in lively conversation, and my eyes flicker across the room. I catch sight of Caracalla in the corner, his glass filled with wine, his posture hunched as he leans over a table. He’s already had more than enough to drink. I can feel his eyes on me, even as I sit beside Geta. Every so often, I glance his way, and it’s clear that the alcohol has loosened his tongue, if not his control. He mutters something to the senator beside him, his voice louder than necessary. It grates against my nerves, and I rise from my seat, my breath steadying as I make my way across the room.

“Caracalla.” I say, my voice calm but firm.

He turns to face me, blinking a little too slowly, the flush in his cheeks more pronounced than usual.

“Ah, it’s you…” he slurs, a half-smile curling his lips. “What is it now? Come to lecture me too?”

I stand a little taller, not allowing his words to upset me.

“You’ve had enough for tonight. You need to calm down, my Emperor.” I say gently, my tone firm but not harsh.

He scoffs, his fingers tightening around the goblet.

“I don’t need to be told what to do. Not by you, not by anyone.” His voice raises slightly, causing a few heads to turn.

I try not to react to his outburst, focusing instead on keeping my voice steady.

“I know you’re upset.” I whisper, stepping closer to him. “But this isn’t helping. It’s just for tonight. Everything will be fine. I promise. I’m begging you, my Augustus.”

I try to soften my gaze, letting him see that I’m not here to chastise him, but to help him through this moment. Caracalla’s eyes narrow, and he mutters under his breath, clearly still riled up.

“Fine. You’re right. But only because you’re begging me.” He grumbles, his voice low.

I don’t let his tone faze me.

“Just for tonight…” I repeat, and he nods grudgingly, still muttering something incoherent. The tension between us eases just a fraction. I step back, letting him sit in his frustration, and nod at Geta across the room. He’s watching, a knowing smile on his lips. I return to him, my heart a little lighter. As I make my way back to Geta, he reaches out, his fingers brushing mine.

“Are you alright?” He asks softly, his voice full of concern. His eyes flicker toward Caracalla, who is still sulking in the corner.

“I’m fine. He’ll calm down. He always does.”

Geta’s expression softens.

“I know you’re doing your best with him.”

He looks around the room and then turns his attention back to me.

“Shall we, dear wife?”

I smile, and for the first time tonight, I feel a small sense of peace. We rise together, moving to the center of the hall as music fills the air. The guests part for us, and I take Geta’s hand, letting the moment take over. The music swells, the rhythm slow and intimate as we move together in the dance, and I allow myself to be caught up in the movement. Time passes, and I forget about Caracalla, about everything but Geta’s presence beside me. His hand rests at my waist, the warmth of his touch grounding me as the music sways between us. For this brief moment, the world feels perfect. It’s not long before Geta pulls back, his hand slipping from my waist as he turns to the gathered guests.

“The time has come!” He announces, his voice carrying easily over the hum of conversation. “We shall retire to our chamber soon to consummate our marriage.”

I catch my breath, feeling the heat in my cheeks. There’s a hush that falls over the room, the eyes of the guests briefly focused on us. Geta gestures to me, and I turn, a slight tremor running through me as I make my way toward the bridal chamber. The guests start to disperse, murmuring among themselves, and I glance behind me, catching a final glimpse of Caracalla. He’s still sitting there, a look of indecision on his face, but he says nothing. My chest tightens slightly, but I push the feeling aside. Tonight is about Geta, about us, about moving forward.

As I enter the bridal chamber, I hear the soft rustling of servants and other women behind me, preparing the room. The candles flicker, casting a warm glow across the space. The bed is draped in luxurious linens, and the smell of fresh flowers fills the air. I pause, standing at the threshold, and take a deep breath, bracing myself for the next step in our life together.

Quickly, two servants approach me, their footsteps soft but purposeful on the marble floors. Their presence is almost immediate, their hands gentle and efficient. One of them, a young woman with dark hair pulled back into a simple knot, dips a cloth into a basin of warm water, infused with fragrant oils. She wrings it out, and with a tender touch, she begins to wash my skin, starting with my arms. The liquid reveals to be warm, soothing, and the scent of lavender with rose fills the air as it spreads across my body. I close my eyes, allowing myself to relax under their careful hands, knowing this ritual is an essential part of what is to come.

The second servant brings a delicate bowl of fragrant oils, the rich scent of myrrh and sandalwood rising as he kneels beside me. Her touch is lighter than I expect, but purposeful as she applies the oil to my skin, massaging it into my arms, shoulders, and neck. The oils shimmer against my skin, gliding smoothly as she works. There’s something deeply intimate about the whole process, even though it’s nothing more than tradition. The women take their time, ensuring every inch of me is treated with care, almost as if they are preparing a goddess for her wedding night. And in a way, I suppose they are.

As they finish with my arms, the servants move to my legs, massaging them with the same careful precision, the oil gliding over my skin like silk. My breath catches a little at the sensation. The oils are not just for scent, but for nourishment, meant to soften the skin and make me feel ready for the union that’s about to take place.

Once my body is thoroughly pampered and clean, they move to my face, carefully washing it with cool water and then dabbing a small amount of oil along my jawline and neck. The scent of the oils lingers in the air, a soft, comforting reminder of what’s ahead, of the tradition and the sacredness of the moment. My skin feels soft and smooth, like a fresh bloom in the morning dew, and I can’t help but feel the weight of this ritual settle over me, preparing me for the life I’m about to begin with Geta… and Caracalla, of course.

Soon after, the servants help me change into the white tunic, the fabric light, almost like a whisper against my skin. It’s simple yet elegant, fitting perfectly over my body. The neckline is modest, and the hem falls just above my feet. With gentle hands, the woman ties the belt around my waist, and she carefully knots it in the traditional “Hercules knot.” It’s tight but not uncomfortable, symbolizing the strength of my marriage, the binding of two lives into one. She makes sure it is perfectly even, the knot sitting securely in the center, a symbol of the bond that will tie me to Geta for all our lives.

Finally, the woman drapes the orange veil, the flammeum, over my head. It’s light and ethereal, the color vibrant against the whiteness of the tunic. The veil isn’t heavy, but it feels like the weight of all that is expected of me, all that I’m about to step into. The veil is not just a decoration; it is a mark of my new life, my new role. As the servants step back, I look at my reflection in the polished bronze mirror. I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me. She’s calm, serene, but there is a quiet strength in her eyes, a strength that I didn’t know I possessed until now.

The servants step back, finishing their task, and I stand there for a moment, taking in everything they’ve done, the way my body feels, the way the oils have made my skin glow, the knot securely in place, the veil softly framing my face. There’s a stillness in the room, and for a brief second, the world outside the bridal chamber fades away. It’s just me, in this sacred space, preparing for what comes next.

I stand by the window, my fingers brushing lightly against the cool stone as I try to steady my breathing. The room is still, but the weight of the moment presses down on me. My heart beats faster than it should, and I can hear the sound of voices growing louder outside. I can’t help but feel a ripple of unease sweep through me, the knowledge that the tradition demands our marriage be consummated in front of witnesses making my stomach tighten.

The door to the bridal chamber opens, and Geta steps inside. His presence immediately fills the room, and my eyes are drawn to him, as always. Of course, he’s not alone. Behind him, a handful of senators with their wives and guests spill into the room, their whispers echoing off the walls. Even if I don’t look at them, I can feel their gaze. The weight of their expectation bears down on me, and the air suddenly feels thick. My chest tightens, the very idea of their eyes on me, of them watching this most intimate moment, makes my skin crawl.

I glance quickly at Geta, searching his face for any sign of discomfort, but his expression is calm, composed, as though the crowd doesn’t bother him. But I know him. I know the tension in his jaw, the way his hands clench at his sides.

“Geta…” I mutter, my voice shaking slightly despite my best efforts to remain composed. “I don’t… I don’t want them here.”

He pauses, his gaze flickering toward the others in the room. For a moment, he says nothing, as if weighing the situation, but then, without a word, he turns toward the door and speaks, his voice firm.

“Everyone out!”

The room falls silent. The senators and guests exchange nervous glances, but Geta’s tone leaves no room for argument. Slowly, one by one, they begin to file out, the door shutting softly behind them. When the last person leaves, the quiet that settles over us is almost deafening. I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Geta moves toward me then, his footsteps steady but deliberate, his eyes on me. There’s a softness in his expression now, the sharp edge of authority replaced by something else—something gentler. He takes my hand in his, the touch familiar, yet there is a weight to it that makes my heart race even faster.

“Were you nervous?” He asks, his voice low, almost a whisper.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I feel exposed, like a part of me has been stripped away by their presence, and now that we are alone, I’m not sure where to put the pieces.

“They… They don’t understand.” I whisper, my words barely a breath. “It’s not something I wanted them to see.”

Geta’s thumb strokes the back of my hand, a small gesture, but it brings a sense of calm.

“It’s part of the tradition, but they’re gone now. It’s just you and me.” He replies softly, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand years of custom.

I swallow hard, glancing down at our joined hands. The tension I’ve been holding in my chest begins to loosen, but a different kind of nervousness takes its place. The room feels suddenly too large, too empty. The weight of what comes next looms in the silence between us. He steps closer, his other hand gently cupping my cheek. His touch is warm, grounding me, and I finally look up at him, meeting his gaze.

“I promise, it’s just you and me.” Geta says, and the sincerity in his voice eases the knot in my stomach. He’s right. There’s no one else here, no one to judge or observe. Just us.

I nod again, this time more slowly, my breath steadying. The sound of the door closing behind the last of the guests echoes faintly in my mind, but it fades as I focus on Geta. The tension in my body unwinds, replaced by something else, something I can't quite name yet. It just feels right.

“Everything will be fine.” My husband murmurs as he leans in, his forehead brushing mine for the briefest of moments.

Slowly, I take a deep breath. The night air is heavy with the scent of jasmine and myrrh, the perfumes of Roma lingering in the air like a lover’s whispered promise. The walls of my chamber, adorned with frescoes of Bacchic revelries, seem to pulse with the city’s heartbeat, yet inside, there is a tranquility that belies the throbbing life beyond. Tonight, I am to be wedded, bedded, and irrevocably changed. Geta, my betrothed, stands before me, his golden hair catching the flicker of the oil lamps, his brown eyes reflecting a warmth that kindles something deep within my belly. He’s an emperor, yes, but at this moment, he is simply a man, and I, a woman on the precipice of discovery.

“Are you ready, my empress?” Geta’s voice is soft, a murmur that brushes against my skin like silk.

I nod, my throat tight with anticipation and a twinge of fear. He steps closer, the scent of him, myrrh, citrus and a hint of the sea, enveloping me. His hands, strong and sure, find my face, tilting it up to meet his descending lips. The kiss is gentle at first, an exploration, a question. I answer with parted lips, inviting him in. His tongue slips into my mouth, tasting, teasing, and suddenly, I’m lost in the sensation, the newness of it all, while his fingers deftly work the ties of my Hercules knot, the fabric slipping from my shoulders to pool at my feet. I stand before him in my tunica, the thin linen doing little to hide the peaks of my nipples, hardened by the cool air and my burgeoning desire. His gaze rakes over me, appreciative and hungry, and I feel a flush creep up my neck.

“You are exquisite, dear wife…” He whispers, his hands following the path his eyes have blazed.

Naked now, save for the thin fabric that almost clings to my skin, Geta’s hands skim my sides. His thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts, and I gasp at the sensation, the shock of it making me step back.

“Shhhh, my heart. Let me show you the joys of our union.” He soothes me, guiding me towards the bed.

I lie back, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the feverish skin they caress. Geta follows me down, his body a welcome weight atop mine. His lips trail a path from my mouth, down my neck, lingering at the hollow of my throat where my pulse flutters like a caged bird. I breathe out, the sound barely more than a sigh as his mouth closes over my nipple, the wet heat of his tongue sending bolts of pleasure straight to my core. My hips arch of their own accord, seeking friction, seeking something I cannot yet name. For the first time in my life, I know that I’m allowed to do this, to enjoy this… He’s my husband.

“Patience, little lamb…” Geta chides gently, his hand slipping between my thighs, coaxing them apart.

This time, I’m exposed, vulnerable, and though a part of me wants to resist, to cover myself, the look in his eyes, lust and adoration intertwined, stills my trembling hands. His fingers find the slickness that awaits him, and a groan escapes his lips.

“So ready for me…” He marvels, his voice thick with desire.

I can only moan in response, my body a taut bowstring, vibrating with the need for release. Geta’s touch is a symphony, each stroke of his fingers a note that builds the melody of my pleasure. When he lowers his head, his intention clear, I try to protest, to voice the embarrassment that wars with my wanton need.

“No, my Emperor, it’s too much…” I plead, but my words lack conviction, and he pays them no mind.

“Let me worship you.” He insists, his breath hot against my most sensitive flesh.

And then his mouth is on me, his tongue a sinful delight that sends me spiraling into ecstasy. The sensation turns out to be overwhelming, the intimacy of his actions making my cheeks burn even as my hips grind shamelessly against his face.

“Fuck, Geta…” I gasp, the profanity foreign on my tongue, yet it feels right, it feels true.

He chuckles against me, the vibration nearly sending me over the edge.

“That’s it, carissima. Let me hear the sounds of your pleasure.”

The scent of burning incense lingers in the air with the distant sound of lyres playing a soft melody. I lie on the bed, the silk sheets cool against my skin, my heart pounding with anticipation and nervousness. Geta stands at the foot of the bed, his golden laurel wreath resting upon his head, a symbol of his imperial status. He’s the epitome of regal beauty, his pale skin almost luminous in the dim light, his golden wavy hair framing his angelic features.

“Come to me, wife.” He orders, his voice a low rumble that resonates through my core.

I rise, the thin fabric of my tunic doing little to hide my arousal. I’m eager to please him, to explore the pleasures of the flesh that I have only just begun to understand. As I approach, he reaches out, his fingers gently tracing the contours of my face before slipping beneath the straps of my tunic, sliding them off my shoulders. The garment falls to the floor, pooling at my feet, leaving me naked before him. Geta’s gaze travels the length of my body, a slow perusal that ignites a fire within me.

“You are exquisite… The finest dessert in the Empire.” He whispers, his hands following the path of his eyes, exploring every curve and dip. I stand still, allowing him to admire me, to touch me. His hands are skilled, sending waves of pleasure through me with each caress.

“Lie down, now.” He commands, his voice leaving no room for disobedience.

I comply, reclining on the bed, my legs parting slightly in invitation. Geta kneels before me, his hands parting my thighs further.

“I want to taste you.” Geta adds, his breath hot against my most intimate area.

Before I can answer, his mouth is on me, his tongue exploring my folds with expertise. I gasp, my hands instinctively reach for his hair, gripping his golden waves as he devours me. His moans of pleasure vibrate against my sensitive flesh, driving me wild with desire. My body arches into his touch. He laps at me, each stroke of his tongue bringing me closer to the edge. I can feel the tension building within me, a coiling sensation that threatens to overwhelm me. Geta’s fingers join his tongue, slipping inside me with ease. He curls them, finding that secret spot that sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through my veins.

“Cum for me.” He growls against my pussy, the vibrations of his words pushing me over the edge.

My intensity of the pleasure crushes over me, all-consuming. My vision blurs, my body shakes, and a cry of ecstasy escapes my lips. Geta continues to lick and suck, drawing out my pleasure until I am spent, lying boneless on the bed.

He rises, his eyes darkened with desire as he removes his own clothing. The golden laurel falls to the ground, forgotten, as he reveals his body to me. His cock stands erect, long and thick, a drop of precum glistening at the tip.

“Your turn.” He says, offering himself to me.

I sit up, my hand reaching out to wrap around his shaft. He’s velvet over steel, his skin hot to the touch. I begin to stroke him, my movements slow and tentative at first, but growing in confidence as I watch his face contort with pleasure.

“Gods… Y/N…” he groans, his hands fisting the sheets beside him. “Just like that.”

I lean forward, my tongue darting out to taste the precum that beads at his tip. He tastes salty and slightly musky, a heady combination that makes my own desire flare back to life. I take him into my mouth, the salty tang of his skin filling my senses. I suck and lick, delighting in the way his hips buck beneath me, the way his fingers tangle in my hair, guiding but not forcing.

“Stop.” He commands suddenly, his voice strained. “I want to be inside you when I come.”

I release him with a reluctant sigh, my body thrumming with need. Geta positions himself between my thighs, the blunt head of his cock nudging at my entrance. I’m wet, ready, yet the anticipation of what is to come makes my breath hitch in my throat.

“Look at me.” He says, and I obey, our eyes locked together as he begins to push inside me.

There is a moment of resistance, a sharp sting as my virginity is claimed. I gasp, my nails digging into the firm flesh of his back. Geta stills, his expression one of concern.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice laced with worry.

I nod, swallowing back the discomfort.

“Don’t stop.” I urge him, and he resumes his gentle thrusts, each one taking him deeper into my willing body.

“You’re so tight… Fuck…”

The pain soon gives way to a feeling of fullness, of rightness. I move beneath him, my hips meeting his in an ancient rhythm. The friction of our joining sends waves of pleasure radiating through me, and I feel myself climbing towards a peak I have never before reached.

I never thought the pleasure of flesh could feel so good… It wasn’t only making love, it was intertwining our souls.

“You feel incredible.” Geta groans, his pace increasing.

Sweat sheens his skin, and the muscles of his arms bulge as he holds himself above me.

I can only moan in response, my senses overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. I am wanton, shameless, lost in the ecstasy of our union.

Geta’s hand slips between our bodies, his fingers finding the swollen bud of my clitoris. He strokes me in time with his thrusts, and the coil of tension within me snaps. I cry out, my inner walls clenching around his cock as I am hurled into the abyss of orgasm.

Geta follows me over the edge, his body shuddering as he spills his seed deep within me. The knowledge that I have taken his essence into my body sends a thrill of power coursing through my veins.

We lay together, a tangle of limbs and whispered endearments, the scent of our lovemaking heavy in the air. I am sated, yet already I crave more, eager to explore the boundaries of this newfound passion. His hand reached out to brush against my cheeks, as my heart races, my breath hitching as he leans in, his lips claiming mine in a kiss that is both tender and hungry.

But before we can lose ourselves further in our passion a second time, the door to our chamber swings open. My heart stops as I see Caracalla, his golden wavy hair cascading around his angelic features, a frown on his face.

“Brother, you said you would wait for me.” He sighs.

I am horrified, my body tensing as I realize the implications of his presence, but Geta remains calm.

“Brother.” He addressed Caracalla, his voice steady. “You know that she now belongs to both of us, but I had to be the first, of course.”

Caracalla stares at his brother and if a look could kill, Geta would be dead already. His blue gaze rakes over my body.

“Just be good to her, Caracalla.”

“Of course.” The older twin replies, his tone almost angelic.

He quickly undresses and kneels before me, his hands gently parting my legs.

“I promise to be very, very good.” His words send a thrill through me, a mix of fear and excitement.

Suddenly, Caracalla’s lips meet mine, his kiss more demanding than Geta’s. His hands roam freely over my body, cupping my breasts, his thumbs teasing my nipples into stiff peaks. I can feel the wetness growing again between my thighs, with Geta’s seed, my body aching for more.

“Look at how much you want this…” Caracalla murmurs to me, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of my gown, finding my slick folds. I moan as he strokes my clit, his touch firm and confident.

Geta watches us, his eyes dark with desire, as he sits on a chair, his legs spreading.

Caracalla’s fingers continue their assault on my pussy, while he leans down to capture a nipple in his mouth. The sensation of his tongue flicking against the sensitive bud, combined with the rhythmic circling of his fingers, pushes me closer to the edge.

Again, his lips meet mine in a kiss that is both a claiming and a promise, his tongue parting my lips, exploring, tasting. I melt into him, my hands finding their way to the sheer tunic that clings to his form.

“Kneel.” He commands, his voice leaving no room for disobedience.

I drop to my knees, my eyes level with his cock, thick and hard, jutting out towards me. He’s shorter than his brother, but thicker. While Geta shaves, just like me, he doesn’t. He doesn’t care at all. I look up at him, seeking approval, and he gives me a nod, his eyes filled with lust. I lean forward, my tongue darting out to taste the salty bead of precum that has formed at his tip. A groan escapes his lips as I take him into my mouth, the velvety skin of his shaft sliding against my tongue as I bob my head, sucking him deeper. I almost choke, as I try to take him deeper, and focus on my breathing… Claudia already told me all the things I should expect with a man.

“Look at you…” Geta’s voice breaks through the haze of my desire, and I turn to see him standing close, his own cock in his hand, stroking slowly as he watches his brother fuck my mouth.

“So beautiful.”

Caracalla’s fingers tighten in my hair, guiding my rhythm, his thrusts growing more insistent. I can feel the tension building in him, the way his body coils like a spring, ready to release. But just as I feel him swell, threatening to spill his seed down my throat, he pulls away abruptly, leaving me gasping for breath, my lips slick with saliva and precum.

“Not yet. I want to feel your tight cunt milking my cock when I come. Just like him.”

He parts my thighs, looks at the sticky mess, before he grabs some clothe to wipe everything leaking.

“Please…” I beg, my voice barely more than a whimper.

“Please what, little lamb?”

I actually, I don’t know what I’m asking. I’m lost in a haze of pleasure.

“I don’t know…” I mutter as I feel the heat rising to my face.

“Don’t worry, we know what you want. Our seed. To carry an heir.” Caracalla chuckles.

Quickly, he positions himself at my entrance, the head of his cock pressing against me, and with one powerful thrust, he’s inside me, filling me completely. I cry out, my nails digging into his back as he begins to move, each stroke stoking the fire within me, driving me closer to the edge. As Caracalla fucks me, you lean in to kiss me, your tongue mirroring the rhythm of his thrusts. I’m overwhelmed by the sensations, the feel of Caracalla inside me, your tongue in my mouth, the scent of our arousal filling the air.

Before I know it, he grabs my legs, and shoves my calves on his shoulders, still thrusting hard; my eyes roll back.

“I’m going to finish, you feel too good, Empress.” Caracalla grunts, his pace quickening.

I barely have time to register that he’s teasing my clit until waves of pleasure. Waves of pleasure surge through me, making me shiver and lose control. I throb around his manhood and claw at his forearms. With a final thrust, he buries himself deep within me, his cock pulsing as he fills me with his seed too. Spent, Caracalla pulls out of me, his semen leaking out, before he pushes a pillow under my behind. Then, he looks at his brother with a smirk. Geta just finished a second time in his own hand.

“We have to make sure it takes, isn’t it?”

“Obviously. The night is still young.”

What have I done? God probably hates me now… But did I really have a choice? That’s what the Emperors were expecting…

Exhausted, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Once I’m pregnant, I might become untouchable… I’ll use whatever small authorities I have now to make Rome a better place.

I'm devoted to Rome.

And my husbands are devoted to me.

Author's notes

And… I guess you could say the story is over. I know I said there would be a few more chapters, but the truth is, I don’t have the motivation to write any more of this story. I don’t feel like it appeals to many people, and to be honest, I don’t enjoy it as much as I did in the beginning. I’m really eager to rework it, especially by adding political intrigue and fixing any anachronisms that may have slipped in. In short, I’m very disappointed in myself, as I tend to be quite demanding with myself. That said, stopping this fanfiction here feels more honest than making you wait weeks or even months for the next part. Does the ending feel abrupt? Don’t worry, I plan to write bonus chapters from time to time, like sequels! So, my requests are open if you have any interesting ideas to suggest (though that doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll write them). A huge thank you to the few people who have commented on my chapters and supported me ❤️

Merci beaucoup ! ❤️

My AO3: BetrayedWriter

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#emperor geta #geta x reader #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #geta x you #joseph quinn geta #emperor geta fanfic #emperor geta fanfiction #emperor caracalla #caracalla x reader #caracalla x you #fred hechinger #emperor caracalla fanfiction #joseph quinn

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