#the golden consul

[sonocomics]

A familiar feeling for a familiar face...

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[xenoblade-chronicles-brackets]

[chinatownstreetscape]

“The Fourth of the Future” color lithograph on paper by Henry Barkhaus (1865-1886), published in The Wasp, volume 15 (July-December 1885), July 4, 1885, pages 8-9 (from the collection of The Bancroft Library).

Celebrating the 4th: Chinatown's 1890 Coming Out Party

On this July 4, a cartoon inspired by the Chinese America of 1885 is considered both for both its satirical and prophetic qualities. For nearly a century (1856-1935), The Illustrated Wasp, later known simply as The Wasp, was among California's most popular tabloids. It thrived particularly in the late 1870s and early 1880s, especially under the editorship of Ambrose Bierce from 1881 to 1886. As a weekly publication, it covered San Francisco's social, political, and commercial scenes, featuring a mix of local and international news, social commentary, numerous advertisements, and topical humor.

The Wasp’s written content was often complemented and overshadowed by intricate full-page illustrations, many focusing on the contemporary issue of Chinese immigration. These illustrations vividly depicted the discrimination and prejudice faced by the Chinese, highlighting, according Bancroft Library curator Theresa Salazar, the “struggle to survive as individuals and communities as well as the issues that dominated the imagination of their white contemporaries.” Salazar writes about the vivid illustration which appeared in The Wasp on July 4, 1885, as follows:

“The cartoon, published just three years after the passage of the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, imagines the Fourth of July parade in San Francisco with racial roles completely reversed. The Palace Hotel is filled with Chinese occupants who look down on the parade, led by an Uncle Sam wearing a formal Chinese ceremonial costume and followed by a large American flag with a dragon supported by a string of Chinese firecrackers. A Chinese policeman beats a white tramp while Chinese boys throw stones at a white businessman. On the corner, the “Chinese Call” newspaper is for sale, an obvious reference to the San Francisco Call, just behind an orientalized Mexican selling tamales. In the building to the right a white barber is giving a haircut beneath a sign reading “M U G K DE YOUNG BARBER,” another obvious reference, to Michael H. De Young, the owner of the San Francisco Chronicle. In the room above, a Caucasian laundry advertises its services as ‘AH SCOTT WASHING AND IRONING.’”

Although Barkhaus’ illustration was patently satirical, some elements would prove to be prescient a century later, such as Chinese policemen, a parade down Market Street (currently part of the main procession for the city's annual Chinese New Year parade), thousands of Chinese American spectators (with more women, unlike 1885) lining the route in front of the Palace Hotel. Even the cartoon's mash-up with Japanese motifs, such as a dragon on a fanciful rendering of a Japanese-style mikoshi borne by loincloth-attired Shinto-esque adherents, would also presage Japanese American participation in future civic festivities.

In pre-1906 San Francisco, the Chinese community in Chinatown would have been well aware of American holidays such as July 4th. Independence Day celebrations appear in the earliest images of pioneer San Francisco.

Fourth of July parade passing in front of Old St. Mary's Church on Dupont Street in 1864. Photographer unknown (from the collection of the San Francisco Public Library). The description on the verso reads: “Day Before Bank Opened--Fourth of July parade 1864 on Dupont Street, now Chinatown’s Grant Avenue, San Francisco. Note Old St. Mary's Church, and sparsely built Telegraph Hill in background. This photo was taken just 1 day before The Bank of California first opened 100 years ago on July 5, 1864.”

Hence, the artist Barkhaus undoubtedly drew on his past observance of Chinese parades and foreshadowed Chinese participation in general July 4th celebrations just five years later.

Most Gorgeous Chinese Pageant Ever Witnessed in San Francisco,” photo feature from The Call Sunday Magazine Section, San Francisco Sunday, July 16, 1890, describing Chinese participation in San Francisco's observance of the July 4 holiday of that year. The photographers are uncredited in this 1890 spread. However, the square center photo of three children is identical to Hortense Schulze’s photo titled “Taking the Air with Sister,” copyright-claimed in 1899.

“Taking the Air with Sister,” 1890. Photograph by Hortense Schulze printed in The Call, July 16, 1890, and reprinted (with claimed copyright 1899) for the “Babies of Chinatown” article written by artist Mary Davison for The Cosmopolitan, An Illustrated Monthly Magazine (vol. 28, no. 6) of April, 1900 (pp. 606-612).

As a feature story and photo spread in The Call newspaper of July 16, 1890, observed, Chinese participation in US Independence Day festivities appeared to have been “tentative” in San Francisco until the last decade of the 19th century. Chinatown was no stranger to elaborate processions through the neighborhood. However, as The Call’s story implies, the lack of participation in mainstream July 4 festivities had reflected hard, learned experience about Chinatown’s uneasy relationship with the rest of the city:

“On previous occasions, when the natives of the Flowery Kingdom were asked to participate in public spectacles – which asking was rare – they took part in a shy, tentative sort of way. Long years of neighboring with the citizens of San Francisco had taught them the lesson that the more they kept to themselves the better off they were. The consequence was, always, when the turned out in parade, they were few in numbers and poor in show. “This year, how different!”

The Call reported that the participation by the Chinese community in the July 4, 1890 celebration was due in large part to the “vision,” intervention, and influence of Chinese Consul General Ho Yow. Significantly, such participation was embraced by the Native Sons of the Golden State (later to be named the Chinese American Citizens Alliance), which organized a Chinese contingent for the parade, channeling the community’s natural capacity for processional logistics and showmanship.

In addition to the photos printed in The Call, images in the collections of the Stanford Libraries and Bancroft Library provide representative samplings of what a typical Chinese contingent carried, and how it appeared, when on the march for parades as Chinatown approached the turn of the century.

Untitled Chinese parade standard-bearers standing in a street in front of white onlookers, probably in San Francisco, c. 1900. Photograph by Hortense Schulze (from an album pending cataloging courtesy of the Manuscripts division of Stanford Libraries). This image is signed and numbered by Schulze in the negative.

Untitled Chinese ceremonial halberd-bearers walking past a gathering of other Chinese (with a mixed group of Chinese and white onlookers across the street and in the left of the frame, probably in San Francisco, c. 1900. Photograph by Hortense Schulze (from an album pending cataloging courtesy of the Manuscripts division of Stanford Libraries). This image is signed and numbered by Schulze in the negative.

Chinese bearing traditional infantry weapons prepare to march in a San Francisco parade. Photographer unknown (from the collection of The Bancroft Library).

Chinese bearing traditional infantry weaponry begin their march in a San Francisco parade. Photographer unknown (from the collection of The Bancroft Library).

Robed Chinese bearing ceremonial pikes prepare to march in a San Francisco parade. Photographer unknown (from the collection of The Bancroft Library).

As The Call reported in 1890, the “kaleidoscopic beauty” and pageantry of the Chinese procession left a lasting impression celebrants and spectators. The lessons learned in the July 4 parade would be reapplied by the Chinese as a tool of civic engagement with the broader community in subsequent years and, most notably, with the public celebrations of Chinese New Years starting in 1953.

As a 1907 photo from Oakland Chinatown indicates, Chinese pioneer communities outside of San Francisco applied their cultural traditions and joined in general American July 4th celebrations.

“Chinese in Parade, Chinatown, Oakland July 4th, 1907.” Courtesy of Ed Clausen Collection. Chinese join in July 4 celebrations a year after more than 4,000 Chinese survivors of San Francisco’s 1906 earthquake and fire found refuge in Oakland, showing a rising spirit of Oakland’s transformed Chinatown.

Although Chinese celebrations were somewhat distinct from the mainstream American observance, fireworks appear to have been a common feature in both Chinese and American festivities. The Chinese community would set off firecrackers and fireworks, symbolizing not just the American independence but also their own cultural heritage, as fireworks are traditionally used in China to ward off evil spirits and bring good luck.

Richard Mark and Thelma Lee pose to light a string of firecrackers in San Francisco Chinatown on July 4, 1934. Photographer unknown (from the collection of the San Francisco Public Library).

July 4 celebrations in Chinatown carried a sense of resilience during an era of exclusion and discrimination. By participating in Independence Day celebrations, the Chinese community asserted its presence and contribution to American society to foster goodwill and improve relations with the broader American public.

During the war years, however, the US Independence Day took secondary importance to events overseas, particularly in 1944 when Chinese communities across the US used early July parades to collect money for war relief in China’s struggle against Japanese aggression.

San Francisco Chinatown observes “Triple Seven” on July 5, 1944, by collecting funds to support China’s war with Japan. Photographer unknown published in the San Francisco Call Bulletin (from the collection of the San Francisco Public Library).

During WW II, China and other diaspora communities commemorated San Ch’i,” or the seventh day of the seventh month of the seventh year of resistance to Imperial Japan.

Overall, the July 4th celebrations in pre-1906 San Francisco Chinatown were a blend of Chinese and American traditions, marked by fireworks and cultural performances. These celebrations were not just about American independence but also intended to express cultural identity and belonging in the face of significant challenges.

[rxqueenotd]

damnatio memoriae: PART IV

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

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

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

warnings: arranged marriage, foul language, mentions of blood, bodily fluids, Ancient Rome as a warning in itself, bloodletting, p n v penetration, orgy-ish situation, animal sacrifice.

notes: literally posting this from a McDonalds parking lot on the way to a Christmas party. A quick thanks to my brotha @trashmouth-richie and @londonfog-chan for all the help. I owe you guys what’s left of my soul. Please like and share if you enjoy this series! Over 7000 words in this chapter alone.

IV

The delicate aroma of fresh bread and honey wafted through the air, mingling with the faint scent of blossoming flowers from the courtyard outside. Fine earthenware plates held an assortment of breakfast delicacies scattered across an oval table in the middle of the room: warm, crusty loaves of panis glistened with honey, bowls of ripe figs and olives, and delicate cheeses. A pitcher of cool, refreshing water sat alongside a flask of rich, dark wine—though it was early, you had indulged yourself. The gentle clinking of utensils and the soft rustle of linen filled the dining room as guests served themselves, enjoying the simple pleasures of the morning. A musician played softly in the corner, the gentle strumming of a lyre adding a serene layer to the room. You sighed happily as you sat alone at a table in the corner of the great room with the perfect view of the courtyard. For all the drama of the previous day, you revelled in being alone, relishing the magnificent frescoed walls that depicted scenes of mythological feasts and playful Bacchanalian revelries. The sunlight shone in delicately, warming the marble flooring in which you drug your barefoot across under the table.

“You must have said something to set him off. I could still smell your perfume when I walked into his chambers—he was that quick to summon me,” Caracalla said, plopping down in the chair across from you with an exaggerated huff. You sighed, placing your cutlery down, knowing fair well that any peace you had maintained over the course of the morning was over. His new golden incisor caught the light as he spoke. You had stepped out onto the balcony for just a moment when the physician had come to fix the cracked tooth the night before, a souvenir from Septimius’s fist meeting Caracalla’s lip.

“Just because you think we share a common enemy does not mean we are allies,” you shot back. Making it clear that your act of cleaning him up and reaching an agreement the previous night did not give him the right to intrude on your peaceful breakfast.

“He never even made it to Baiae,” he retorted, glancing at you dismissively. “He only got as far as Ostia. This was just a test to see how well I could manage on my own.”

His face was swollen, bruises bloomed in deep shades of purple and green around his nose and mouth, the latter catching dramatically on the light as he spoke.

“A test you failed spectacularly,” you replied, arching an eyebrow as you bit into a particularly sour grape.

“Did you let him turn you into a quivering mass of need?” he asked, a mocking giggle escaping his lips, “Did he entertain you with tales of his wild sons and his deceased wife?”

“No,” you admitted, shaking your head, “He did not reduce me to anything but confusion.” You let out an exasperated sigh. “I find that I am still confused.”

“If he truly cared for Rome,” he said, his tone dripping with jealousy and hurt as he turned to meet your gaze, “If he truly cared for me as his son, he would step down and stop fostering Geta’s hope that one day this empire may be ours together.”

The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, bitterness lacing his voice.

“Surely you see that I am just your wife—no consul, no philosopher, just a woman.” you replied, feigning innocence as you took a sip of your wine, challenging him with your gaze.

“Ah, that’s a rare admission from you, wife.” he said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Do you think it was him?”

You flicked your gaze toward Senator Blandus, a quick movement that Caracalla caught. Senator Blandus stood with a slight stoop, his height diminished, yet his presence was still imposing. His once broad shoulders sagged under the weight of years spent navigating the treacherous waters of Roman politics. The edges of his toga were slightly tattered, its white wool dulled with age, carelessly draped over his shoulder. The deep purple stripe that signified his senatorial rank had faded, hinting at a man who had seen better days. His gaunt face and sunken cheeks accentuated his unkempt style, with thin, wispy hair and a matching gray beard that was scraggly and untrimmed. His murky brown eyes held a suspicious gleam as they scanned the surrounding people, narrowing even more when they landed on you and Caracalla.

He set his wine cup down with a sigh, glancing around the room before looking back at you.

“I have already had him investigated. He spent the night at his mistress’s villa.”

“That leaves us with only a few suspects.” you countered, leaning in closer, rolling a plump grape between your fingers.

“Indeed,” he replied, shifting in his seat, “But my wager is on Macrinus.”

You leaned back, crossing your arms, challenging his assertion. “Do you honestly think he’s that ambitious? Surely it is some sort of breach of conduct to obtain my correspondence and report to your father regarding your every whim.”

“He has been whispering in Geta’s ear since the unfortunate passing of Plautianus.” He snickered, finishing off his wine and fixed his gaze on you, “Ambition spreads like a plague within these walls.”

He set down his wine cup again, looking around as courtiers, senators, and servants bustled about the lavish dining hall surrounding you both.

“Is this what you have been doing all morning?” he asked, a hint of accusation in his voice, “Leading your own investigation?”

“I do not know what you are talking about,” you replied sarcastically, “I am merely enjoying breakfast, unlike some people.”

“Like I said,” he said, standing and looking down at you with a challenging glare, “there is always a motive here.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Anxiety snaked tightly around you as you made your way to your quarters in search of solace. The night spent in Caracalla’s chambers had offered no restful sleep; instead, you found yourself waking unceremoniously on the chaise by his balcony, time and again, while he lay sprawled across his bed, a thin sheet barely covering his bare ass, snoring and mumbling like a drunken soldier. It had felt strange to seek refuge in his quarters, united by the turmoil brought about by his father’s hand.

It was easy to crawl in your bed and get lost amongst the silky sheets. Having not slept properly the night before, you allowed yourself to be pulled under, letting sleep claim you without a fight.

You woke suddenly, a weight pressing you down, your breath caught in surprise as your body refused to move. Above you, a pair of pale eyes—hazy and unrelenting, like the sky before a storm—fixed themselves on you. Their intensity felt heavier than the body that held them. It took a moment for your senses to settle, for your vision to clear, and when it did, you realized Caracalla’s body was tangled with yours—his legs draped over your left thigh, his hands planted on either side of your head as though framing you.

There was no telling how long he had been there, silently watching, and it was clear he had no intention of stopping then, even though you had caught him. You let your eyes roam over his face, taking in the rough texture of his pale skin, like polished, blighted marble under the soft glow of a torch. His pupils shifted, dark and wide, as they moved over you, drinking in every detail, the quiet between you charged with something unspoken.

“Will you have me?” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you gazed up at him. You knew all too well how Caracalla’s moods shifted like the tides—unpredictable and dangerous. The effort to stay steady, not to be swept away by his waves, weighed heavily on you.

He nodded, silent but certain, and tugged his tunic over his head, baring his silken chest to the flickering lamplight. You remained still, letting him take the lead, scared that even the slightest misstep might stir his infamous temper or send him retreating into the shadows. His hands moved with surprising care as he slipped your toga down your slender form, letting it fall away to the ground to reveal your body beneath.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You simply stared, locked in a gaze that spoke more than any words could, as the last barrier between your bodies was cast aside. The air between you was heavy, charged, and waiting.

You felt the heaviness of his cock against the soft skin of your thigh as he worked himself rhythmically, his closeness stirring a deep ache within you, a tension that spread like fire beneath your skin. The intimacy of the moment caught you unguarded, raw, and unspoken. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently to yours, his breath mingling with your own. Unable to resist, you caught his lower lip between your teeth, biting softly before his mouth overtook yours. He sighed into you, his resolve melting as he met your kiss. Your tongues tangled, slow at first, then urgent, as though the space between you had collapsed entirely.

You opened your legs for him, this time by your own will. Yet, as he moved to settle himself between them, his breath, warm and uneven against your neck, suddenly stilled. His movements ceased, and a heavy sigh escaped him, brushing against your skin.

“It is not—” he began, his voice taut with frustration, “I cannot—”

He propped himself up, looking down at you with a furrowed brow, his expression a storm of shame and anger. Unsure of what to say or do, you felt the heat of embarrassment creep up your cheeks as your gaze drifted downward to his softened cock.

“Is it me?” you asked quietly, half-ashamed.

He let out another sigh, his eyes closing as though in pain. “It is not for lack of desire, I swear it.”

“Is there something I can do?” you asked, sitting up, clutching the sheet to your chest, suddenly feeling the weight of self-consciousness.

“No.” His reply was short, and he rose abruptly, pulling his tunic over his head forcefully. He avoided your gaze as he reached for the wine on the bedside table, pouring himself a cup with trembling hands.

The crash startled you. He had flung the cup against the wall, the red wine streaking down like blood spilled from a gaping wound, pooling darkly on the marble floor.

“Get out,” he growled, his voice low but heavy with restrained fury.

“These are my chambers,” you reminded him, pulling the sheet tighter around you, trying to steady your voice.

“Get out, Prima.” His tone was colder now, his warning unmistakable.

Swallowing your pride, you hurriedly adjusted your toga, your hands fumbling to secure it in place. You retrieved your veil, crumpled between the pillows, and made your exit with hastened steps.

Outside, as you slipped your sandals back on, the crash of objects breaking echoed through the wooden door, followed by a muffled scream that sent a shiver down your spine. You clenched your fists, your breath steadying. Though you had lost this battle, somewhere deep within, hope remained—for the war was not yet over.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

As you stepped inside the temple of Juno, you were immediately enveloped by a sense of tranquility. There had always been something about Juno that stirred you, but now, with your own marriage in turmoil, you felt a deeper connection to her. Her struggles with Jupiter mirrored your own in ways you had not fully grasped before. As the patron goddess of the empire, it felt right to ask for help as Augusta yourself. A child granted by Juno’s favor would surely be blessed, a gift of divine intervention. Marital help could wait, you told yourself. For now, you had one prayer, and it was for a child.

The air was cool and inviting, a welcome contrast to the warm sunlight outside. Delicate frescoes depicted scenes from Juno's mythology—her fierce protectiveness over women, her role in the great tales of heroism, and the beauty of marriage. Each brushstroke told a story, and you would have allowed yourself to be swept up by every tale if you had not been on a mission.

The temple was supported by regal, marble columns, their surfaces gleaming, reflecting the light from the stained glass windows onto their polished surfaces. The soaring ceiling was painted in rich hues of blue and gold, much like the sky at dawn, and you found yourself looking towards the heavens at its beauty.

As you moved deeper into the temple, you came upon the central altar, an imposing structure made of polished stone, carved with symbols of Juno—a peacock, representing beauty and pride, and a scepter, symbolizing power. The altar was adorned with offerings left by devoted worshippers: fresh flowers in vibrant colors, fruits from the harvest, and fragrant incense that filled the air with a sweet, calming aroma.

Juno’s statue stood front and center on the altar, surrounded by statues of different sizes, each capturing her essence in their own way. Some portrayed her as a regal figure in flowing robes, while others depicted her in a more maternal light, holding a child or surrounded by symbols of family.

“Your Excellency,” a priest approached, bowing his head in reverence, “it is an honor to stand in your divine presence.”

Upon his head sat a laurel crown, its fresh green leaves glistened with dew, a symbol of both honor and divine favor of the goddess herself. You remembered him from your wedding day- specifically how the laurel matched his deepset, green eyes.

Cassia presented to you a basket brimming with fragrant lilies, glistening white candles, a flask of the finest vintage wine, and a jar of the sweetest honey ever tasted. With a wave of your hand, you dismissed her to take her place outside the temple, accompanied by your assigned praetorians. You felt assured, having sent word ahead to the temple of your arrival, requesting both discretion and a sacred space in which to invoke the goddess.

“I trust that my offering has been prepared,” you remarked.

He nodded in acknowledgment. “Follow me.”

You trailed behind him to the rear of the temple, descending a flight of marble stairs into an atrium of sorts. The soft glow of white candles illuminated the room, their flickering flames dancing upon the golden statues that adorned the shelves embedded in the walls. At the center of the chamber lay a medium-sized tiled bathing pool, set into the floor.

As you approached, the distant bleating of a lamb reached your ears.

"We shall begin when you are prepared," the priest stated with a respectful nod. With a sense of dignity, you removed your robes, standing tall before the gaze of the goddess.

At that moment, another priest entered the chamber, leading a lamb, adorned in a flowing white robe accented with a rich purple trim at the hem, wearing the same radiant laurel crown you had seen earlier.

Both priests raised the lamb above your head, their voices intertwining as they recited ancient prayers to the goddess, carefully steadying the creature before making the first cut. You closed your eyes, centering your thoughts on the heavens. As the warm blood began to cascade over your face and down your neck and shoulders, you raised your voice proudly to the goddess, proclaiming your devotion and intent:

“We adore thee Goddess, we invoke you, Juno, for it is written that you will bless those who call upon you and sacrifice to you. I pray to you, Goddess Juno, and offer these gifts so that you may favor my house and household.”

As you stood there, your thoughts continued to drift back to Caracalla—the way he had faltered just hours before, leaving you feeling a mix of frustration and concern. It was hard not to dwell on the sacrifices you had made and would continue to make, all in the hopes of giving him an heir.

The weight of your marriage pressed down upon you, and you only felt relief when you stepped into the bathing pool, submerging yourself as the thick blood mingled with the warm water.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

As you knelt before the grand statue in the main hall, redressed and feeling lighter, you pressed a gentle kiss to the goddess’s feet. The lilies were arranged just right, symbols of your devotion, a reflection of what you desired and prayed the goddess could help you with.

You dipped the candle ends into the honey, feeling the sticky sweetness as you prepared to light them. The oil lamp glowed warmly as you ignited the first candle. One by one, the other candles caught fire, illuminating the space around you as you set them in the designated holder.

You poured the wine, its rich color glistening in the candlelight, and set the bottle down with care. As you whispered the prayer again, you felt a sense of calm wash over you. Closing your eyes, you let the words sink deep, hoping that the goddess would hear your heart.

Suddenly, your moment of peace in the temple was broken by another presence. Before you could even open your eyes to see who it was, he spoke, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm.

“I cannot believe there is still a lamb left to sacrifice after your wedding. They must have sacrificed so many that the whole flock is nearly extinct.” Geta knelt beside you, a smirk on his face.

You quipped with a serious face, “Shall I offer you as the next sacrifice? Surely, one of your esteemed stature would grant me favor with the goddess.”

Geta laughed, the sound sharp and out of place in the quiet of the room. “Ironic, is it not? Not even a full cycle of Luna has passed, and you are already making offerings to save your fragile union.”

He seized your hand, running the edge of his nail beneath your own with deliberate care. A thin line of blood appeared, evidence of the sacrifice, vivid against your skin. He drew it to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he tasted it, a sly smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“Do you think your husband knows how devout his wife truly is? So unwavering in her dedication?” Geta’s tone dripped with mockery, each word drawn out as though savoring the chance to provoke.

“Why are you here, Geta?” you asked, weariness lacing your words. His constant mockery was like salting an open wound, relentless and cruel.

He tilted his head, his eyes sweeping over your face with the precision of a blade. “Tell me,” he said, his voice like silky steel, “do you know what your husband does while you linger here in the temple, like a devout little dove?”

You sighed, your gaze fixed on the statue before you. “What, pray tell, is he doing now?”

You rose to your feet, giving him a silent nod to lead the way. The journey back to Palatine Hill drew curious glances as Geta’s guards merged with your own, their strides echoing in the narrow streets. You walked side by side, close enough to appear united yet distant enough that the silence between the two of you felt natural, you would offer him no word or glance to break the tension.

Rome pulsed with life around you. The aroma of fresh-baked bread mingled with the earthy scent of clay and smoke, a reminder of the city's crowded living spaces, where families lived stacked upon one another. Cassia, ever dutiful at your side, stole glances when she thought you would not notice. Her unease was palpable, and you made a mental note to instruct her in masking her emotions—though you could hardly claim to be a master yourself. Your jaw clenched tighter with every step, the pressure so fierce your teeth threatened to shatter.

As you approached the grand imperial palace, the atmosphere remained unchanged. You waved dismissively to Cassia while Geta signaled his soldiers to depart. Your own guard bowed in respect, and you returned the gesture with a simple wave of your hand.

Leaving the atrium, you trailed a few steps behind Geta as he strode down a lengthy corridor, ascending a flight of gilded steps that led to the private chambers of the palace. Upon reaching the threshold of his quarters, he paused and beckoned you inside with a wave from the doorway.

“This is a bad idea, and you are well aware of it,” you replied, shaking your head in disapproval, “You know Caracalla has requested that I do not converse with you under any circumstances.”

“You can either come with me or stand there like a fool,” he said, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Your choice.”

With a reluctant sigh, you stepped into his quarters, moving just enough for him to close the door behind you.

“What happens next?” you asked, trying to mask the unease in your voice.

He led you across the room to another door, swinging it open to reveal his impressive study—similar in grandeur to Caracalla’s. Just as you suspected, he slid aside a panel next to a bookcase, revealing a hidden passageway, the same one he had guided you through on your wedding night when Caracalla had been passed out. You navigated the narrow corridor, following Geta, a knot of anxiety tightening in your throat.

“I have had enough of these secret passages, of hidden motives and lies,” you admitted with a heavy sigh. “And I am emotionally drained from dealing with the fragile egos of you and your brother. I am sick from whiplash due to both of your ever changing moods. Have we not moved on from those childish days in Sicilia?”

Geta paused for a moment, the flickering torch light illuminating his features. “You speak as though we have tormented you day in and day out for years. I assure you, it was and will never be personal.”

“What is life if it is not personal, Geta?” you inquired sincerely.

“It is merely a game, Prima. We play the cards we are dealt.” He turned, his gaze thoughtfully assessing your expression. “Do not feign ignorance. You are indeed playing your hand, I have observed it myself.”

“Make sure you cover yourself up properly,” he said, glancing at the veil you wore, adjusting it to better hide your profile. “And take off that necklace.”

Feeling confused, you did as he asked, surprised when he took the necklace from you and placed it gently over the bridge of your nose, fastening it at the back of your head.

“To hide your face,” he explained.

“Hide my face from what?” you asked, but before he could reply, he slid the door open.

He stepped into the chamber, his silhouette suddenly illuminated by the flickering candlelight, a hazy cloud of incense swirling around him like a mist. With a graceful gesture, he extended his hand toward you, and before you could second-guess your instincts, you accepted it, allowing him to guide you from the dim corridor.

Before you, a scene of unabashed hedonism played out, where pleasure took precedence. Bodies entwined on every available surface; no lectus was spared from the terror of lovers lost in ecstasy. The air was thick with a chorus of moans and sighs, punctuated by the occasional sharp sound of flesh meeting flesh.

The chamber itself seemed to have once served as a sleeping quarters, now transformed into a sanctuary of indulgence. An elevated bed rested against the wall, draped in sheer curtains that obscured its occupants, their movements a hazy blur. In the area where you and Geta had entered, a grand table stood opposite, filled with exotic fruits and succulent roasted meats, inviting guests to partake in the feast while they watched the show. They swayed gently to the sultry melodies played by skilled musicians on lyres and flutes, the atmosphere alive and electric.

Geta guided you further into the chamber, his presence momentarily undetected as he settled into a high-backed chair that afforded him a prime view of the bed’s occupants. You lingered before him, your senses overwhelmed by the sights and sounds, when he suddenly drew you down to sit on his lap.

“Geta—” you protested, a hint of disapproval in your voice, “this is highly inappropriate.”

“Amidst all around us, you single this out as inappropriate?” he quipped, a playful smirk on his lips. “Sit still and enjoy the moment.”

His words hung in the air, a blend of mischief and allure, as the curtains on the bed began to sway, promising a view of its occupants lost in their own worlds.

There, amidst a tangle of hands and mouths, Caracalla lay sprawled in the center of the bed. His eyes were tightly shut, back arched away from the mattress as a woman stroked his cock with a dizzying rhythm—first lazily from root to tip, then with a fervor that blurred her hand around his delicate member. His toes curled, and his eyes rolled back as his seed spilled onto the woman’s fist, lost in the throes of ecstasy.

You tensed in Geta’s lap, torn between horror and fascination as the scene unfolded before you. Caracalla’s cock, spent yet firm against his thigh, filled you with a wave of shame as you recalled how flaccid he had been hovering over your own bare form earlier in the day.

Surrounded by three women, you watched as they descended upon him like vultures. The petite one mounted him, her cunt swallowing his spent cock in a single fluid motion. She rode him without pause, her gaze fixed on the other two girls who writhed at the head of the bed, their moans rising and falling in a symphony of pleasure as Caracalla’s fingers danced in and around their cunts, his ministrations causing them to lose all sense of reason as evident by their sounds.

You squeezed your thighs together, trying to block out the pulsing sensation. Sensing your turmoil, Geta placed his hands on your hips, guiding you to press down and grind your damp cunt into the firm flesh of his thigh.

“No,” you breathed, inhaling shakily as you pushed his hands away.

A stunning woman approached the two of you, and you stood, excusing yourself from the scene. You watched as she led Geta away, his head turning back towards you, a fleeting look of longing crossing his features as you slipped away toward the panel, revealing the hidden corridor. It was only once you reached the solitude of your quarters that you finally allowed your mask to fall, the weight of the day finally sinking in.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

It took exactly a week to ready Cassia, building her confidence for the task ahead. Though you had been anxious at first, desperation had a way of gnawing straight to the bone. Once you accepted the reality of your situation, you knew it was time to act—to wound Caracalla as deeply as he had wounded you.

It was common knowledge that Septimius had generously gifted you part of his late wife’s collection: a set of ruby rings, the golden diadem he had placed upon your head on your wedding day, and a striking emerald necklace. Of all these treasures, the rubies had become your favorite, their deep crimson a perfect match for your heirloom wrist cuffs, which you chose for your daily attire.

Cassia took pride in her role, carefully preparing each piece as you dressed daily, her timing impeccable as she laid them out. She beamed whenever she knew she had chosen well, her satisfaction a quiet victory. Though she was still reserved, Cassia had begun to open up, sharing bits of her life before becoming a servant of the palace. She spoke of her family, her village, and, to your surprise, revealed that the two of you shared a name day.

“Perhaps this is the gods’ way of blessing our budding friendship,” you said with a smile, resting your hand gently on her forearm.

“Perhaps, your excellency,” she replied, her cheeks flushing with color.

“I must admit, I detest such formality,” you said, tilting your head with a playful grin. “You may call me Prima.”

“I could never,” she murmured, her gaze dropping to the floor. “It would be dishonorable.”

“I believe it falls to me to decide what is and is not a dishonor,” you reassured her, your tone soft but firm.

Over the next few days, you spoke candidly with Cassia, sharing glimpses of your life before becoming Augusta. You told stories of fleeting childhood encounters with the Imperator and his sons with personal anecdotes, revealing just enough to make her feel at ease.

As the seeds of friendship began to take root, you started to stitch together the threads of your larger scheme.

“Cassia,” you asked one morning as she fastened the clasps on your tunic, “have you ever been to the villa that houses the concubines?”

“I… have not,” she admitted, her hands pausing briefly before returning to their task. “Though I am close with one of the regular servants stationed there.”

You nodded, your expression neutral as you combed your hair before the looking glass, watching her reflection as she carefully selected a veil to complement your attire.

Two days later, as you strolled through the rose garden, Cassia presented a petite blonde girl to you.

“Your excellency, may I introduce Metella,” she said, her tone light yet tinged with nerves.

The girl, no older than Cassia, bowed low. You tilted your head, studying her with quiet curiosity.

“She works at the villa, your excellency,” Cassia added, offering context, doing your bidding without you having to ask her to.

“Yes, of course,” you replied with a measured nod. “A pleasure to meet you, Metella.”

“The pleasure is mine, your excellency,” Metella said softly, her faint smile barely reaching her eyes.

You spent a good portion of the afternoon in their company, walking the garden paths. Cassia and Metella trailed close behind, pausing whenever you stopped to smell a set of roses. At your direction, they clipped the blossoms you favored. As they worked, Metella spoke in hushed tones about the villa.

“Behind the palace,” she began, her voice just above a whisper as she clipped another rose, “up the gravel road that leads away from the stables, there is a villa. Three ladies live there now.”

You nodded, already certain of whom she spoke, but said nothing as the pieces of your plan continued to fall into place.

You stopped abruptly, spinning on your heel to face them. The speed of your movement caught Cassia and Metella off guard, and they nearly stumbled into you.

“If I asked a favor of you both, would you consider it?” you asked, your tone calm but carrying a weight that left no room for dismissal.

The girls exchanged a glance, an unspoken conversation passing between them. Cassia was the first to respond, her face lighting up with a genuine smile.

“Anything for you, your excellency,” she said, bowing low. You couldn’t help but smile softly at her devotion. Metella quickly followed suit, her bow a little less confident. It was in that moment you knew—the plan would succeed.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

It took two days to carefully craft every detail. You scrutinized the scheme in your mind, playing out every scenario until you felt confident enough for the plan to officially be carried out.

Late one night, under the cover of darkness, you met Cassia and Metella in the stables. The air was thick with tension as the girls paced nervously, their movements quick and uncertain. You had already arranged for the stable hands to be elsewhere, ensuring complete privacy.

“There will be panic,” you began, your voice low and deliberate, “and the servants’ quarters will be turned upside down in the search for these jewels. But if you listen carefully and follow my instructions exactly, no blame will fall on either of you.”

Both girls nodded, their wide eyes fixed on you as you reached beneath your cloak and produced a small satin bag.

“In the morning, Metella, place a piece of jewelry into each of their jewelry boxes after you have dressed them and they have left the villa,” you instructed. “Metella, once it is done, come straight to my quarters.”

Metella nodded, her trembling hands reaching for the bag. She tucked it into her satchel, her knuckles pale from holding the satchel so tightly.

“If, at any point, you feel frightened or unable to carry out the task, return the jewels to me immediately,” you said, your tone softening slightly. But then your expression hardened, and the faint moonlight caught the sharp edge of your gaze.

“And know this—if either of you breathes a word of this plan to another soul, I will see you crucified. Your entrails will hang from the city walls, and your families will be exiled to the furthest, most desolate rock beneath the sun.”

The chilling threat lingered in the air. Cassia and Metella glanced at each other nervously.

They turned back to you and nodded, their expressions solemn.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

The morning of, you could not stop pacing your chambers, every detail of the plan playing on a loop in your mind. You woke early, bathing slowly, letting the warm water and scented oils calm your nerves. By the time you dressed and added the finishing touches, you felt more prepared—or at least looked the part.

Cassia appeared in your doorway, her hair slightly out of place and worry etched on her face.

“Your excellency, am I late?” she asked, her voice small.

“I am merely early,” you said, smoothing the folds of your tunic as you checked yourself in the looking glass. You barely had a moment to exhale before the door slammed open, and Metella rushed in.

“It is done,” she said, breathless and quiet.

You nodded, keeping your expression neutral even as your pulse quickened. “Good. Now, listen carefully. I need both of you to prepare an offering to Juno in my name. Once you have gathered what is needed, go to her temple and spend the day praying—ask her to grant me an heir. Do not return to the palace until dusk.”

They exchanged a glance but nodded quickly, bowing their heads.

“I will give you enough time to get ready before I speak with the Imperator,” you said firmly. “You are dismissed.”

The door shut behind them, and the silence that followed was deafening. You leaned against your dressing table, gripping its edge to steady yourself. For a moment, you let the mask drop, your fear bubbling to the surface. Taking a shaky breath, you whispered a prayer—not just to Juno, but for the strength to face what was coming. You could only hope the Imperator would not see right through you.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Prima, what a delightful surprise,” Septimius exclaimed as you approached the table on his sunlit terrace. He nodded, dismissing the praetorian who had guided you inside, returning him to his post.

“I hope I am not intruding,” you said, glancing down at the imperator’s feet, which rested in a basin filled with amber liquid.

“Ah, the trials of age, nothing more,” he reassured you, gesturing for you to take a seat across from him. He poured a cup of rich wine and offered it to you. You nodded in gratitude as his gaze searched your face.

“What troubles you?” he inquired, tilting his head slightly.

“What do you mean?” you replied, taking a sip from your cup, feigning innocence.

“There is a shadow of worry behind those lovely eyes,” he noted, crossing his hands on the table.

You sighed and set your cup down. “I am embarrassed, Imperator,” you began, watching as his brows knitted together, “something has occurred.”

“What has happened, Prima?” he asked, leaning in closer, his concern evident.

“The rubies you gifted me, the ones that belonged to your late wife—I fear they have gone missing.” You covered your face in shame as he reached out to grasp your wrist gently.

“When did this happen?” he pressed, his delicate grip urging you to speak.

“I noticed this morning,” you murmured, “I sent my two servants to the temple of Juno at dawn, instructing them to make offerings in my honor and not to return until dusk.” You paused, gathering your thoughts. “I dressed myself to meet with my father, to catch up on family matters, but when I went to retrieve the rubies from their resting place, they were gone.”

Septimius sighed, leaning back in his chair, stroking the gray stubble on his chin. “Have you confided in Caracalla?” he asked, and you shook your head.

“He is not pleased that I wear his mother’s jewelry,” you admitted. “He has threatened to take them from me and give them to his courtesans if I continue to wear them. He thinks me unworthy.”

Septimius’s eyes narrowed. “He still indulges with his courtesans?”

“Please, your excellency, do not say it was I who revealed this,” you implored, reaching for his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze, asking for his discretion.

“I have heard whispers that the three he favors have taken residence in the villa behind the stables.” You spoke softly, shame flooding your cheeks.

Septimius straightened, his jaw tightening as he regarded you. “Spend the day with your father, and allow me to address this matter,” he instructed, and you nodded solemnly. “Exercise the utmost discretion and speak of this to no one else.”

“Of course.” You rose, but he caught your hand before you could express your gratitude and leave his quarters.

“Everything shall be well in due time,” he promised, kissing your knuckles as he met your gaze.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Word spread like wildfire through the bustling halls of the palace, as the praetorians stormed the servants’ quarters, tearing through each room, leaving a trail of chaos in their wake. It wasn’t long before you learned the news: the jewelry had been found in the possession of Antonia, Tullia, and Marcella, the ladies residing in the villa behind the stables.

As soon as the jewelry was found tucked away in each lady’s respective jewelry box, the villa was locked down tight, with guards stationed to ensure no one could slip in or out, all by the direct order of the Imperator. The three women were swiftly banished from the palace and exiled to the farthest reaches of the empire, their families shamed by their actions, forced to join them in their sentencing. It was truly a stroke of luck that they still had their heads on their shoulders, for the Imperator could have dealt them a harsher fate.

Your plan had worked like a charm, unfolding just as you had hoped. The pieces fell into place perfectly, and you couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction at how it all turned out.

As night descended and you faced the weight of your choices, you let your emotions wrap around you like a heavy blanket—neither ashamed nor particularly proud, but feeling as though you had sunk lower than expected. Shaking off such thoughts, you turned to the polished bronze mirror on your dressing table, brushing aside the strands of hair that clung to your neck and wiping away the remnants of kohl from your eyes.

It was then that the echoes of an angry voice grew louder, approaching your quarters. You sprang to your feet, frozen in place, the sheer fabric of your gown pooling around your feet as your gaze fixed on the door.

When Caracalla burst in, you remained still.

“You!” he spat through clenched teeth, flinging a handful of precious ruby rings in your direction. “You deceitful, rancid wench!” He advanced, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

“You have made a fool of me!” He seized your shoulders, shaking you with fury.

“You’ve done that to yourself!” You pulled away, but he was quick to grasp you again, forcing you backward until your back hit the wall beside the door.

“I was merely reclaiming what is rightfully mine,” you declared, holding your head high, “what was taken from me.”

“What was taken from you,” he sneered, his arms pinning you in place as his hands braced against the wall on either side of your head. “Nothing here belongs to you.”

You struggled against his grip, but he pressed you closer to the wall with his own body.

“If we are to claim our rights, then I shall take what is mine.”

With a sudden motion, he hoisted you by the back of your thighs, slamming your back against the wall once more. You protested, pushing against his shoulders and striking at his solid flesh, but he merely laughed, relishing the moment as he held you against the wall, lifting your gown to expose your bare form.

“Deceitful wench,” he hissed through gritted teeth, yanking down the collar of your gown to reveal your neck and collarbones. You cried out as a sharp sting pierced the skin between your neck and shoulder, his incisors biting into your flesh. He pressed harder, a trickle of blood staining the sheer fabric of your gown.

You felt paralyzed, your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth as he pulled back, wrestling with his toga, his hands trembling with rage.

He held you so tightly that it started to hurt, burying himself deep inside you, lifting you off the wall with every thrust. He devoured the tender flesh of your neck and chest, biting, kissing, and sucking, his teeth grazing your soft skin.

All you could do was hang on to him, clinging to him so fiercely that it was hard to tell where he ended and you began.

With a loud grunt, he spilled himself within you, letting his head drop between your shoulder and neck as he gasped for breath. When he pulled back to look at you, he searched your face just as you searched his. Both of you were left wondering what had just happened and why it stirred feelings in you that you had never felt before.

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

Tag list:

@alwaysahiccupandastrid

@justnobodynothingmore

@miamariposita

@niungguang

dividers: @ghoulbloggerrr

[caramelarrowswife]

do you think that dark cacao would go dad mode and go after whoever is marrying caramel arrow with the intent to have his sword make contact with their insides in an unpleasant way

KING’S BLESSING

─── ∘°❉°∘ ───

Caramel Arrow Cookie wishes to introduce her king-father to her soon-to-be wife, Financier Cookie.

Unfortunately for all three of them, Dark Cacao Cookie has not in the slightest forgotten what had happened during the Odyssey.

A/N: i'm alive!! i'm working on three different stories, i swear i'll post more

─── ∘°❉°∘ ───

Three quiet knocks on Dark Cacao Cookie’s door shook the king from his thoughts, and he stood up to open the door. The visitor was his most loyal Watcher and daughter, Caramel Arrow Cookie.

“Caramel Arrow,” Dark Cacao said. “Do you require my assistance with anything..?”

“No, my lord,” Caramel Arrow said, her usually stern voice tinged with nervousness, “I only wish for you to.. meet someone.”

Dark Cacao’s face cleared up. “Ah, are you finally introducing me to your husband?”

“You- knew I planned to get married?” Caramel Arrow asked carefully, her expression guarded.

“You were twitching like a frightened rabbit all week,” Dark Cacao said kindly. “Did you bring him with you..?”

“It’s not quite.. a ‘him’, your Majesty,” Caramel Arrow replied. “But she’s just as strong as any warrior in our army. She’s very protective and could, err, hypothetically.. take an angry warrior in an attack. You’ve met her before, I believe..”

“Hm.. well, at least you chose a strong lady,” Dark Cacao hummed thoughtfully. “I hadn’t expected anything else from you, if I’m truthful. When do I get to meet her?”

“I brought her with me, actually,” Caramel Arrow said. Her shoulders were squared and her back was straight, a defence mechanism in uncomfortable situations she had inherited from her father.

The archer stepped aside, and another knight stepped beside her. Not a knight.. a paladin. A paladin with a white uniform with golden decorations, with blonde hair as straight as a ruler and brownish eyes that gauged the king’s reaction carefully.

Dark Cacao’s eyes twitched, his smile the fakest thing Caramel Arrow had ever seen (excluding Affogato Cookie).

“A word, please..?”

Dark Cacao promptly turned around, not bothering to check if Caramel Arrow was even following. The smile was gone completely when they were alone in the king’s room, replaced by dark eyes.

“Caramel Chocolate Arrow Cookie. You have five minutes to explain yourself before I take her head,” Dark Cacao said, his voice dangerously calm.

“She only interfered between you and the Consul because it was her duty to! I thought- I was sure you would appreciate the loyalty!” Caramel Arrow burst out, her brown eyes blown wide with determination.

“I would appreciate the loyalty if she was not protecting a traitor and a thief who wanted to take my Souljam,” Dark Cacao snarled.

“She had no voice in the discussion, she was only there to protect, just as Crunchy Chip was!” Caramel Arrow’s voice was louder than she had meant it to be.

“I don’t care! My daughter, my heir, is not marrying that.. that Vanillian scum! End of discussion!” Dark Cacao shouted back.

“‘Vanillian scum’?” Caramel Arrow repeated disbelievingly. “A bit hypocritical, no? If I remember correctly, you were the one caught in Pure Vanilla Cookie’s bedroom, your Majesty!”

“Have you lost your mind?!” Dark Cacao growled, but his ears went a dark red. “Who do you think you are, talking to your king and father like this? Do I need to teach you a lesson in discipline?!”

“Do what you want! I am marrying Financier Cookie, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!” Caramel Arrow crossed her arms over her chest, imitating her father’s position subconsciously. Their facial expressions were mirrored perfectly.

A flicker of hesitation in the king’s eyes was all Caramel Arrow needed to see to know she won the argument. In turn, the smugness in her eyes sufficed to make Dark Cacao realised he lost.

“She will have to cut off all contact with that insolent man,” Dark Cacao demanded after a moment of silence. “She will follow a Warrior’s training, and you will strictly sleep apart until your wedding night. If you get caught even holding hands, I’ll have her executed. Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Caramel Arrow grinned, following her father outside where her girlfriend was waiting.

Dark Cacao was first to reach Financier. He grabbed her by her shoulders, staring into her eyes intensely before muttering; “If I ever, ever hear you break my daughter’s heart, I’ll make sure to send yours to your family.”

Caramel Arrow, who most certainly heard this, shouldered him away quickly to take a perplexed Financier’s hands in her own.

“That’s practically his blessing,” Caramel Arrow whispered excitedly, pulling her girlfriend-turned-fiance away through the halls of the citadel.

“I said no such thing!” Dark Cacao shouted at them. His voice was slightly warmer than before.

[fyxestroll]

Eight: The First Meeting

pairing: roboute guilliman x reader (fem.)

description: finding himself slowly tired of playing games Roboute seeks solace at the senate library only to find that he is not the only one doing the same.

warnings: none, reader is 2-3 years older than roboute (so he's like 8 and reader's 10-11) but nothing romantic happens between the two dw.

masterlist | >> next

The halls of the Senate building are deathly quiet as lawmakers and public servants occupy the countless meeting rooms. Sunlight streams through the marble pillars, lighting up the hallway with a warm white light. 

The heat of the afternoon has yet to come but Roboute has already found himself with sweat over his brow as he jogs, mentally counting down.

Five…

He makes a sharp turn and nearly bumps into a pair of jurisconsults.

Four…

He makes another turn but quickly realises it leads to the wrong place.

Three…

He backtracks.

Two…

He stops in front of the familiar heavy set of doors that lead to the library and quietly enters.

One…

Roboute closes the doors and sighs in relief. He will not be found here. As insistent that child might be he would not think to look in the Senate library or be able to open its doors. All that was left for him to do was wait, wait until his playmate got tired of looking and found something else to entertain himself with. 

‘Finally, some alone—’ He thought too soon. 

He wasn’t alone.

 He hadn’t been the moment he entered.

Standing on a ladder by the shelves you look down at him, a smug smirk on your face. “Marcus got you to play hide and seek didn’t he?”

The young Guilliman doesn't reply, too engrossed in analysing the stranger before him.

You wore a woollen tunic that bore intricate patterns at the hem woven in golden thread, a clear sign of wealth. ‘Perhaps, a noble’s daughter?’ but if that were the case he would recognise you. ‘A public servant’s then?’ but that would not match with the fineries of your clothing. 

He decides you will remain a stranger until you introduce yourself.

“You’re hiding from him, aren’t you?” You continue to ask, overlooking his silence. Tucked underneath your arm are a series of codices on animal husbandry. “I mean, I get it. The kid’s a lot to deal with but…I feel bad y’know. No one wants to play with him.” He’s read them himself and wrote a couple of suggestions on how better organise the record keeping of lineages to ensure that no inbreeding would occur. He wishes others would have similar opinions.

Climbing down from your perch you go to him, a pout on your face at his lack of response. You’re young he notes, older than him but yet to come of age. 

“You’re Roboute, right?” You ask, expecting to be ignored, “Consul Guilliman’s son.”

Finally, he answers, “Yes, I’m Roboute Guilliman.” It’s polite, almost dull but it’s an introduction expected of a nobleman’s son. ‘He’s exactly how the tutors describe him,’ You thought, going back to the countless times that some of the finest scholars in Mcragge raved about Konor Guilliman’s son, a prodigy, a boy mentally and physically beyond his years. It had sounded like hyperbole, like they were setting up an unreachable standard.

“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you. I’m…” You introduce yourself, holding out a hand for him to shake, “Senator Gallan’s niece.”

He shakes your hand firmly, exuding a confidence that you failed to notice mere moments ago and you realise that your tutors’ praise of the younger weren’t just empty words. Just like they said the young Guilliman was only eight years old but he was already taller and resembled an early adolescent more than you and from look alone you could see the acumen he holds. This boy is more than a prodigy. You could feel it in your bones.

And the very thought of besting someone like that felt like someone directly inserted three shots of pure recaff into your veins. You couldn’t even imagine the feeling of doing so.

So you hum and point to the set chessboard in the corner,  “Now that introductions are over I could kick you out and let Marcus find you or…you play with me. I find myself lacking in decent opponents lately.”

It’s a challenge.

And it’s one Roboute would gladly take.  

“Then. ,” he smiles, and you find it a little too wide, “I hope I can be a worthy one.” And he leads the way to the chessboard, excitement bubbling inside him. He’s heard of you before, of Gallan’s maternal niece that he’s recently taken under his care, and he’s heard of your intellect.

It’s thrilling. 

The idea that he’s found someone who could keep up, someone who understood the intricacies of bureaucracy and maybe, just maybe he hopes he’s found a friend.

notes: struggling to write a childhood friends to lovers style of story because primarchs age weird. like their brains and bodies are so advanced but they don't have that maturity that comes with age yet. also I tried to incorporate some of the uncaniness you get from primarchs in general

[watermelonlovershigh]

Apologies and Giggles (SMUT) /concept/

AN: just another scene that kept playing in my head so i wrote it out. it's a little silly piece with a loving touch. enjoy.

This story contains: sex, giggles, apologies, mentions of ass play, kinda angsty?, harry being as sweet as ever

{ boyfriend!harry - softrry - current harry era }

word count- 389

During sex you accidently touch Harry's bum hole to which Harry finds hillarious but you get embarrassed and apologize.

"Baby, if you wanted to play with my ass you could have just told me." Harry says through giggles with his face in your warm neck.

See, you'd had your hands gripped on both sides of Harry's butt cheeks as he thrusted into you. But from his aggressive movements your fingers slipped between his crack and accidently touched his tight hole. After the initial shock of the touch, Harry fell forward and couldn't stop laughing.

"Har, I..... I'm so sorry. I didn't mean too, my hand just slipped." you try to apologize.

Hearing that you're not on the same page in this situation, Harry finishes his last giggle before sitting up, still inside you might I add.

"Y/N, love, why are you apologizing for? You've literally ate my ass before. You know I'm all for a little bum play." Harry says to consul your worried mind. He honestly didn't care one bit, even if it was only an accident.

Looking up to make the first eye contact since the accident occured, you rebuttal, "Yeah but it startled you. Like I should have asked to touch you there first and I didn't."

Harry leans back down so you're chest to chest again and speaks softly in your right ear, "Baby, we-are-havin' sex. We know each other's limits and do's and don'ts. As far as I know, I've never gave you a rule to not touch certain parts of me. I'm all yours. Whatever you wanna do or touch, I'm here for it. You don't have to ask. Just do what you know would make me feel good and I'll do the same to you, alright. And it only startled me because I just wasn't expecting it, didn't mean I didn't like it."

Very quietly, you mutter, "Okay, thank you for being so kind. Now can you start moving again because before I accidently touched your ass hole you were about to make me come."

Giggling again, Harry answers, "Yeah, want me to keep fuckin' you baby? Make you come?" You only nod your head and he continues, "Course I'll make you come, m'love. But like, can you do that thing with your fingers where you reach behind me and like, touch my bum hole." Now he's only mocking the incident.

You catch on to the giggles and gasp, "Harry!"

(PLEASE REBLOG BECAUSE WRITING IS NOT EASY AND IT'S FREE SO JUST DO IT)

(no more tags are allowed because i've hit my number limit. sorry : ( )

tag list: @one-sweet-gubler // @harryscherrysugar // @hsfanficsrecss // @lollypopsx // @harrycanyonmoonn // @itfeelslikemytherapisthatesme // @damnasstyles  // @mrsstylesharry // @softmullet  // @meetmyblondemuffins  // @thegirlnextdoorssister // @stanleystyles  // @haarrrys // @michellekstyles  // @skyangel57   // @the-gardener-31 // @lhharrylilpumpkin // @yousunshine-youtemptress // @clairestylessss  // @kissmyaxe140  // @goldenmelonsugar-hi // @kaitieskidmore97 // @florencepughily  // @alienorknight //@dancearoundthelivingroom  // @swiftmendeshoran

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______________

My Masterlist Masterpost

[gullemec]

Hero Number One

Golden Ruin - Chapter Two

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: You and Hughie team up for your first real mission since you were temporarily benched. Simple. Easy. Right?... Right?

Warnings: emetophobia warning, reader vomits, alcohol use

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7k

A/N: I really love the friendship that Annie and Hughie have with the reader. It would be a real shame if... something were to happen to that. ANYWAY. Enjoy!

The morning after your conversation with Mallory dawns gray and cold, a thin frost clinging to the edges of car windows and cracked pavement.

You and Hughie sit side by side in the catering van, its engine idling a little too loud for your liking. The sleek, towering facade of the Russian Consulate looms ahead, its flags flapping lazily in the light breeze. You glance at Hughie, his thin frame practically swimming in the ill-fitting tuxedo jacket. He looks just as nervous as you feel.

"Well," he says, breaking the silence. He’s fiddling with the bow tie around his neck, which seems determined to strangle him. "This is... pretty wild, huh? Us. Russian consulate. Fancy clothes. A mission."

You huff out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Feels like a joke, doesn’t it? I mean, catering tuxes? Really?” You tug at the sleeves of your own jacket, which is equally unflattering. You can’t lie, though, you look much better in this than Hughie does.

Hughie grins, the corners of his mouth twitching nervously. “It’s either a joke, or Mallory’s finally lost it. You know, sending us in for something like this.”

“She must want us dead” you quip, leaning back against the seat and staring out the windshield. Your tone is light, but the nerves bubbling in your stomach betray you. You drum your fingers against your thighs, trying to keep your hands busy.

Hughie catches the movement and leans forward slightly, his voice lowering. “You nervous?” His tone is gentle, almost reassuring, but there’s a hint of his own anxiety beneath it.

“Terrified,” you admit with a shaky exhale. “But also... kind of excited? I mean, this is big, right? Like, big big. Mallory wouldn’t have trusted us with this if she didn’t think we could handle it. She kept saying how important this is.”

Hughie nods, his eyes wide. “Yeah. Yeah, exactly. We’ve got this. Totally. We just... walk in, smile, serve some overpriced hors d'oeuvres, and get what we need. Easy.”

“Totally,” you echo, though your voice lacks conviction. You turn to face him, arching an eyebrow. “What’s the worst that could happen, right?”

Hughie’s laugh is nervous and strained. “Oh, I don’t know. We could get caught, thrown into a Russian prison, and then Butcher has to break us out in some insane, over-the-top way that probably involves a rocket launcher.”

You consider the mental image for a moment. You don’t hate the thought.

“Honestly, sounds about right,” you reply, grinning despite yourself. Hughie’s ability to joke, even when he’s clearly terrified, is infectious.

The two of you fall into silence for a moment, staring at the consulate ahead. The back door, the one you’ll be slipping through in a matter of minutes, is just visible from where you’re parked. You can see a pair of actual catering staff unloading trays of food and crates of champagne. The sight sends a fresh wave of adrenaline through you, your heart picking up speed.

“Okay,” Hughie says, slapping his hands against his knees as if to psych himself up. “We’ve got this. We’ve trained for worse. Well, sort of. But we’re a team, right?”

“Right,” you agree, giving him a firm nod. “Team Uncomfortably Overdressed.”

Hughie chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Speak for yourself. You’re pulling that tux off way better than I am.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Hughie,” you tease, but there’s warmth in your voice. Despite everything, it’s nice having someone by your side who understands the weight of this moment.

He clears his throat, straightening his bow tie one last time. “Alright. Let’s do this before I chicken out.”

You both slide out of the van, the cold morning air biting at your skin as you approach the back entrance. The chatter of staff and the clinking of silverware grow louder with each step, and you can’t help but glance at Hughie again. He catches your eye and offers a small, encouraging smile.

You inhale deeply, trying to steady your nerves. This is it. You’re doing it. It’s terrifying, exhilarating, and completely overwhelming all at once.

With a shared look of determination, you and Hughie step into the alley, finding the unlocked back door exactly where Mallory said it would be.

~~~

The moment you and Hughie step into the dimly lit, grimy garbage room at the back of the Russian consulate, you regret every decision that led you to this exact point. The air is thick with the acrid stench of rotting food, sour chemicals, and an undercurrent of decay. It’s almost tangible, like a greasy film that coats the inside of your throat. You stifle a gag as the door shuts behind you, sealing you both into this pit of misery.

“God, it smells like something died in here,” you mutter, pulling your tuxedo jacket tighter around you, as if it could somehow protect you from the assault on your senses.

Hughie groans, waving a hand in front of his nose. “Yeah, well, at least we’re not—"

Before he can finish, your stomach lurches violently. Saliva floods your mouth in a tidal wave, nausea hitting you like a truck. You recognize the feeling immediately. Your body’s point of no return. Panic sets in as you whip your head toward him, clutching your stomach.

“Oh no... oh no.”

You barely manage to turn away before doubling over and vomiting violently onto the floor. The sound is mortifying, echoing in the cramped, grimy space, the stench of bile mingling with the already unbearable smell. You feel errant chunks splash back onto your shirt, and for a split second, your brain short-circuits. This cannot be happening.

Hughie freezes, his face a mask of pure horror. “Oh my god! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine...” you croak, wiping your mouth with a trembling hand. Your voice is unconvincing even to yourself. “Just—just keep it together.”

“Keep it together?” Hughie’s voice pitches higher, his panic rising to match yours. “You just threw up, we’re about to walk into a room full of Russian diplomats and Vought suits, and you’ve got—uh—" He gestures vaguely at your shirt, his wide eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal. “—a situation!”

Your heart pounds in your chest, the enormity of the situation slamming into you like a freight train. You try to steady your breathing, but it’s no use. A torrent of thoughts floods your mind, each one louder and more damning than the last.

This is your fault. You should’ve been calmer. Should’ve prepared better. Should’ve known your nerves would get the better of you. Now look. You’ve gone and jeopardized the whole mission.

Another wave of nausea threatens to crest, and you clamp a hand over your mouth, swallowing hard. “Okay, listen,” you manage, your voice shaky but firm. “We don’t have time to freak out. We just need to adapt.”

Hughie looks at you like you’ve just suggested defusing a bomb with a toothpick. “Adapt? Adapt?! You just vomited all over the place, and we’re supposed to—”

“Focus, Hughie!” you snap, your panic giving way to a sharp edge. You scan the room desperately, saying a silent prayer when you spot a pile of cleaning supplies in the corner. “Grab those towels and that spray bottle so I can wipe off my shoes.”

Hughie hesitates, but your glare spurs him into action. He darts to the corner and grabs the supplies, tossing you a threadbare towel.

“What about your shirt?” he asks, his voice still tinged with disbelief. “You can’t go in like that!”

“I’ll change shirts,” you reply quickly, already scanning the room for a solution. Your eyes land on a bag of soiled uniforms near the door. “Look, there’s gotta be something in that laundry bag we can use.”

Hughie rummages through the bag, pulling out a white chef’s jacket, only mildly stained with god-knows-what. He holds it up like a prize, his face a mix of triumph and incredulity. “This’ll work, right?”

“Perfect. Turn around.”

He spins on his heel, muttering something under his breath about the absurdity of the situation. You strip off your vomit-stained shirt and jacket as quickly as you can, buttoning up the chef’s jacket with shaking hands. The oversized fit does nothing for your confidence, but at least it’s clean.

“There. Crisis averted,” you say, trying to inject some levity into your voice. It comes out hollow. “Now let’s focus.”

Hughie turns back around, his brow furrowed with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay? That wasn’t, like, normal. What if you’re—”

“Hughie.” You cut him off, your tone sharper than you intended. “Focus. We’ve got a job to do.”

He nods, though he doesn’t look convinced. Together, you rush toward the meeting room, your heart pounding harder with each step. But when you push the door open, your stomach drops. The room is already full, a cluster of Russian diplomats and Vought executives deep in conversation around the polished table.

You shut the door instantaneously, throwing yourself against the wall beside the door. Panic claws at your throat. “Okay, great,” you whisper harshly to Hughie. “This is officially a disaster. We’re out of time!”

Your mind races, scrambling for a backup plan. The weight of your little fuck up hangs heavy over you, the consequences of your panic spiraling into a full-blown catastrophe. You were supposed to be better than this. You were supposed to be ready.

Hughie glances at you, his face pale but determined. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispers. “We always do.”

The tension is palpable as you pull Hughie away from the door, urging him back into the garbage room. His wide eyes flick between you and the closed meeting room as his breath comes in shallow gasps. You can see the panic building in him, the stress of the situation getting the better of him.

God, I can’t lose it now, you think to yourself, trying desperately to maintain control. Not when he’s falling apart. You force your breathing to slow, leaning back against the grimy wall, trying to think. The mission has already gone off track in the worst possible way, your fault, but you refuse to let it completely unravel.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself, scanning the room, thinking for a way out. The seconds are ticking by faster than you can keep up, but then, just as panic begins to cloud your thoughts, a sliver of clarity cuts through.

“We don’t need to be in the room ourselves. We just need to hear what’s going on.”

Hughie stares at you, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What do you mean, hear what’s going on? We were supposed to bug the room, right? What’s left?”

You take a deep breath and look around, your gaze landing on the ceiling. A vent grate, just above you, the one thing that could save your ass.

“What about that?” you say, pointing upward. “The vents!”

Hughie blinks, his eyes wide with disbelief. “You wanna climb into the vents? Like Mission Impossible? Are you insane? We don’t have time for that!”

You chuckle to yourself, but inside, your brain is already working, piecing together an absurd, but potentially viable, plan.

“No, not climb in. We don’t need to. We just need to get something in there that can listen.”

Hughie’s eyes narrow, not understanding. “Like a bug?”

You give him a sly look, reaching into his pocket. “Like a phone,” you say, swiping his cell from his pants.

The plan clicks into place, and it’s almost too perfect for words. Using the building schematics Mallory forced you to study, you locate a maintenance closet next to the meeting room. Perfect. Hughie’s hands tremble slightly as he digs through maintenance supplies for a screwdriver.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this. This feels so illegal.” Hughie’s voice wavers.

“Hughie, we’re already spying on Russian diplomats and Vought,” you remind him, exasperated. “Illegal is literally the whole point.”

With a nervous gulp, Hughie unscrews the vent grate with shaky hands. You steal one last look around, making sure the coast is clear. The tension in the air is thick, and you swear you can hear your heart pounding louder than the sound of the screwdriver turning.

The moment you’ve been dreading finally arrives. You take Hughie’s phone, your hand trembling slightly as you hold it in your palm. You quickly dial his number from your phone and wait for the call to connect. With a steadying breath, you lean over the vent and carefully toss the phone down the shaft. The soft thud it makes when it lands echoes in your ears, sending a small shiver of relief through your body. It’s in place.

“We should be good,” you mutter under your breath, straightening up.

Hughie’s expression is a mixture of awe and disbelief, but there’s no time to revel in the moment. You crouch in the corner of the maintenance closet, signaling to Hughie to follow you. You both take refuge in the corner, huddling together in silence. The only sound is your breath, shallow but determined.

The wait feels endless. Every minute feels like an eternity as you listen, straining to hear the voices filtering through the vents. They’re muffled but enough to make out words, and then it comes, the voice you’ve been waiting for. A stern, cold, decidedly Russian male voice that sends a chill through you.

"Three facilities destroyed in as many months. Each one housing... sensitive materials."

Your heart skips a beat, but you stay still, trying to focus, running through your breathing exercises.

Ashley’s voice stammers in response. “Vought... uh, Vought has no knowledge of these attacks. And to be clear, we're not responsible.”

You exchange a look with Hughie, your eyes widening. “What are they talking about? What’s going on?”

The voice responds, sharp and cutting. "The timing is convenient. Too convenient. And the power signatures… unique, are they not?"

“Power signatures?” you whisper under your breath. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

"I have no fucking clue," Hughie says, brows furrowed.

A strained silence follows, and then the man’s voice breaks in again, more chilling than before. “We made arrangements with your predecessors long ago to avoid such... disruptions. Are you going back on those arrangements?”

“Arrangements?” Ashley stammers again. “Look, Vought has nothing to gain from attacking your facilities.”

"And yet, your... Hero Number One is conspicuously unaccounted for during the incidents." The voice drops, mocking. 

"Homelander? Uh... he’s been busy. You know, saving lives." Ashley is panicking, maybe even more than you had been only minutes ago.

You stifle a laugh, but it dies in your throat as you hear the weight of the words. “Wait… Homelander’s involved?”

The voice drops lower. “Let me be clear. If these attacks continue, there will be consequences. Severe ones. But if they stop now, we will consider the matter closed. Do you understand?”

Ashley’s voice cracks, but she responds, resigned. “Crystal clear.”

You and Hughie lock eyes, frowning. It’s a lot to digest, but the important part is clear. Vought’s in deeper shit than you realized.

“Whatever it is, the Russians know Vought’s involved. That’s obvious,” you mutter to Hughie.

“We’ll find out,” Hughie says, his voice heightening with the thrill of success. You nod, unable to keep yourself from smiling with relief.

The conversation fizzles out, and after a few tense moments, the meeting breaks up. You and Hughie gather your things, trying to look as casual as possible. You head toward the door, but just as you do, you catch Hughie watching you from the corner of your eye. He’s grinning, a mixture of admiration and gratitude on his face.

“You’re really good at this stuff,” he says quietly, almost reverently. “I mean it.”

You toss him a sly wink, letting the praise wash over you. “Learned from the best,” you say with a shrug, but there’s a hint of something deeper beneath the humor.

Hughie doesn’t buy it, though. “You should get that checked out, you know. The throwing up thing, it’s not nothing.”

You roll your eyes, brushing it off. “Let’s deal with one crisis at a time.”

Hughie’s eyebrows shoot up, clearly about to say something when you cut him off. “Like getting my phone out of the vent?”

“Oh my god, Hughie,” you groan, already walking out the door. “I’ll just buy you a new one. My inheritance isn’t going to spend itself.”

The exit is smooth, effortless even, and as you slip back into the bustling streets of the city, the rush of success courses through you. This mission? Almost a disaster, but for now, it’s a win. And that was all you needed.

~~~

You burst through the door with a rush of adrenaline, your heart still pounding from the mission. Mallory looks up from her desk, her eyes narrowing in that familiar, no-nonsense way. She’s seated behind a mountain of files, a steaming mug of coffee beside her. She doesn’t even flinch at the commotion as you and Hughie stumble in, breathless and clearly still buzzing from the success of your almost-botched mission. But you can sense the shift in her posture as she takes in your disheveled appearances. You both know it’s coming, the moment when you have to explain the details of what went down.

Her gaze flicks to your shirt, decidedly not the one you left in, and she raises an eyebrow. "I trust there's a good reason you're barging in here like this," Mallory says, her tone flat but tinged with a hint of curiosity. "Start talking."

You shoot a glance at Hughie, who looks just as nervous as you feel. Taking a deep breath, you launch into the details, trying to sound more confident than you feel. "We got something. The Russians think Vought is attacking their labs, but they don’t have proof. They mentioned something about ‘power signatures’ and accused Vought of breaking some... arrangement from years ago."

Hughie chimes in, his voice tinged with uncertainty, but still eager to contribute. “And Ashley, uh, she sounded nervous. Really nervous. Didn’t even deny it outright, just danced around everything.” He shrugs, trying to play it cool, but you both know the tension in the room has shifted.

Mallory’s expression remains unreadable, her brows furrowed as she takes it all in. “Power signatures... Homelander?”

"That’s what we’re thinking," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. “But the Russians are definitely in the know. They gave Vought an ultimatum… stop the attacks, or there’ll be retaliation.”

Mallory’s gaze sharpens, and her fingers tap lightly against the desk. “Interesting. And how exactly did you overhear all this? I didn’t hear anything coming from the bugs.”

You and Hughie exchange a glance, the kind of silent communication that only comes from shared moments of panic. You both know you’re about to enter dangerous territory. Hughie opens his mouth to speak first, but you beat him to it, hoping to smooth it over. “Uh, well... slight change of plans,” you say, your voice sounding a little too casual. “The vent system gave us better access, so we... sort of dropped his phone in there and called it with mine.”

Mallory’s brow arches. “Dropped his phone in the vent?”

You wince, feeling the sting of her skepticism. “It was my idea. We didn’t have time to do anything else, the food carts were already gone, and we had to act fast. It worked.” You try to maintain your cool, but you can already tell this isn’t going over well.

Hughie jumps in, trying to shoulder some of the blame. “Hey, I could’ve said no. I went along with it, so if you’re gonna be mad at someone, be mad at me too.”

Mallory sighs, her hand massaging her temples as though fighting a headache. “Let me get this straight. Not only did you veer off plan, but you left a phone, one of your phones, in a building crawling with Vought security?”

You both drop your heads like scolded children, waiting for the hammer to fall. You can feel the weight of Mallory’s silence in the air as she processes the situation. Finally, she speaks again, her voice softer this time, but still carrying a sharp edge.

“That said...” she begins, leaning back in her chair, her gaze piercing as she assesses both of you. “It was quick thinking. Resourceful. And brave, considering the risks.” She pauses, her expression unreadable. 

She says your name, like it amuses her.

“You remind me of me when I was your age. Same mix of guts and recklessness. I respected it then, and I respect it now… But guts without discipline is a liability.”

You look up, meeting her gaze. It’s hard not to feel a rush of pride, even though you’re still on edge. You hold back a dumb grin, only nodding in acknowledgment. “Understood,” you say quietly, the weight of her words sinking in.

She turns her attention to Hughie next. “And you,” Mallory says, her tone slightly softer but still firm. “You’re loyal to a fault. That’s both your greatest strength and your greatest weakness. Don’t let it get you killed.”

Hughie fidgets, his usual awkwardness surfacing as he tries to figure out how to respond. “Thanks... I think?” There’s a nervous chuckle in his voice, but the smile on his face is genuine, if a little sheepish.

Mallory stands up abruptly, signaling the end of the conversation. “Get some rest, both of you. I’ll call a meeting when I decide what to do next. And don’t make me regret trusting you with this.”

As you head out the door, Hughie nudges you lightly with his elbow. You can hear the smallest hint of a grin in his voice. “See? You’re officially Mallory’s favorite. I’m just the guy who sacrifices phones.”

You roll your eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “You’re the guy who has my back. That counts for something.”

Hughie’s grin widens, but there's a hint of something else in his expression, something unspoken, a closeness that’s grown between you both in the chaos of the mission. You can’t help but feel a strange sense of pride that, despite the curveballs, you made it through this together. It’s enough that you let yourself feel happy for once.

~~~

Back in the sanctuary of your apartment, you peel off the soiled chef’s jacket, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy thud, followed by the tuxedo pants. Each item feels like a layer of the day you’re shedding, leaving a trail of your ordeal across the living room floor as you make your way toward the bathroom.

The day itself clings to you like a second skin, like a physical weight you can’t seem to shake. The grime of the garbage room, the sweat of anxiety that had you gripping your phone too tightly, the faint but nauseating scent of vomit that seems embedded in your pores. It all lingers, an oppressive reminder of the chaos you barely succeeded against.

The bathroom is dimly lit, the single bulb above the mirror casting a soft glow over the tiled walls. You twist the taps of the bathtub, favoring the hot water. The pipes groan in protest, but soon the sound of rushing water drowns everything out. Steam rises, curling in thick tendrils that fill the room with a warm haze, blurring the edges of the mirror until your reflection disappears entirely.

You reach for the row of glass jars and bottles on the counter, your movements deliberate and unhurried. Lavender bath salts, eucalyptus oils, a dollop of honey-scented soap, all of it goes into the steaming water. The calming aroma envelops you almost instantly, soft and soothing, as if the lavender itself is whispering breathe.

When the tub is full, you step in gingerly, the scalding water biting at your skin. You hiss through your teeth as the heat wraps around you, but you don’t stop. It’s just shy of unbearable, and that’s exactly what you want. The pain is cleansing, purifying, driving out the lingering discomfort of the day.

You sink deeper, letting the water lap at your shoulders, then your collarbones, until it feels as though it’s holding you in place. Every muscle begins to unclench, the tension draining out of you like water down the drain. You scrub at your arms and legs methodically, like scrubbing the grime of the day will somehow erase the memories tied to it.

And then, when you’ve done all you can on the surface, you let yourself slip beneath the warm, foamy water. The bubbles crackle as they collapse around you. The world outside disappears, replaced by muffled silence and weightlessness.

You’ve always loved this part. The stillness, the sensory deprivation. There’s something comforting about being underwater, as if time slows down and nothing can reach you. No sounds, no responsibilities, no doubts. Just the rhythmic beat of your own heart and the cocoon of warmth around you.

You force your mind to go blank. The anxiety still bubbling in your veins from the mission, the lingering nausea from the garbage room, the stubborn tremor of adrenaline that refuses to fade, all of it is shoved aside. Even the persistent doubts about Butcher, your tenuous place in this strange, chaotic group, and the nagging voice that insists you don’t belong, it all dissipates, sinking into the depths of the bathwater like sediment.

For a fleeting moment, you find peace.

And then, like a cruel joke, the deep rumble of vibration shatters it.

You break the surface with a gasp, lungs expanding greedily as the steamy air rushes in. Your ears are ringing slightly from the sudden return to reality. Blinking away the water clinging to your lashes, you spot the culprit. Your phone, perched precariously on the ledge of the sink, buzzing insistently.

It vibrates again and again, as though whoever is calling knows exactly how close you were to shutting the world out and is determined to pull you back in.

You hesitate, staring at it through the veil of steam. For a moment, you consider ignoring it, letting the water reclaim you. But the world doesn’t wait. Not for you.

With a sigh, you reach for the phone, wiping a damp hand on the towel draped over the edge of the tub before swiping the screen. Butcher. His name stares back at you, cutting through the haze like a lighthouse in the fog. It sends a strange twist to your gut, an emotion you can’t quite name or place, something that wavers between guilt and relief.

You lower yourself back into the water, cradling the phone to your ear. “Hey,” you say, trying to keep your voice light, airy, like the mist swirling around you.

“Hey, love.” His voice is low and gruff, but there’s an edge of relief in it, a subtle tension easing. “How’d things go today?”

There’s weight to his question, the kind that says he already knows the answer but wants to hear it from you.

“They went… alright,” you say, wincing as the words leave your mouth. It’s half a truth, and Butcher can smell those from a mile away. You could’ve lied, could’ve told him everything went off without a hitch, bragged about you and Hughie finally securing the intel the Boys had been chasing for months.

But you know better.

Even if you’d managed to mask the strain in your voice, Butcher doesn’t make a habit of staying out of the loop on missions, especially one as critical as this. If he’s calling, it’s not for the facts. It’s for you.

“What happened?” he asks, and his voice is heavier now, weighted with something that sounds suspiciously like worry.

“I…” You hesitate, biting your lip. “I don’t know. I threw up.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end. You can almost picture the way his brow furrows, the twitch of his jaw as he processes your answer.

“We were in this garbage room,” you continue, rushing the words before he can press. “It was fucking disgusting. Rancid. And I guess I must’ve eaten something bad this morning because, next thing I know…” You trail off, your free hand waving uselessly in the air as if he can see it.

Another pause. When Butcher speaks again, his tone is softer, gentler, but still with that unmistakable edge. “You sure that’s all it was?”

You bristle slightly, even though you know he’s not accusing you of lying, he’s just doing what he always does. Digging, poking at the cracks to see what falls out. “Yes, I’m sure. I just—” You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face. “It wasn’t exactly my finest moment, okay?”

“I ain’t askin’ for fine moments, darlin’. I’m askin’ if you’re alright.”

His words land with a weight you weren’t prepared for, and you sink a little lower into the water, the warmth creeping up your neck. “I’m fine,” you say, but the words sound hollow even to your own ears. “It’s not like I keeled over in the middle of the mission or something.”

“No, but you bloody well could’ve,” he counters, and there’s a sharp edge to his voice now, his concern slipping into something grittier. “I see you, pushin’ yourself too far, takin’ every risk you can get away with, all so Mallory or someone else’ll give you a bloody pat on the head.”

His words hit like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, you can’t respond. He’s not wrong, and that only makes it worse.

You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Butcher, I don’t need a lecture right now, okay? I just need…” You pause, searching for the right words. “I just need to decompress. That’s all.”

There’s a soft exhale on the other end, and for a moment, you think he might actually drop it. But Butcher being Butcher, that’s wishful thinking.

“Look, I ain’t tryin’ to have a go at you,” he says, his tone shifting again, quieter now. “I’m just sayin’... you ain’t gotta push yourself so hard. We both know you’ve got more guts than half the bloody team put together, but that don’t mean you’ve gotta prove it every damn day.”

His words hit harder than you expect, and you feel your throat tighten, a lump forming that you don’t dare acknowledge. “I’m not trying to prove anything,” you say, though it sounds defensive even to you.

“Yeah?” Butcher counters, and there’s no malice in it, just that same infuriating ability to see straight through you. “Then what’s all this about, eh? Spewin’ your guts out and still soldierin’ on like nothin’ happened? You ain’t gotta prove nothin’ to me, love. Or to Mallory. Or to anyone else for that matter.”

You close your eyes, leaning back against the curve of the tub. The steam wraps around you like a cocoon, but it does nothing to soften the truth. “I just…” You exhale sharply, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I just don’t want to be dead weight. Everyone else brings something to the team. I don’t want to be the weak link.”

Butcher lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “Dead weight? Weak link? You’re havin’ a laugh, right? You’ve pulled your weight more times than I can count. But you keep pushin’ yourself like this, and you’re gonna end up hurt, or worse. And then where does that leave us, hm?”

You bite your lip, hating how much sense he’s making. “I’ll be fine,” you murmur, but it sounds weak even to you.

“Maybe,” he says, and there’s a smirk in his voice now, small but unmistakable. “But just in case, take the bloody night off, yeah? Get some proper rest. Eat somethin’ that ain’t out of a tin.”

Despite yourself, a small smile tugs at your lips. “Alright, point made. I’ll take it easy.”

“Good,” Butcher replies, the sharpness easing from his tone. “’Cause I don’t fancy givin’ Mallory the satisfaction of sayin’ I told you so when you go and get yourself in a bind tryin’ to impress her.”

“Actually,” you add, your tone softening, “I’m going over to Annie’s tonight. She invited me for a girls’ night. Thought it might be good to take a break.”

There’s a pause, and when Butcher speaks again, his voice is lighter, almost teasing. “Girls’ night, eh? What’s that, face masks and soppy films?”

“Something like that,” you reply with a laugh, feeling some of the tension drain from your chest. “No more covert missions for me today, I promise. I’ll be back in one piece.”

“See that you are,” he says, the humor fading just enough for his concern to shine through. “Just… take care of yourself, yeah?”

“Got it,” you say, a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the bathwater. “Thanks, for looking out for me.”

“Don’t mention it,” he grumbles, and the line goes dead a moment later.

You set the phone aside, sinking back into the tub with a small, genuine smile. Maybe tonight, surrounded by Annie’s easy warmth and the promise of a break, you’ll let yourself breathe.

For now, though, you let the water wash the day away, Butcher’s words echoing softly in your mind.

You’ve got nothin’ to prove.

~~~

Annie’s apartment is a cozy sanctuary, the kind of place that feels like a soft hug after a long, chaotic day. It’s small but welcoming, lit by the soft glow of fairy lights draped across the walls and candles flickering gently on the coffee table. The scent of takeout lingers in the air, blending with the comforting notes of lavender from the candles. On the coffee table sits an almost empty bottle of wine, along with snacks; chips, popcorn, and containers of leftover Chinese food. The TV is playing a classic romcom, the kind with all the predictable plot twists and grand gestures. 

Right now, the leading man is declaring his love for the main character in a dramatic and profound way. She acts like she doesn’t accept at first, but then does anyway. They kiss. Everybody claps.                   

You and Annie are curled up together on the couch, glasses of wine in hand. Her presence is like a lifeline, grounding you in a way few others can. You’ve been through so much together, but in moments like these, you’re just two friends, comfortable in each other's company.

Annie smiles at the TV, her eyes soft with a mix of amusement and something else. Maybe hope, maybe longing. "You know, this movie is kind of cheesy, but I get why people love it. Who doesn’t want a guy to move heaven and earth for them?"

You snort, trying to keep the mood light, but there's an edge of bitterness in your voice. “You mean while looking like they just walked out of an underwear ad? Very realistic.”

Annie laughs, a warm, genuine sound that makes your chest tighten in appreciation. She’s been such a constant in your life, even when you didn’t know how much you needed her. “Okay, fair. But it’s sweet! Sometimes I wish...” She pauses, her gaze flicking toward you as if she’s about to say something, but then her expression turns to confusion. “Wait, are you crying?”

You blink, realizing that your eyes are wet, tears streaming down your face. You quickly swipe them away, mortified. What the hell? This movie is so not worth getting emotional over. But you… Can’t stop. It’s the strangest feeling, this mix of loneliness and longing that seems to bubble up out of nowhere. It’s like a tiny, sharp pang deep in your chest, one that you’ve been trying to ignore for a while now.

“What? No. It’s just—fuck, I don’t know. Stupid hormones or something. I’m getting my period soon,” you say, your voice shaky as you try to brush it off.

Annie’s eyes soften, a teasing smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Sure, blame the hormones,” she teases, but there’s a tenderness to her tone that makes you feel a little less embarrassed. “It’s okay, though. It was a super cute moment.”

“It’s unrealistic. Nobody does that in real life,” you mutter, more to yourself than to her. Your heart sinks a little. The grand gestures, the declarations of love, it all feels like something that’s out of reach, like some perfect fairytale that you’ll never get to be a part of.

Annie leans back against the couch, popping a handful of Nerds Gummy Clusters into her mouth, her eyes still glued to the screen. “Yeah, but wouldn’t it be nice if they did?” She turns to look at you, her mischievous grin returning. “So... how did Butcher say it?”

You freeze. The words feel like they’re caught in your throat, stuck in a tangle of nerves and confusion. Annie’s gaze is curious, expectant, but you can feel the heat creeping up your neck. She’s your friend, one of the few people you’ve been able to rely on, the one who knows almost everything about you. But this is… embarrassing. A particularly vulnerable sore spot you’ve never shared before, never even spoke aloud.

“Say what?” you ask, your voice a little too sharp, trying to buy yourself time to think of a way out of this conversation.

“You know, I love you. What did he do? A big speech? Or was it all gruff and awkward? I can’t exactly picture him doing flowers or anything.”

You glance down at your wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid around, suddenly too aware of how your hands are trembling. I can’t lie to Annie, you think to yourself. But this is complicated. Butcher’s never said it. And part of you wonders if he ever will. You both dance around the idea of love like it’s some dangerous territory, too scared to take that step and label what you have. It’s easier to pretend, to avoid the conversation, than to tempt fate and risk losing it all.

“He… hasn’t said it,” you finally admit, your voice quiet, as though saying the words out loud will somehow make them feel more real.

Annie blinks, clearly taken aback. “Oh.”

The air between you shifts, a sudden weight pressing down on both of you. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence stretching uncomfortably. Annie’s the first to speak again, her voice softer, trying to offer comfort, even though you can tell she’s just as unsure as you are.

“I mean, that’s okay! Some people take a while to get there. It doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.”

You wish you could believe that. Mallory’s words from earlier echo in your mind, and suddenly, the ache in your chest feels sharper, more painful. He’s a man who’s willing to burn the world down to protect the people he loves. And he’ll burn himself down, too, if it comes to it. But will he ever say it? Will he ever admit it? You’re afraid to ask, too afraid of the answer.

“Yeah, but... it’s not just that. We’ve never actually talked about... us. He’s never referred to me as his girlfriend... and I guess I’ve never called him my boyfriend, either,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Annie raises her eyebrows, her gaze piercing. “Seriously?”

You feel a twinge of defensiveness rise in you, but you push it down. This isn’t her fault, you remind yourself. She’s just trying to help. “It just never came up! There’s been a lot going on, you know? My dad, the explosion... defining the relationship didn’t exactly feel like a priority.”

“Well, I mean, how long have you guys been sleeping together? Like, six months?” Annie presses, not letting you avoid the truth.

You sip your wine, swallowing nervously. “Longer…”

Annie nearly chokes on the popcorn she’s munching. “What? Since when?”

“Remember when we drove up to the Canadian border to crash the van carrying V2?” you ask, sheepish.

“That long?! And you never told me?!” Her voice is full of disbelief, and you can’t help but laugh, despite the heaviness of the conversation.

“It’s not like I kept it from you on purpose! I just... didn’t know what it was at first. And by the time I figured it out, it didn’t feel important anymore.”

“So that long, huh? That’s... wow. I can’t believe you’ve been keeping this to yourself!” Annie shakes her head in amazement, but there’s a warmth in her eyes that makes your chest tighten with gratitude.

“It’s not like I’m used to having a lot of friends to share things with, you know? Old habits die hard.” You shrug, a wry smile on your face, but inside, you’re overwhelmed by how much she’s really offering. You’ve never had someone who just gets you like Annie does. No judgment, no expectations, just pure, unfiltered friendship.

“Okay, fair,” she says, reaching out to squeeze your hand. Her grip is gentle, supportive. “But you know you can talk to me, right? About anything?”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

She squeezes your hand again, her smile full of warmth. “It’s okay. I just... I hate the idea of you settling for less than you deserve. You’re amazing, and you deserve someone who tells you that. Someone who says it out loud.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, a lump forming in your throat. You try to swallow it down, but it’s like the dam is finally breaking. You’ve been holding onto so much, pushing so many emotions down for so long, and in this moment, with Annie by your side, it feels like it’s all too much.

“It’s not that simple with Butcher,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Annie tilts her head, her eyes soft with understanding. “It doesn’t have to be complicated either. Just talk to him. You deserve love. And if he loves you, even if he’s terrible at showing it, he’ll step up.”

The words settle around you like a blanket, warm and comforting. Maybe it is that simple. But the thought of opening up to Butcher, of letting him see all the parts of you that are still broken and raw, terrifies you. But Annie’s right. You deserve someone who can say the words, who can show you, even if it’s messy and imperfect.

Could that person be Butcher?

Taglist: @imherefordeanandbones

[carelessflower]

Tmi gang and the perfumes they would use

your local tmi brained has come back with another analysis. this thread considered multi facets into picking a specific sense for each character, from their personality, occupation to their financial background. and feel free to add in any perfume you think also fit these characters 💖

Alec

Starting off with our beloved consul. After marrying into wealth and slowly moving away from the battlefield and into the office, Alec develops a penchant for light, comforting scents, thinking white floral, peony, and smell of freshly washed fine cashmere sweater. Note the sandalwood, through the influence of his husband

Magnus

The ever-elusive high warlock of Brooklyn. Gorgeous, exquisite taste. Say you can’t afford him and everyone knows it. Magnus loves a rich gourmand with bits of kick, much like his chaotic personality. He's a party boy at heart, but that family side sure brings out the sweetness

Clary

Clary is like the turning point between spring and summer. Windy enough for a lazy picnic. Floral but not too sweet. She needs something fresh, to roll out of bed every morning for shadowhunter training, art class, and then the occasional demon-hunting date night

Jace

The golden boy your parents warn you about. Is that the beast or the fallen angel? Can be seen either shirtless or sticking by his armies of worn leather jackets, Jace has no qualms about attracting eyes everywhere he goes. He would smell like he instigates a fight in some sleazy crowded bar, and win

Izzy

Classic. Feminine. Seductive. The fantasy of every man's dream. Vanilla, almond, and tropical fruits, it is as delicious as it get. But beware behind the sweetness, her sharp whip and sharper heels, ready to crush anyone and everyone getting in her way. And it would be an honor

Simon

He doesn’t know much about perfume but got this as a prank and refuses to stop using it unironically. He also thinks its' citrus and salt help with the sweat after training and band practice. He’s lucky Izzy happens to like his natural musky scent beneath all the spray

+ (2) BONUS

Alternative pick for Alec

Still his favorite white floral, but there's more push for fresh and fruity

Alternative pick for Magnus

A million different smells at once, smokey and sexy

tag list: @magnus-the-maqnificent @literallytypogod @hoezier-than-thou @sociallyineptbibliophile @queenlilith43

@khaleesiofalicante @wandererbyheart @raziyekroos @onetimetwotimesthreetimess @alexandergideonslightwood @andrwminward

@noah-herondale-lightwood @elettralightwood @dustandducks @deliciousdetectivestranger @delightfullyterrible

@letsgofortacos

@kita-no @thelightofthebane @secrettryst @goldendreams3 @cityofdownwardspirals

@stupidfuckindinosaur

@i-have-not-slept @rinadragomir @potato-jem @kasper-tag @cam-ryt

@banesapothecary

[sonocomics]

The Golden Consul.

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Click HERE for a masterpost of my other Xenoblade 3 comics.

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[onetimetwotimesthreetimess]

For the prompt: malec adjusting after qoaad when Alec is the consul

“Sweetheart, it’s okay,” Magnus says softly, gently carding his fingers through Alec’s hair. He’s currently wrapped up under a plethora of blankets.

“It’s not.”

“Are you planning to come out of the blankets ever again?” Magnus says, amusement laced with his voice.

“No. It’s my temple of shame. I’m going to stay here now. You can go find yourself another husband.”

He can feel the vibrations from Magnus’s laughter through the blankets and pouts. There’s some shuffling then, few blankets removed from top of him as Magnus makes space for himself next to him.

Alec can feel the warmth on his face already from the warlock’s breath.

Magnus touches his face and he leans into the touch.

“Hi.”

He opens his eyes, to meet Magnus’s golden-green ones.

For a second, Alec forgets everything else and focuses on how pretty his eyes are.

Magnus taps his forehead twice to bring him out of his stupor and he groans in response. He shifts closer to Magnus and hides his face against his chest.

“I can’t hear you, love,” Magnus replies as Alec mumbles something against his chest.

“I’m a bad father,” he pulls back slightly, a huge pout on his face.

Magnus cups his face with both his hands and kisses his mouth softly. “You are not.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

“Your children believe so,” he retorts.

“My children?” Magnus raises an eyebrow in amusement.

“Yes. They hate me now so they’re your kids. You can keep their full custody.”

Magnus shakes his head fondly, gently caressing his face. “You are so dramatic. And so are those two demons.”

“Don’t talk shit about my kids,” Alec warns.

A low chuckle erupts Magnus’s mouth. “Idiot.”

Magnus drags his fingers across Alec’s back, before putting them inside his shirt and traces random patterns.

Alec’s quite okay spending an eternity here, not that he will ever have an eternity with Magnus but never mind—that’s a problem for another day.

“Do you think so too?” He asks, knowing Magnus’s answer but still needing to hear it.

“Think what?”

He sighs before removing the seven blankets as he sits up. Alec runs his fingers through his hair in frustration, leaning his head against the back of the wall. Magnus comes out from under within a few seconds.

He doesn’t push Alec at all. Gives him all the time in the world to voice his thoughts.

“Do you think I’m a bad husband too?” He asks, even if a little petulantly.

But it’s Magnus and if Alec can act petulant infront of anyone just because he wants to, it’s Magnus.

Magnus bops his nose. “I don’t think so. You are my favorite husband.”

It makes him smile.

“I am your only husband.”

“Hmm.”

Alec huffs. “How would you even know though? 400 or 800 or 1500 years, whatever age you’re choosing to be today and you’ve been married once. Your experience is of 4 months. The bar is in hell for you, Magnus.”

Magnus snorts, inches closer to him, crossing his legs, half lying on top of Alec.

“I think I have seen enough marriages in the world to know that you,” Magnus pokes his finger across Alec’s chest, “are quite nailing it.”

The thing about Magnus is that, when he speaks, when he tells you something, it doesn’t matter who you are or what you are—you believe him.

Right now, Alec doesn’t want to believe him.

He scoffs, irritation seeping his voice as he crosses the bed and stands up, throwing his hands in the air. “Really? Because everything in the past few months suggest otherwise. That I’m failing colossally.”

The amusement disappears from Magnus’s face, replaced with concern now. “Alexander, you’re not failing at anything.”

“You wouldn’t feel that way if Max and Rafe had said all of that about you.”

“They’re kids, love.”

“I quite remember the trauma my parents left me with as a child.”

Alec remembers all of that as clear as a day. Even if amends have been made. Even if Alec’s dad isn’t here anymore and he tries to not hold grudges. But there are things Alec can’t quite forget. Even if he’s forgiven his parents for them.

Absence is one of those.

He never wants his kids to feel that.

Magnus stands up from the bed and stands in front of him. “You’re spiraling.”

“I should.”

“All of this is new for all of us. It’s okay if you are not perfect at this,” Magnus assures him.

“They think I don’t have time for them.”

It had been a small thing.

No matter how busy Alec and Magnus are, weekends are for his family. Especially Saturday nights and Sunday mornings.

They had plans to take the boys to the Miami Seaquarium since Rafe had recently become obsessed with dolphins and wanted to see them. The plans been set for weeks now.

But something had come up at the last minute, another crisis that he’d need to deal with. He had to tell the boys that he couldn’t make it and they had not taken it lightly.

Max and Rafe don’t usually complain a lot when one of them has to leave due to their work. They can usually be bribed with food, toys and a hundred kisses and hugs.

And yet, they’d been pissed at Alec—told him that he doesn’t have time for them these days. Didn’t even say goodbye to him when Magnus took them through the portal, an apologetic smile on his face.

That had kind of hurt. Then as Magnus would like to call it—he had spiralled.

“They were disappointed today but they won’t hold this one thing against you,” Magnus says tenderly.

“I know they are,” he replies. “And you can be too.”

“I’m not disappointed, darling.”

It’s difficult when you spend so many years of your life having every single action of yours being measured in terms of its success and failures—the disappointment it can lead to for other people.

It’s worse when you realise that it’s not how it’s supposed to be.

When you are met with nothing but understanding and gentleness at your shortcomings.

Sometimes, Alec’s still not used to it.

“Why are you being so nice about it?” He says, not wanting to start a fight but needing it anyways.

“You don’t want me to be nice to you?” Magnus asks. “Because I like being nice to you. It’s not a hardship.”

There’s nothing but unconditional love on Magnus’s face.

It’s jarring some days that all of that is for him.

He drops the defensive stance and relaxes. “I don’t want to fight.”

“I know.”

“I’ve had a horrible day,” he admits. “And, I need you.”

It’s not just what the kids said. But the past few months have been exhausting and as much change Alec can bring, it’s still a hard battle every single day. It’s been tiring to no end.

“I’m here, Alexander,” Magnus exhales. He places his hand on Alec’s cheek, other tugging him closer by the waist.

“We never went on our honeymoon because I was so busy with work.”

“But, you did let me kidnap you for a few days for a short honeymoon. Remember?” The words bring an instant smile to his face. Magnus had colluded with his siblings to kidnap Alec for a few days.

“That was nice. We had fun,” he replies.

Magnus tilts his head, a small smirk on his face. “We had more than just fun.”

Alec chuckles breathlessly.

“And have you forgotten the part where you changed the law just to get married to me?”

“Meh.”

“Max and Rafe hate me,” he whines again.

“They don’t hate you. They’re just mad. You tell them a bedtime story and a cup of ice cream and they would be all yours,” Magnus assures him.

“That seems manipulative.”

“Well. They are quite easily bought.”

“They are,” he snorts.

“Are we feeling better now?” Magnus leans their foreheads together, their bodies flushed against each other.

It doesn’t quite feel real to him sometimes that Magnus uses ‘we’ not just as a phrase but, because it does affect him as well when Alec is feeling sad.

“Yeah.”

“One more thing.”

He pulls back, raising an eyebrow.

“You could not fail at being an amazing husband if you tried. You are everything I could never dream for myself, Alexander,” Magnus breathes against his mouth.

“I’m your favorite husband?” He says with a grin.

“Out of the ones you know of, you absolutely are,” Magnus grins back.

He throws his head back in laughter. “What happened to being nice to me?”

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

what if chaggie accidentally used Dazzle's body to make their new demon child while trying to resurrect him?

would that be too messed up??

Vaggie scooping up Dazzle's little body (reverted to plush toy mode when he died) from the hotel wreckage while the rebuilding gets started and she starts to bring him to Charlie but then hesitates, turns away, goes over to Lucifer instead to ask about the agreement with Heaven about the Exterminations because she's got this stupid, hopeful, tiny glimmer of an idea....

After borrowing Lucifer's coat to wrap Dazzle in she finds out that yes, the agreement to only wipe out people in the Pride Ring was meant as a way of targeting sinner souls specifically, yes all of Lucifer's immediate family should have had immunity from being killed- getting hurt or maimed is different, but death absolutely shouldn't happen-

so Vaggie asks, then, what Dazzle counted as. He was for sure a hellborn not a sinner, so while he wasn't meant to be targeted he also wasn't promised immunity inside the Pride Ring... but was he also Lucifer's family? If Charlie loved him enough to count Dazzle as HER family, would that be enough?

And if Dazzle was part of the Morningstar family, if he never should have been killed, then could heaven be compelled to help with maybe, possibly... fixing that??

Lucifer gives a tentative maybe, and Vaggie is striding over to Charlie before he can tell her how bad this idea is

She knows. Charlie does too. They spend a week thinking about it but already know what they're about to do the first time they find Razzle crying himself to sleep on his brother's memorial statue

One call to heaven later and Vaggie's slipping away to the Heaven Consulate with a small bundle in her arms. Charlie meets up with her shorter afterwards, having argued and begged her dad and finally gotten, if not his direct help- (he's sure this will fail. his heart can't take being part of that)- then at least a jewel bright with the golden light of creation, not something Charlie knows how to use but that's okay they already knew they'd need help with this.

A determined Emily meets them in the Cosulate. Heaven (mostly Emily) has agreed that Dazzle's death hadn't been righteous even current policy standards (which suck and need to change but whatever) so Emily's come down to try imbuing a spark of creation back into Dazzle's body.

Creation likes balance. Spheres within spheres within rings within rings. It likes irony and completion, and Emily hopes that Heaven being the reason Dazzle was killed can be balanced out by Heaven helping to give him life again.

But its complicated. She's talked with Lucifer- trying to just shove demonic energy into Dazzle would just turn his body into a puppet. Collecting his dispersed hellish essence would hurt any demon who's absorbed part of it and risk dragging bits of other demons or their imprints into Dazzle, changing who he was possibly for a worse. So Emily and Lucifer settled on the idea of using his body as a scaffolding and hoping the wear and tear of his life would be enough to guide the divine power Lucifer's gem supplied, letting it grow into the shape of more or less the person who Dazzle was by the time he died.

Technically Lute should be here to repent her murder of him and, as the one who ended his life, be part of restoring it to him- but she refused and heaven can't force her, it wouldn't count if they tried... so Vaggie, who was close by when Dazzle died, will have to stand in as the next best thing and be the one to invite Dazzle back.

And Charlie will have to give him some of her blood. It's the surest and oldest shorthand for claiming someone as family- key to the entire argument that Dazzle's death absolutely NEVER should have happened-

Lucifer isn't sure what it might do to Dazzle to have the blood of the princess of hell flowing through him. He's not sure anything will happen at all, but if it does, time and experience tells him Charlie and Vaggie won't be getting back everything they lost. And what they DO end up with they might regret asking for.

Charlie and Vaggie have already agreed through, whatever comes out of this they will NOT regret having tried to bring Dazzle back and they WILL be here to take care of whatever or whoever is given life as a result.

That's good enough for Emily. She holds the jewel, Vaggie holds tiny Dazzle's body, and Charlie uses her trident to open the skin of her palms and forehead so she can drip smear the blood over the dead goat demon, drip more on while she leans in to kiss his forehead, and finally presses her bleeding hands over the gaping hole Lute's sword left in him

And as golden light spins out to weave around Dazzle's body he does, slowly, begin to stir

and to change

it's not much but it's enough. the tiny child that blinks open it's eyes has a streak of blonde in it's red hair. it's eyes are gold instead of red, a little spark of floating fire has lit between it's horns, and the spade tip of it's tail has a red heart shape on it now.

Dazzle wasn't much of a talker but its clear pretty soon that the new bundle in Vaggie's shaky arms also has no idea what's being said to it. The name Dazzle gets no reaction at all.

Chaggie carry their new kid (literally a kid) back home to the hotel after asking Emily to do the honor of picking a name.

Emily picks the name Baphomel.

The hotel crew thinks it's a pun on the "baaa" sound goats can make and the word "phenomenal" and they feel that's pretty accurate considering how loud the new kid turns out to be when it starts bleating unhappily about the whole suddenly being alive thing.

(Razzle hears one single "baa" from it, rushes over, and when Charlie anxiously tries to explain that this isn't- it's not really Dazzle- Razzle waves her away impatiently. He knows. This is his new little sister, and he hurries off to collect the softest blanket he can find and some safe things to chew on and warm milk bc that's calming right and maybe just one donut just in case she likes those too, and-)

at this point Angel has given the kid the nick name Me-LOUD-y or maybe Mel-OW-dy depending on how close to the kid's painfully loud bleats you are, and for all that Vaggie hands over the kid to Charlie so she can go chase everyone else away, Charlie hums and sings and calms the kid down and thinks the name Melody is a good nickname after all

(Emily thinks so too when she's hears about it later) (she gave the name Baphomel so the new child would know it had always been seen as something worth praising, but being a song- being part of something bigger- sounds comforting too)

and that's the Bedazzled au

no the new kid does not end up liking donuts.

she likes toast with jam, usually toasted on the little flame over her head and the jam is usually not fruit based it's almost always coming from Cannibal Town

she was remade using Charlie's blood so it's the blood of other hellborn she craves (though variety is nice) and needs to keep her little flame thing burning.

if that goes out so does she- think the book version of the ghost of christmas past- but that spark of pure creation, when focused through the gem also used to remake her, lets her do a bit of creating and balancing out of her own.

healing becomes her thing. The thing she's obsessed with.

first bc of Vaggie's eye and how it WON'T heal, but then she gets told a bit about Dazzle once she's old enough to notice him in old pictures and ask about the giant golden statue in front of her home.

That's when she realizes the two white patches of fur chest and back are where a gaping sword wound used to be- and it's healed. Heavenly steel, supposedly permanent, but Dazzle's body was healed by the spark of creation and she's alive now in it.

which convinces her that SHE should be able to heal others like this too. No, not just heal non-lethal injuries from exorcists like Vaggie's eye, there HAS to be a way for her to bring back-

Healing's not a BAD thing right? Neither is figuring out a way to resurrect dead hellborn. Sinners get to pull themselves back together so why not hellborn too, why not find ways to let them their full lives or even longer. Nothing wrong with that. It's not dangerous.

No one in her family worries about her studying healing and resurrection. (heaven worries a little but heaven can go shove it)

Her family WOULD worry if they knew WHY she was doing it.

her giving herself the middle name Bedazzle was probably a pretty big hint.

or it would have been if she didn't add the name Bedlamb for the funnies bc, y'know, bed lamb... born from the body of a goat plushie... who likes toast... bedlam Bethlem Bethlahem house of bread... its funny she swears it's hilarious. Baphomel Odia Bedlamb Bedazzle Morningstar.

she also switches her nickname to the name Baffy, bc it sounds like her very cool aunt Niffty and she thinks that's cuter

and also yes teen her does end up a fan of a certain tv show about hell and demons who drink blood and her voicemail message is in fact "if the end of hell comes, beep me. Baa~"

[is-this-mathieu-enriched]

i live in australia where mathieus have been unfairly banned :( i have always really loved mathieus and the wide variety of display patterns and varieties they come in - i also love how adaptable they can be to new activities and lifestyles! do you have any recommendations for an alternative breed i can look in to that might fill the mathieu shaped hole in my heart

Sometimes a single incident can lead to an entire species being banned, as was the case in Australia after an escaped poorly-socialised Mathieu began attacking local juveniles in a territorial dispute. This behaviour is very uncommon, but unfortunately has reflected upon the whole species. We can hope that with time this ban will be overturned, but for the moment your best bet is to consider one of the similar species native to Australia. While none fill quite the same niche as a Mathieu, there are multiple delightful options which share many of the same characteristics:

1) A Bling

The jewelled Bling actually has a wider range of display patterns than the Mathieu, with a depth and purity of colour that even fancy Mathieus have not yet attained. In addition, the iridescent varieties possess a beautiful sheen, often compared to that of precious jewels. Like a Mathieu, a Bling uses his display patterns for social signalling, allowing a surprisingly complex range of emotions to be conveyed.

In the wild, Blings will build and decorate elaborate structures to cover the entrance to their burrows. It is theorised that these may play some role in mate selection, but research is still ongoing.

Although native to Australia, Blings are often kept in other parts of the world as bonded companions to Tadejs, and the two species are extremely compatible. A Bling is a pursuit hunter focusing on intense bursts of speed, and like a Jasper will eat one large meal and then rest and digest for several days. This allows time for social bonding, which is very important to the Bling - unlike some species, your Bling will want to sit and watch you type on your laptop, and some will even attempt to mimic your activities.

A Bling may not be suitable if you are not looking to adopt a bonded companion for him, and need to be away from home for multiple hours each day. But if you are looking for a species with a strong social connection, beautiful display patterns and outgoing nature, a Bling may be just right for you.

Also consider: A Julian or Fabio.

2) A Jai

With a sweet personality and friendly nature, the Jai is ideal if you have a smaller living space. Exclusively found at altitude, they are primarily herbivorous, but will supplement their diet by catching unwary prey on an opportunistic basis. Their favourite snacks are flowers, and it is theorised that the colour of blooms consumed in infancy will affect a Jai's adult colouring.

Unlike Mathieus, Jais are not capable of changing their display patterns. However they can be found in a range of beautiful colours, from golden to pink, white and teal. A Jai will primarily build his nest in the rocky terrain of the high mountains, but this can be easily reproduced with a gravel substrate to his enclosure. As Jais are not primarily hunters, they do not need to hunt live prey. Check for approved florists in your area, and supplement his diet with a multivitamin.

Quietly playful, Jais are easily harness-trained, and will enjoy the opportunity to explore your world with you. What may seem like a quiet walk down the street will quickly take on a new light, as your Jai appreciates every new smell, sight and sound! They also enjoy physical enrichment toys, especially those which involve climbing. A Jai's enclosure should contain plenty of opportunities for vertical as well as horizontal movement.

Jais can suffer from problems during shedding - stuck shed is a regular complication - so they may not be suitable if you are not comfortable helping him to remove any old skin. If in doubt, never pull or tug at the old skin, but consult your veterinarian immediately.

A Jai may not be suitable if you are not able to devote vertical as well as horizontal space to an enclosure, or if you are looking for varying display patterns as a mood indicator. But if you are looking for a species with a gentle nature, and an active curiosity about the world, a Jai may be just what you are looking for.

Also consider: A Wilco or João.

3) A Ben

Unfairly possessing a reputation as 'difficult' to keep, it is time that the Ben was reconsidered as an option. With the right care, they can be extremely rewarding - Bens do not bond easily to their keepers, but once they do, their fiercely loving nature becomes apparent. This also applies to bonded companions, so do be aware if you are hoping to introduce a Ben into an already formed bond.

Primarily persistence hunters, Bens will exhaust their prey before moving in for the kill. Tufted like a Tadej, their crests are used to signal mood and intent much as a Mathieu uses his display patterns. The Ben pictured above is in a pleasant mood, and his raised crest shows that he is vigorously asserting dominance over the photographer! They will bask once a day, similar to a Mathieu, with a drooping crest indicating that your Ben is likely too cold.

A Ben will live happily on a similar diet to a Wout or Tadej, and requires a similar amount of supervised outdoor time as either. They enjoy the opportunity to hunt live prey, and any enrichment activities which mimic this. Bens enjoy a challenge: if your Ben fails to conquer a particular enrichment toy at the park, be prepared for him to make a beeline for it at every subsequent occasion until he has succeeded at mastering it!

A Ben may not be suitable if you already have adopted another species, or if you are hoping for a quick and easy bond. However if you are looking for a deeply caring species with a love of enrichment challenges, a Ben may be the perfect choice.

Also consider: An Enric or Tao.

There are many more options out there, and hopefully you will be able to find the perfect species that fits with you and your lifestyle. Happy adopting!

[rxqueenotd]

damnatio memoriae: PART VI

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

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

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

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

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

VI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His smirk softened, but he said nothing more.

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

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

____________________________________________________________________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The knock came only once before the door opened.

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

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

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

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

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

“Come,” she said, not unkindly.

You rose without speaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You opened your eyes and met hers.

“What would you have me say?”

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

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

You didn’t answer.

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

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

She didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

You weren’t thinking about shame.

You were thinking about how blood keeps score.

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

____________________________________________________________________________

Rome did not welcome you back. It endured you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You entered without being summoned.

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

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

The emperor. The imperator. The father of Rome.

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

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

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

Then, without opening his eyes, he spoke.

“I know that walk.”

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

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

You said nothing.

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

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

You stepped closer.

“I’m none of them,” you said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he blinked once more, and the recognition faded.

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

____________________________________________________________________________

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

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

Or so you thought.

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

One voice—measured, low, unmistakable.

Macrinus.

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

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

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

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

Macrinus spoke again, his tone almost casual.

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

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

A soft laugh from Macrinus.

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

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

“You think her dangerous?” Geta asked.

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

More silence.

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

Geta didn’t respond.

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

There was a long pause before Geta finally spoke again.

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

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

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

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

“You’ve said enough,” Geta murmured.

Macrinus replied, “Only because you let me.”

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

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

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

_________________________________________________________________________

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

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

You did not rise. You did not greet him.

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

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

You looked up at him slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned.

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

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

“Have you bled this month?” he demanded.

The words landed with more force than the shove.

“What?”

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

You stared at him. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t believe you.

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

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

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

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

He trailed off, hands trembling against your thighs.

“… then there’s nothing left.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stillness followed.

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

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

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

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

Then he was gone.

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

But your stomach turned all the same.

____________________________________________________________________

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

Today, though, appearance required more than silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t answer.

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

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

There was no reason to confirm it.

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

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

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

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

“Then do it quickly.”

He looked back at you.

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

A pause.

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

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

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

He stepped closer.

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

You remained still.

“Back the right brother,” he said.

“And if I don’t choose?”

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

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

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

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

He tilted his head, almost amused.

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

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

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

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

___________________________________________________________________________

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

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

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

Instead, you found Geta.

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

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

“I sent no summons,” you said.

“I know,” he replied.

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

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough.”

You turned.

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

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

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

That, more than anything, made you pause.

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

“You haven’t changed,” he said.

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

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

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

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

“I know what they whisper.”

“They whisper more loudly now.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

He stepped forward again.

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

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

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No. But it’s enough.”

The pause that followed was sharp.

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

You said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You studied him.

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

He didn’t deny it.

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

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

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

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

“You’re not afraid,” he said.

“I was. Once.”

“You’re wasted on him.”

You didn’t speak.

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

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

“I know.”

“To ask for an alliance.”

“To offer one.”

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

He didn’t turn around.

“With a choice,” he said.

And then he left.

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

________________________________________________________________________

Sleep would not come.

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

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

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

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

And then you were there.

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

You stepped lightly, one palm resting against the frame.

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

You might have thought he was already dead.

But he was not alone.

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

You stood still.

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

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

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

The emperor made no sound. Not even a gasp.

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

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

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

You had not moved.

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

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

You slipped into shadow before his footsteps began.

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

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

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

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

Taglist:

@alwaysahiccupandastrid

@justnobodynothingmore

@miamariposita

@niungguang

Dividers: @ghoulbloggerrr

(If you have requested to be tagged and I haven't tagged you, please remind me because I am old and forgetful)

[mostlyinthemorning]

Around Schitt's Creek in 80 Days 2.12

2.12 Lawn Signs

Some of Moira's lawn signs disappear; David and Alexis work to get David's boss out of trouble.

IMDB Rating: 7.9

Playlist: It's Raining Men - The Weather Girls

Best line: You were my mistake, which I take full credit for.

Celebrity name drop: Prince Harry

Alexis's scary adventures: “Um, I’m sorry, were you picked up by the South Korean police on New Years? I had to sweet talk the consulate’s lawyer to get me a passport by midnight.”

David's clothes: Zara (l) and Acne Studios (r)

Moira's wig (just a jaunty little something):

Props (interesting that the bases are different than in the show):

Video:

Bonus content:

Fic rec: holy sick divine by earlylight

He looks up to catch David watching him a soft smile on his face golden-cast in the warm light that’s suddenly filling the office dust motes wheeling a scintillating symphony around him and Patrick can’t help but let slip a kind of hushed reverent what are you? In the space of a second the room is back to normal. Almost as if he’d dreamed it. David cocks his head puzzled evidently considering the question. “Hungry” he decides. AU. One fateful night Patrick meets a boy who’s literally out of this world. Unfortunately winning David Rose’s heart involves entirely too much paperwork – but the pen is mightier than the sword and by god does Patrick know how to use it.

See you tomorrow!

[piratefern]

that's was Long and great explanation you can actually wrote a wattpad book of it! And I actually like the storyline it's really great and really felt bad for scp 049 :( honestly it was too much for poor birdie TvT

And yea why bother! I will like to read scp 035 one too ☆(≧∀���*)ﾉ Thanks for taking my questions ( ˘ ³˘)♥

YIIPPEEEEE, thankyou so much :’D

alright with dyo, we’ll need some context too, in the sense that you will need to be aware of the original lore for Alagadda so id recommend reading the wiki if you haven’t already)

(Another note is that my version of Alagadda’s time doesn’t work linearly, so in this sense, it is entirely possible to enter alagadda during any time it exists, and exit to earth in a different era than when you left. It explains how the culture is affected by different eras in time, and this will be also important narratively!)

(He is originally from Alagadda as per the usual lore, except in my au he wasn’t banished to earth, and instead took refuge there, fleeing execution from the ambassador and other lords.)

In my au, dyo has a toxic sibling relationship with the other lords, ontop of this he’s also the shortest and the runtiest of the few and so was picked on, which lines him up to becoming the hanged king’s favourite as he was the easiest to manipulate.

Originally working as the jester for his king he is killed by a peasant uprising (as per the original lore) and is brought back to life three days later, offering his king a cup filled with the blood of his enemies gifted by the brothers death.

The lore follows the original story line from here in which he invites a bird like doctor to the palace to cure him of his influence of the hanged king (remember how time in alagadda isn’t linear? Yep, thats hasel! He finds a broken passage to alagadda after the point in which he has left dyo and just before the foundation finds him. He researches it and fixes it, hoping to find the “cure” for the vine on the other side)

Hasel doesn’t recognise dyo’s old form as the black lord and dyo at this point is yet to even meet hasel, and so neither of the two realise that they were intwined from the beginning.

after being cured by hasel and attempting to fight the influence of the hanged king, his execution is plotted against him by the other lords and the ambassador, and so, he escapes to earth.

yet, in my au the lords and the ambassador are still after dyo, but are unaware of his ware-abouts, Dyo destroys the portal which in turn wipes his entire memory, hoping that it will never be rebuilt again.

But didn’t hasel rebuild the portal? Uh oh! He did! Meaning he had unintentionally both freed and doomed his lover. Not only that, but the foundation had been tracking the signal that the portal had been omitting, causing the capture of both the portal and hasel! And, of course, the foundation would absolutely never destroy it!

On another note, sometimes memories of Alagadda will seep through the cracks, instances from the past that dyo forged reflect memories from his childhood and experiences in Alagadda.

Dyo landed in ancient Greece, and genuinely believes he is from there. He believes that he was a balatro (roman jester) for the king, and was fused to his mask by the ancient Greek gods as a punishment for stealing the golden wreath from the king of Rome.

However, it is evident that this story isn’t true, at the time Rome had a consul system not a king, and despite the fact Rome had capitulated Greece they didn’t share the same gods despite their similarities.

He makes his way through life, but aware of his immortality he drowns himself in alcohol and lavish parties. He doesn’t get close to anyone as he knows that they will one day die and that he will not, causing him to build bad behaviours, appear overtly cocky and confident, a tendency to avoid rejection as a side effect and a need to convince himself that everything is alright.

So! Imagine dyo, an immortal being, avoiding close relationships with anyone he meets and putting up a persona to avoid anyone liking him, finding another immortal being!I

He grows incredibly attached to hasel, for the first time in almost two millennia he doesn’t have to be alone anymore, he can finally learn how to open himself up and build on his issues and break down his persona.

But this causes abandonment and attachment issues, so you can imagine how he must have reacted when hasel leaves!

He can’t handle this, and embarks on a journey to find him again, this journey spanning over a century from WW1 to present day, in which he is also captured by the foundation and placed in the same facility as hasel… and the portal!

They are given their numbered codes 035 and 049, but with dyo being so close to the fixed portal he gradually begins to remember his past…

So yeah thats all im up to so far :3

i haven’t written anything past the foundation and the portal plot, but technically in the original draft i made with my partner a couple years back they escape with the help of Laurence (106). They learn to mend their broken relationship and also learn how to get along with laurence despite his creepiness, but that part is all old stuff so i might rewrite it. But the fact hasel leaves at WW1 was important, as this is around the time Laurence becomes anomalous, so it ties their stories in too :3