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daycourtofficial · 8 months ago

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Blood moon in Autumn

Pairing: Eris x Rhys’s sister!reader | WC: 1.3k | warnings: mentions of nudity, mentions of sex, mentions of violence

Summary: fae cycles are no joke, but your mate is always there to provide you comfort in the best way possible: by being your personal heating pad

Author’s note: this is part of my gingerfucker series, however this can be read as a standalone. @writingcroissant actually gave me the idea for this so everyone say thanks Tori 🥰

Death was imminent, you were sure of it. Every fiber of your being ached, the pain emanating from your lower abdomen through the rest of your body. It felt like someone was stabbing you with a rusted, dull knife, the blade carving out your insides slowly at their leisure.

You heard your bedroom door open and close, footsteps coming towards the bed. You groan in greeting as the steps get closer.

“Just leave me here to die, Er.”

A soft chuckle makes its way to your ears, despite the layers of blankets you are burrowed beneath, the blankets not offering you the comfort you so desperately crave.

“You’ll be remembered for even in death, your flare for the dramatics never faltered.”

You push your face from the blankets, allowing your face to be seen. You scowl towards your mate, his smirk making you want to push him from the window. You take in the sight of him - he had changed into more relaxed clothes since you saw him last. Gone is his formal jacket, a deep red velvet with golden leaf embroidery. The garment would make anyone look like court royalty, but on Eris it made him look positively radiant, as if the fires of Autumn truly originated from him, as if the apple orchards and the crops found their nutrients from him. You loved when he wore it, your fingers tracing the fine embroidery along the lapel as you would straddle his lap, grinding softly-

You groaned, the idea of moving so much making you nauseous and slightly dizzy.

Now he wore a loose, billowy shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, casual brown trousers covering his toned legs. If it were any other day, you’d devour him. Any other day, you’d pull him directly into bed, pushing his clothes off of him, neither of you leaving bed until you slipped his shirt on to grab the two of you some pastries.

Instead, the sight of him made you slightly annoyed - he seemed fine as he set down a tray on the table next to you. He was fine this morning when he rose, having to tend to some things before returning. You were dying, and he was perfectly fine. You groaned, shifting to sit up on your elbows. “What’s this?”

“I believe those of us who leave our beds call it ‘food’.”

His smirk disappears at the pillow that hits his feet. He sends you a withering glare that just makes you scoff. “That could have hit the tray of coffee I made for you.”

You perked up at the sound of coffee - you were sure the warm liquid would at least distract your insides. Or at least provide you some comfort.

You’d take anything at this point.

“Did you make the coffee? Or did you just prepare the tray?”

“What difference does it make? Coffee is coffee.”

“Well, if Jora made it, then I aimed perfectly for your feet.”

“What if it was my coffee?”

“Then I would have aimed for the tray.”

He gives you a withering stare, his fingers halting their movements. “Now that’s no way to treat your mate who lovingly made you coffee.”

You squint your eyes, “if it’s my mate that’s making the coffee, it’s more of an assassination attempt than love.”

“You wound me, my love.” Despite your grievances, he continues preparing your cup exactly as you like it.

“Is the wound fatal?”

“Perhaps.”

“I shall pay my respects at your funeral, then. With my next husband.”

His eyebrow quirks as he rests the cup on your side table before he rounds the bed, peeling back the layers of blankets on top of you. He crawls in behind you, his body heat causing you to melt.

“Next husband?”

“I will get lonely. Besides, the hounds need a male’s touch. They’ll grow soft under me.”

“And who is this next husband? Is he capable of this?”

Before you can ask what ‘this’ is, he slides his arm around your waist, his palm lying flat over your lower abdomen, his fingers spreading across your skin. Your skin began heating under his touch, and you moaned at the relief he provided you.

“If he’s not, he’s not worth it. Perhaps one of your brothers will be capable. Lu, maybe?”

Eris growled at the teasing, your friendship with Lucien a constant sore spot for him amidst his rekindling relationship with his youngest brother. He hated to admit it, but he seethed with jealousy watching you interact with Lucien, the way your conversation would flow easily.

A life of regrets and Lucien takes several of the top five spots.

“Lucien would make a terrible husband. You’d never see him - he spends all day brushing his hair.”

“I like a well-groomed male.”

“The noises his eye makes would keep you up all night.”

“I think you’re getting us confused. The whirring would soothe me to sleep.”

He buries his face into your neck, mumbling, “you are not marrying Lucien.”

“Alastor, perhaps?”

You clutched onto Eris’s arm, the heat providing you some relief. You nuzzle your head into his bicep, and he blows out a hot breath, “if I die, and you are unable to continue alone, marry outside of my family, leave my brothers out of your marriage pool.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off.

“Not Azriel.”

You huff, “well if I can’t have a Vanserra or Azriel, I’ll stay alone forever.”

“I prefer that alternative.”

“I will rule Autumn alone. Just as Beron would have liked.”

You spin in his arms, pushing his shoulder down so he’d lay on his back. You crawl on top of him, laying so every inch of you is touching him in some way. Not an inch of space exists between your bodies. You poke his ribs, urging him to start heating up. He ignores you, so you start tugging on the bond between you two.

“Patience is a virtue, don’t they teach that in the war camps they call villages?”

“I’m dying, I think the Mother can forgive my lack of virtues.”

He huffs, but starts warming his skin to better provide comfort. You groan, laying in silence with him for several moments, the heat a comfort to the constant pain.

A few moments later you roll, your back laying across his chest.

“Ah,” you sigh, the pain in your lower back lessening at his touch.

“You’re spinning like game over a campfire.”

He rests his hands on your lower abdomen, the warmth making the stabbing pain into a dull ache.

You sigh at the contact, practically melting at how he soothes your muscles.

“I want to go bathe but that requires movement and leaving this bed.”

Eris laughs into your hair, but you hear the water running in the bathroom. You groan just thinking about how soothing the water would feel on your joints. You breathed out slowly through your nose, preparing yourself for the trek across the room.

You rolled off of Eris, and before you could get off the bed, Eris moved from behind to in front of you, his feet landing softly on the floor.

“Care for a ride?”

You nod, and his arms sweep you up.

“I think this is my preferred method of travel.”

“Perhaps this is how you will tour Autumn, hm? I shall carry you throughout the lands.”

You laugh as he sets you down, helping you remove your clothes. He must be warming the air somehow, because you don’t feel the chill of the air when your clothes are completely off. He helps you into the water, which you melt into immediately. You close your eyes, laying back in the tub, the porcelain a nice surface to lean against.

You’ve completely forgotten about Eris’ presence until you feel him nudge your shoulders forward, his lean body slipping behind you into the tub. His legs stretch besides yours, and you lean your head back to rest on his shoulder.

“There’s no way my next husband will be as helpful as you are.”

He breathes out through his nose, “I fear you can only marry down from here. A pity, truly.”

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx @dee-writes-smut @chairofchaos @thelov3lybookworm @berryzxx @throneofsmut @kennedy-brooke @prythianpages @itsswritten @acotarxreader

Thanks for reading 💕

#gingerfucker #acotar fanfiction #acotar writing #eris x y/n #eris x you #eris x reader #eris vanserra x y/n #eris vanserra x you #eris vanserra fanfic #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra

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with-my-calamitous-love · 8 months ago

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IN A WORLD OF BOYS HE’S A GENTLEMAN

chuuya x reader

thoughts about how chuuya acts in a relationship

inspired by slut!

chuuya nakahara, who comes home in the middle of the night to find you softly asleep in his bed. sometimes your all wrapped up in the sheets, protecting yourself from the cold trying to replicate the heat of chuuya's body. other times you fall asleep with an open, unfinished book laying on your stomach or your still blaring phone in the balm of your hand. your hair is messy, comfortably sprawled out on the satin pillow. maybe you're in a lacy, black cami he bought for you- more for himself than for you- or you're in your favorite oversized hoodie you would never wear around anyone but him. it smells like him. you insisted. either way, you were in a world of peaceful slumber, and chuuya couldn't wrap his head around how lucky he got.

chuuya nakahara, who buys you flowers every week. he can't always pronounce or even remember their names, and it sometimes irks him how easily they wither in the wrong conditions, and how they always seem to attract an annoying buzzing pest that acted like it owned the place. but chuuya loved the way your face would light up whenever he hands you a bouquet of delicate, brightly coloured petals. he adores the way your cheeks bloom with roses, the way your eyes glow like lillies swaying in the wind. so he always stops by the florist every friday on his way home from work. the owners are a nice, old elderly couple, the husband a lively old man who knows the trick behind charm. the wife was a sweet, gentle loving old woman who would sometimes treat chuuya to freshly baked muffin or cup of brewed tea. he saw the two of you in them, as if it ere some kind of time machine. they made growing old not seem terrible.

chuuya nakahara, who takes you out to fancy dinners once a month. he doesn't let you spend a dime, just wanting to flash around his fancy black card to the waiter to let him know how much he spoiled you. and afterwards he'd take the long way with you back to his motorcycle, arm wrapped protectively around your waist. he thinks you look beautiful in the moons gaze, happy with his coat around your shoulders. he both laves and hates the stares and attention you get from bystanders- he hates their glaring eyes and the thoughts that run through their heads- but he loves spite of jealousy that flickers through them when they see that your his.

speaking of his motorcycle.... chuuya nakahara, who loves to take you for joyrides late into the night. he knows you place all your trust in him, and he knows that he would never let not even a hair on your head suffer any harm. he loves the way your hands grasp around his abdomen, clutching his muscles through his shirt. he sometimes will place one hand over yours, assuring you that you're safe and that he's got you.

chuuya nakahara, who will never be sent away without a goodbye kiss from you. he takes off his hat, holding it behind your head as he presses his lips to yours with fervent need. his job requires him to be away from you, as much as it hurts your heart. he kisses you as if he needs to reseal your love on his skin, keeping it around him no matter how far you are. and he calls you every night, knowing that you can't sleep without his voice. little do you know, he needs this nightly phone call just as much- if not more- than you do. he chuckles to himself as you ask him about your favorite hoodie, unaware of the way chuuya presses it to his face because it smells like you. he's desperate for that, desperate for you when you're away.

chuuya nakahara, who wants nothing more than to grow old with you. to see you asleep, waiting for him to join you just like every night to buy you the same flowers every friday and place them in the palm of your wrinkled hands, his own face painted with age lighting up with joy at the sight of yours. to retire with you, living a comfortable life with you at his side. to laugh at your cute yet angry face as you scold him for still wanting to drive a motorbike at his age. to kiss you, kiss you like he just met you, kiss you like he's loved you for 20 years- because he has and will. chuuya nakahara wants to love you forever, or for as long as you'll have him.

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asterssunzephyr · 1 year ago

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What about something from WTCF? 👀

Fwhip and Sausage buttheads about it alot. About Fwhips choices.

"Shes my SISTER sausage! I wasnt leaving her dead!"

"So you turn to the demon that made her life hell?!"

"SHES MY SISTER! PEARL ISNT YOUR SISTER BUT YOU WOULDV DONE IT IF IT WAS HER."

"No! Because Pearl would be pissed at me if I did! I know Gem's your sister but did you ever think that maybe she was safer-"

"-Safer what?! Dead?!"

Fwhip scoffs in his husband's ally's face, turning his back and walkihg off. His sister, the one who cares the most, better off dead? Who did Sausage think he was?! It didnt matter, actually, because Xornoth's orders came first; and it was time for the Church of the bloodsheep to hold true to it's meaning - destruction.

#zephs aus #empires smp #roseblings #corrupt roseblings #corrupt twins #wtcf au #wither/rose husbands

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jomiddlemarch · 25 days ago

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Most affectionately, Charlotte

Within a month of her marriage, Charlotte Collins had no particular regrets, except that it was entirely possible she would lose her mind.

It could not be said that she had wed a cruel man. There was no especial malice driving any of Mr. Collins’s decisions and indeed, he had been kind enough in the marriage-bed, making an effort not to offend any delicate sensibility she might have, unexpectedly gentle, and she knew herself fortunate that in a parsonage which did not allow for separate bedchambers, he did not snore. He was less obsequious away from his patroness Lady Catherine, which meant that their evenings alone were tolerable unless a visit to Rosings was in the offing, a situation which drove him to a feverish pitch of mingled exhortation and instruction, remarks often repeated as soon as he’d uttered them. He gave her a fair allowance to run the household, she had a cook and housemaids, a gardener and a groom, and he made few demands other than to confess he detested mutton however it was prepared and had an uncommon fondness for skirret fritters. He labored mightily over his sermons, though she could tell little difference in them from one Sunday to the next, and blessedly, he did not expect her to act as his amanuensis.

He was just so terribly dull, she could hardly bear it, she who had chided Lizzie for her romantic ideals, the risks her friend took waiting for a man she might love with all her heart and soul.

Charlotte knew she might feel some affection for William at some point, but that was all the future held, a quiet, patient companionship and the years ahead stretched interminably, her body and position adequately sustained, her intellect withering.

It was a bargain she herself had struck almost eagerly and now could not confess her fears, for who would sympathize? Not her mother, who had been overjoyed and astounded that Charlotte had managed to snare the Bennett’s heir, not to her sister Maria, and though there was occasionally a surprising gleam in the eye of pallid Miss de Bourgh, she dared not risk speaking a slightest word that might be held against her husband, a disloyal wife who would risk his livelihood.

She tried playing the spinet, but her talent was paltry and the music meager, a thin broth. No degree of practice nor skilled tutelage would improve it. Her husband’s library was full of sermons and essays, his Greek texts from Oxford as unreadable to her as they had been impenetrable to him, but had she had a novel or collection of poetical works, they could not have held her attention much better. She sat in the window-seat and watched the lane, embroidered an altar-cloth, and felt her very self begin to come apart as the steam that rose from her afternoon tea dissipated into the air, into nothingness.

And then, a miracle! The letters began to arrive.

First, Lizzie wrote, regaling her with tales of her family, of her walks in the countryside, her wit and zest for life, her uneasiness about her prospects, her undeniable fascination with Mr. Darcy all readily apparent, despite the occasional blots due to her tendency to use her pen too long, when a fresh nib was clearly needed. She’d enclose a sprig of whatever blossom or herb she’d found on her excursions, small mementos Charlotte found dear and charming.

The next letter came from Jane Bennett, a polite little missive, much shorter than Lizzie’s, but possibly more informative, if one knew, as Charlotte did, how to correct for Jane’s perpetual sunniness to see the truth of Jane’s observations. It was a translation, to read Jane’s letters, and appreciate heartbreak and melancholy and anger, emotions Jane might allow Lizzie to see direct, but no one else.

There was a letter from her sister Maria, full of complaints, so much like home Charlotte felt the refreshment of relief when she finished it, to look about Hunsford and see her own domain, run to her own direction. The night that letter arrived, Charlotte kissed her husband as soon as he came through the door, and laughed when he blushed, smiled sincerely when he muttered I say, Lottie.

Her pen flew. She responded to every letter she received the same day, except for Lizzie’s, as they required more thought, more argument. She spent her pin-money on the best ink and skirret seed, so she might grow enough to make her husband skirret frittered, fried and creamed, so he might not complain at the cost of having her post franked.

She wrote to Mary Bennett, suggesting the young woman read Sterne’s sermons and then Tristram Shandy. She wrote to her mother and asked for Cook’s best receipts for jugged hare, for a tonic for catarrh. She wrote to Miss de Bourgh, very carefully, extolling Rosings’ grounds, mentioning Herbert and more daringly, Donne, and was rewarded by short notes in an elegant hand inviting her to tea, asking her opinion on lemon curd.

When she told her husband, he kissed her as soon as he heard, muttering, I say, Lottie, well-done you. And then, how sweet you are, how lucky we are, and Charlotte didn’t feel she needed to argue with him.

She’d simply write about it to Lizzie. She’d write and invite her for a visit.

Tagging @janeuary-month

#janeuary 2025 #charlotte lucas #william collins #charlotte/william #lizzie bennet #pride and prejudice au #day 1 #letters

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chuluoyi · 7 months ago

Note

So how exactly did the convo go between empress and hanabi when the empress confronted her about cheating?

takes place in all hail the empress

“so, tell me… have you been dallying with the emperor behind my back?”

hanabi shrunk herself at your sharp gaze, frantically thinking her way out. this wasn’t supposed to happen. she was supposed to be crowned as consort first—that was how everyone was supposed to know!

the cold night air pierced through her skin, and the ice in your stare was withering. “hanabi, answer me!”

“y-your majesty!” it was the only thing she could’ve done. hanabi prostrated herself before you in the muddy ground. “please spare me! your majesty— please help me, i-i didn’t mean for it to happen!”

oh. the very realization that naoya had truly betrayed you… you felt like doused with a hot water. how could he? how could your own husband do this to you?

“and that child—” unbridled rage was all you could feel, and you thought nothing could make you even angrier until—

“i’m carrying the heir to the throne, your majesty!” hanabi sobbed before you so audaciously that it took you aback. “please spare me—!”

the hollowness in your chest intensified at her claim. it took everything you had not to lash out at her, but it was so hard for you to do so.

“how dare you…” and no, you couldn’t keep up with this anymore. your voice rose as you yelled at her: “you ungrateful wench!”

hanabi raised her head in fright, and your eyes flashed with fury so severe it almost stunned her on the spot.

“leave.” your voice was laced with so much venom as you towered above her. “if i still see you here by dawn, i’ll banish you. or worse, i’ll impose a punishment for you. leave!”

like a spooked rabbit, hanabi scurried away in tears, leaving you in the darkness of the rose gardens. suddenly you felt trapped inside this maze— and you knew, a part of you died along with the wilted rose hanabi had stomped as she went on her way.

#i’ve been thinking about this for a while and i suppose this is how the confrontation in the gardens play out 🥹#📨 — mailbox #series: the deposed empress remarries

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oleander-neruim · 1 year ago

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I happen to think a lot about how on edge and guarded Fwhip was when Sausage first tried coming back to talk to him when he got uncorrupted.

I'd think there were a lot of irreversible and unforgettable scars left over after the dust finally settled.

Click the full image to see all the text. I'll put the full "poem" below the cut

☙𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐈 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬

☙𝐎𝐟 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞

☙𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞❧

☙𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞

☙𝐓𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥❧

☙𝐎𝐡 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞

☙𝐓𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐳𝐞❧

☙𝐎𝐡 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐨

☙𝐓𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞❧

✨️ Sketch Image! ✨️

Also have mercy on my white out woes

#fwhip #mythicalsausage #mythical sausage #empires fwhip #empires sausage #wither rose alliance #wither husbands #empires smp #empires s1 #empires season 1 #i have slightly less angsty plans to go with this concept #fwhip with a damaged wing & prosthetic arm #sausage with vision damage to his right eye #all in a days work in a battle for your life due to corruption 👍#is the poem in fwhip or sausages pov?#yeah. yeah actually #ollie's art #⛏️

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yb-cringe · 10 days ago

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irls need not apply but know this!! i love you <3

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vminizzle · 2 years ago

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Hotel room

pairing : husband!jungkook x f.reader

genre : SMUT, fluff

warnings : slight dry humping, penetration, unprotected sex, LOVE MAKING, pet names, marking, they’re cute asf

words count : 1.5k

A/N : hello lovely people, here again I’m posting. I’m sorry if it’s annoying? 💀 well, another husband!jk fic. Please, take care of yourselves everyone. I hope you’ll like this fic. REMINDER: POOR ENGLISH. - sunny

FEEDBACKS ARE VERY VERY WELCOMED

M RATED

“wow! It’s so … fancy!” you gasped excited as you entered the luxurious hotel suite Jungkook booked for the both of you.

You took some days off to spend some time together since you’re always working and seeing each other not so often.

Often meant only when he comes home earlier than usual and eat diner with you. You couldn’t even finish a movie without one of you passing out on the couch from how exhausted you were.

So here you were in this splendid hotel room.

The floor to ceiling windows of this luxury room were one the many things you loved the most.

The idea of admiring the sunrise and sunset made you smiled, such a beautiful sight. Or watch the dark, calm and empty roads of the city at night from your hotel suite situated at the upper floors of the hotel.

The bed was huge, the walls were a pretty shade of dark beige, it made the place kind of warm and especially… romantic by how the deep red roses petals were withered on the bed and the little candles randomly disposed in the room.

Your cheeks heated up as you turned around to look at your husband “Jungkook.” you started softly playing with your fingers.

“that’s so .. beautiful. thank you”.

Your husband scratched the back of his head timidly, his ears turning red as he looked at the bed behind you.

“it’s nothing.” he said shyly.

You smiled looking down.

He cleared his voice as he approached the window.

“it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

You walked to him looking at the sun ready to disappear behind the tall buildings.

“yes it is.” you replied happily.

“But not as beautiful as you.” he said cheekily.

“oh my god shut up.” you gasped hiding your flustered face behind your hands.

He chuckled taking your hands in his gently “i love you.” he whispered.

“I love you too.” you smiled.

Jungkook bent down slowly, his lips enveloping yours into a soft kiss. His hands found your hips pulling you closer to him.

You cupped his face gently as you smiled into the kiss.

He broke the kiss, caressing your sides.

“I’m happy we can spend time together for more than 5 hours.” he said laughing making you laugh too.

"yea, this week I’ll have the chance to wake up with my husband next to me.” you smiled softly.

He chuckled before pecking your lips. You pulled him back, wanting to kiss him more. You missed him. And so did he.

You threw your arms around his neck as he cupped your cheeks pinning you on the big window gently.

The cold glass made goosebumps raise on your skin.

“Jungkook” you moaned softly.

He hummed pushing his body on yours “baby.. I need you.” he breathed out grinding his crotch on you.

You could feel his growing erection pressed against your lower stomach.

“I need you too.” you admitted as your husband picked you up, his hands under your thighs as you wrapped your legs around his thin waist.

The sun was already saying his goodbye when Jungkook walked to the bed as you kept on kissing each other passionately.

He sat on the edge of the bed, you straddling his lap. Your hands wandered down his neck, fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt.

His hands were resting on your thighs, caressing your soft skin.

You started unbuttoning his shirt impatiently as you broke the kiss breathlessly. Jungkook’s hands were getting higher to the hem of your dress.

He rose the delicate fabric off your body, throwing it away on the floor, where his shirt was already lying.

“you’re so pretty darling.” Jungkook said biting his bottom lip, his fingertips dancing on your lacy bra.

His lips found your neck, leaving soft kisses on the sensitive skin before sucking on it, his tongue warm against your throat.

“Jungkook” you threw your head back as you started grinding down on him feeling his boner.

You pressed yourself down harder on him trying to feel the little friction you’re looking for. Your husband groaned at the pressure. “you’re driving me crazy baby.”

He switched position, laying you on your back as as he hovered you. The rose petals around you making you look like a goddess to him, so ethereal.

He admired the little marks he left on your neck for a moment before feeling your hands on his belt trying to unbuckle it.

“impatient?” he chuckled as he helped you unbuckle the belt.

He got rid of the rest of his clothes, freeing his painful erection from his confinement. You gulped, feeling these familiar little sparkles in your lower stomach.

Jungkook spread your legs making room for him to lay in-between them.

His fingers caressed their ways up to the hem of your panties pulling of them slightly, a silent request to give him the permission to take it off.

You nodded raising your hips up a bit to help him slide the underwear down your legs. He then bent down, biting lightly on the flesh of your thigh earning a loud moan from you.

“you sound so good baby.” he whispered as his lips reached your tummy.

“so beautiful for me.“ he hummed as he kept on leaving open mouth kisses up to your collarbones.

You grabbed his face between your hands pulling him in a sweet kiss as he aligned himself at your entrance.

He rubbed the tip of his cock teasingly on your clit making you shiver.

“babe stop teasing.“ you whined.

”may I? “ he asked playfully making you roll your eyes.

“please?” you pursed your lips making him smile.

“don’t have to ask me twice.”

Jungkook entered you slowly, making sure not to hurt you.

You groaned at the painful yet delicious stretch. He checked on you asking if you were ok as he noticed the way you furrowed your eyebrows in an uncomfortable way.

“I’m fine. Please keep going.” you looked up at him smiling at how caring he was.

Jungkook started moving in and out of you slowly, picking up the pace when he saw the way you bit your bottom lip in a way to not make a noise.

“baby let me hear you.” he said, hand cupping your cheek gently as he bent down to put his forehead on yours.

You gripped on his shoulder tightly when he snapped his hips into yours suddenly making you cry out his name. “Fuck! Jungkook!”.

He couldn’t take his eyes off your face. You looked so pretty under him, forehead covered with little beads of sweat, eyes half-open, moaning his name loudly.

He gripped one of your thigh, placing it on his hip as he thrusted into you slowly making sure to feel your warm walls contracting around him everytime he hit your g-spot.

“fuck!! don’t stop! Just right there!”

Your husband bit his bottom lip hard, the flesh turning white. Your fingernails were buried deep into the flesh of his scratched back.

“You feel so good!” He moaned loudly as he felt you tighten around him.

“so warm and f-fuck!”

You threw your head back deep into the pillow as you felt your high coming.

“I’m so near.” you moaned grabbing on his bicep tightly.

“I got you baby.” he kissed your lips, his hand travelling down between your bodies until it reached your bud of nerves.

He drew little circles on your clit with his thumb lazily making you arch your back off the mattress.

You closed your eyes shut as his name left your throat loudly.

The way your walls keep convulsing around him made your husband feel lightheaded as he dropped his head on your chest, his breathing unsteady.

You pulled on his hair as he rode your orgasm.

Jungkook didn’t take much time to come inside you, his warm cum filling you up to the brim.

He collapsed on your sweaty body, his head buried into the crook of his neck.

“wow.” he said breathless after a moment.

“that was .. awesome.” you laughed before sighing pleasantly.

Jungkook looked up at you smiling, caressing your hair gently before picking up the delicate petal tangled in your hair.

He put it on your nose still smiling“what are you doing Kook?” you laughed making the petal fall back on the bed.

“you’re so pretty.” he pecked your lips before nudging his nose with yours.

“I love you.”

”I love you too my love“.

Jungkook laid next to you, your head on his chest, his arms holding you close to him.

The moonlight lighting up the room was enough to see his features. He was so beautiful.

The sky was adorned with stars, the full moon hidden behind a little cloud.

”this is so beautiful." you said pointing toward the large window.

Your husband hummed. “but not as-”

“ah ah shut up.” you interrupted him before he could finish his flirtatious words.

Jungkook laughed before agreeing. “yes it’s really beautiful”.

“thank you again babe.” you whispered.

You left a soft kiss on his neck before laying back on his chest. He hugged you tightly, keeping you close to him not wanting to let you go.

The last thing you heard were his slow heartbeats and his sweet voice telling you how much he loved you.

—

A/N : gosh I love writing soft smut 😩 I’m so sorry I’m kinda romantic sometimes 😭 anyways, husband!jungkook is the best. Have a nice weekend luvs :) - sunny

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megraen · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter One - Vessel of Venus

WORD COUNT: 5,673

@barcelonaloverf1life @quuinyoung

Imperial Palace - Rome 190AD

Lucia lay on her soft, silken feather bed, gazing at the marble stone ceiling without thought or care. She had been lying there for hours, having hardly slept a wink at night. She wasn’t sure if she was just restless or was wracked with anxiety over today.

All the senators of Rome were gathering at the Imperial Palace, ready to send off General Acacius on his conquest of Numidia, as the two new emperors ordered. Caracalla and Geta were twins; therefore, they were made co-emperors when their father passed away just four years ago. Both were not that much older than her, but they were adults, just twenty-one years of age, ambitious and naive to ruling a vast Empire as glorious as Rome.

Lucia’s grandfather had been Emperor once. Marcus Aurelius had ruled for nineteen years before being murdered and replaced by his son, Lucia’s uncle, Commodus. After Commodus’s death, within weeks, a senator named Lucius Septimius Severus convinced the senate to vote him Emperor. He only ruled for seven years. Lucia couldn’t help but ponder how long these twin emperors would last, as they always seemed to die like flies, with some other power-hungry soul grasping for the throne for themselves.

“You’re still in bed?!” The shrill and lecturing tone of her mother made her turn her head, seeing the woman standing in the open chamber doorway with three imperial enslaved people behind her, all female. They waited patiently as Lucilla darted around the bed, forcing her daughter to sit up. “I expect more from you. You’ll be eighteen soon.” She continued to lecture, pulling Lucia to her feet and guiding her to sit at a small vanity table. Lucilla gestured to the enslaved people, and they rushed in to prepare Lucia.

They combed at her dark hair, pinning it and ensuring her cheeks were rouged with crushed rose petals. Having spent so long trapped within the imperial Palace, Lucia’s skin was attractively pale, adding to her richness.

Lucilla approached with a pale gold silk chiton draped over her arms, holding it out to the enslaved people. They got Lucia to stand before stripping her out of the cotton gown tunic she’d used for sleeping. They dabbed a rich, scented perfume on her naked body before helping her into her dress, clasping the metal pins that held it to her frame. Lastly, they pinned jewels to her ears to create the final adornment of her garment.

“Perfect.” Lucilla smiled. But it was a forced smile. She rarely truly smiled anymore. The years hadn’t been kind to her. The gods had taken away everyone she’d loved, leaving her daughter untouched, yet as soon as the senators began clawing for power before Commodus was even buried, they had locked Lucilla and Lucia within the Palace, using the excuse that they were ‘guests under their protection’. It was all lies. As long as Lucilla had a working womb, she could birth an heir for Rome.

Lucilla was fortunate to have married a good man after the death of her family. Yet, Lucius Septimius Severus kept sending the man away any chance he could, ensuring no child would take root in Lucilla’s womb. And now, with him gone and his sons as emperors, Lucilla’s husband was being sent off to fight another war to add another kingdom to Rome’s Empire.

“Come, let’s not keep the Emperors waiting,” Lucilla spoke, latching onto her daughter’s wrist and pulling her out of the chambers. Lucia looked deathly bored as her mother guided her to the throne room. General Acacius wouldn’t enter until his wife and stepdaughter were by his side, which meant delaying his send-off and would anger the two co-emperors. The twins were eager to see the conquering of Numidia and, no doubt, had many other kingdoms in mind to add to their growing Empire. But wars took time and resources, something that was limited. Soldiers and people died, crops withered, plagues came, floods and fires. It took away from Rome, limiting her ability to grow and expand over nations.

General Acacius had been pacing back and forth in the hallway outside the throne room, listening to those within talk and mingle, voices raised. His tardiness wouldn’t go unpunished, but so would entering without Lucilla and Lucia. His rank as general was one thing, but his wife and stepdaughter were considered princesses of Rome, and the peasants greatly admired the women. Acacius turned his attention sharply when he heard the sounds of sandals clicking against the marble floors. He wants to smile at the sight of the two women who held his heart but signed instead. “You’re late.” He hissed lowly, his brows creasing.

Lucilla frowned and gestured behind her to Lucia. Acacius’ face softened at the teen, noticing the displeased look on her face.

“My sweet Rosa…” Acacius reached for his stepdaughter, taking her by the shoulders and bringing her in close, hugging her tight. Rosa had been a nickname he’d given her when she was eight after she had made a crown of roses for both her mother and stepfather at their wedding. “I will return to you and your mother.” He promised.

Lucia continued to scowl as he pulled away from the embrace. “You’re going off to war again. Only the Gods know when you shall return, or even return at all.” She spoke sombrely. The last two campaigns he’d let had lasted three and five years, a total of eight of the ten that he’d been her stepfather. And she feared he wouldn’t return each time, knowing that Acacius was the only man in Rome who cared for her and her mother, not wishing to use them for his own glory and power.

General Acacius might have been the only perfect soul left in Rome. He didn’t desire riches or power to have a name held in history. All he wanted was for Rome to survive and its people to prosper.

“Here,” Acacius pulled a chain from around his neck, revealing the necklace hidden under his arm. He carefully guided it over her head, allowing the pendant to rest just past her breasts. “It had been my mother’s. I’ve always worn it to have her with me. I want you to have it so you know I will return for it.” Acacius spoke. He smiled when Lucia studied the pendant, twirling it in her fingers. It was an old coin adorned with gold and pearls. It wasn’t the most precious piece of jewellery or even something that screamed wealth with its simple design, but the meaning behind it had Lucia’s heart swelling.

“Then I shall keep it safe for your return,” Lucia spoke firmly, letting the pendant fall from her fingers. Acacius nodded, approving of the idea.

“We mustn’t keep the Emperors waiting any longer.” Lucilla pressed, interrupting the sweet moment between the stepfather and stepdaughter and guiding her husband to the large ornate doors. Lucia fell into place behind them just as Acacius gestured to the guards to open the doors. The sound of the loud hinges echoed as they were pushed open, silencing those inside the throne room.

All eyes were on Acacius and his wife as they walked through the hall, approaching the twin thrones of the Emperors. Yet Lucia could feel eyes on her. Senators gleaming at her with ambition. She was just like her mother. A golden womb that bore the potential for power and the next Emperor to be born to a wealthy and influential family. Lucilla and Acacius were already aware of the whispers and plotting of several senators, who looked at Lucia, waiting for them to sink their claws in and bind her to them in marriage. But it wouldn’t happen. Lucilla wouldn’t allow it. She wouldn’t have her daughter face the same fearful encounters as she had.

It was common for noble-born girls to be married by fourteen, two years after becoming marriageable in Roman culture. Until Lucia reached twenty, she was protected from the Lex Papia Poppaea law, which dictated that a woman must be married by the time she was twenty years old or face penalties, such as being barred from inheritance if her mother and stepfather were to pass. It had been ironic that the law had been decided long ago by two unwed senators.

They stopped before the thrones and bowed, with Acacius placing his fisted hand over his heart in a salute. Geta and Caracalla smiled at the sight, but their annoyance was evident.

“I thought you’d miss your send-off,” Geta said calmly, yet his voice sounded threatening. He was lecturing Acacius for making them wait.

“Apologies, your majesties. My stepdaughter was mourning my departure.” Acacius stated, looking at his Emperors. The excuse was meant with narrowed eyes from the senators, many seeming it flimsy. Acacius and Lucilla didn’t flinch. The general knew to be firm with so many eyes on him, but Lucilla struggled inside, one straw from breaking her facade.

Geta and Caracalla looked past the married couple, their eyes on Lucia. She was meeting their gaze, just as courageous as her mother. Geta’s lip twitched.

“I see,” Geta said. His eyes travelled back to the general. The twins had lived at the Palace since they were eleven and, with that, spent their days playing with Lucia in the Palace gardens, just as caged as she was. But as the twins aged, they had drifted apart from her, their interests taking on the more expected whoring and drinking of teenage boys, while Lucia drifted towards reading and music.

Geta had gestured for an enslaved person to step forward, carrying a well-forged sword, to be gifted to Acacius for his new campaign. The general had accepted it graciously from Geta. Caracalla stood still, watching it all occur, clearly bored and not wishing to be there. He wanted to be in his chambers, chasing naked enslaved women around as he laughed and drank himself into a stupor, yet his twin had stressed formalities. They had to be united and imperial in front of Rome’s populace and its senators; at least, they came off as weak and effortlessly brought down by others who sought their throne.

Acacius stood poised as the enslaved person attached the sheathed sword at his waist. “It is a fine weapon. You honour me, your majesties.” He bowed again, the enslaved person stepping away. Geta smiled, pleased with the praise.

“We expected the conquering of Numidia quickly, general.” Caracalla drawled. There was a cheeky smile on his face, boasting of his power and influence within the throne room. Many senators nodded along and murmured. Acacius kept a straight face. Unlike the senators and Emperors, he knew war. He knew it wasn’t easily won with just thought alone. It took strength, determination, planning, and loyalty. As long as his men were well-fed and in good spirits, they had a fighting chance.

“As my Emperors command.” Acacius bowed again.

Geta smiled, ushering everyone from the throne room to the palace steps to see off the general and his army. The two emperors strolled behind, uncaring to take their time. Unlike Acacius, they were allowed to be late. The populace cheered as they lined the streets, some weeping for their husbands and sons going off to fight, not knowing if they would ever return.

Acacius had given Lucilla a long and passionate kiss, his hands cupping her face like he never wanted to let go. The public cheered at the sight, enthralled by the general’s love for the princess of Rome. When Acacius finally and reluctantly pulled away, he turned to Lucia, pulling the teen into a tight embrace.

“Be strong for your mother,” Acacius whispered into her ear. “And do behave yourself.” He lectured when he stepped away, giving his stepdaughter a pointed look. Lucia smiled as she watched him step down the long carved stairs to this awaiting chariot and second-in-command, Darius.

Lucilla wrapped her arms around her daughter, holding her close. Both needed comfort from one another as they watched the chariot begin to move down the paved streets, the formation of soldiers moving behind towards Rome’s docks, where a fleet of ships would be waiting for them.

Streets of Rome - Rome 195AD

The Praetorian Guard ran through the streets of Rome, shoving any poor citizen that happened to be in their way aside as they searched for their target. It was the thirteenth time Lucia had managed to abscond from the Palace, sneaking out in some ungodly manner and hiding among the populace, increasing each time she did. When she did, the twin Emperors had sent their royal guards after her, knowing that only their best and personal guards could drag her back to the Palace safely. The Emperors had held many investigators into how the woman was escaping their Palace, deeming it a risk to her safety and their own. If someone could sneak out, someone could easily sneak in, and that someone could be an assassin.

It was no secret to the populace of Rome that Lucia had a knack for sneaking out and evading the Praetorian. Every time the people saw the guards running through the streets, they knew it was because Lucia had escaped. Some more affluent Romans liked to bet on how long the guards would take to find her and return her to the Palace.

One Freewoman, Fosca, stood in the doorway of her home, watching a handful of guards run past with a bored expression. She was the wife of Darius. She had been alone with her husband’s departure to the Numidia war five years ago. While she had been with child when he left, the Gods had been cruel to take her son from her when it had only been weeks old. Her eyes narrowed as the last soldiers rushed by before finally reentering her home and shutting the door behind her.

“They have passed!” She yelled out, stepping through the entranceway into the atrium and around the shallow pool that collected rainwater. Her home was in an upper-class district of Rome, given her husband’s rank as second-in-command. Around her, her family’s slaves scuttled past, their eyes down as they didn’t wish to anger their mistress. Fosca stepped into the tablinum, an office space used for entertaining guests that overlooked the gardens at the back of her home. There sat Lucia, dressed in a slave’s gown she’d stolen from the Palace. “You look ridiculous,” Fosca commented, sitting on one of the sofa opposite the princess.

“No one looks twice at a slave,” Lucia commented. It was a wise statement. The only women who seemed to have eyes following them were wealthy ladies due to the fortunes attached to their names and their great beauty. As an enslaved person with dust and grime on her skin, Lucia didn’t look appealing, and if a man did happen to touch her, she could claim to serve a powerful senator, making them flee from the influence that offending a senator could bring. One didn’t touch another man’s slave unless he was willing to pay a hefty sum for his offence.

Fosca rolled her eyes. She clicked her fingers impatiently at a passing slave. “Why do we have no wine?” She snapped, making the slave bolt to the storeroom to fetch a good vintage. Fosca would only want the finest for entertaining Rome’s royalty. Fosca lounged back on the sofa. Her golden hair curled and perfectly styled, and her body draped in deep red stola. Lucia found Fosca to be a strong personality, a bold and forceful woman when interacting with others, making Lucia ponder if Darius had chosen the woman because of how much she reminded him of his fellow soldiers.

When the slave finally returned carrying the wine and two goblets, they quickly placed them on a carved stone table and poured each glass to the top. Fosca outstretched her hand expectantly, and the slave gave her a glass. She smiled when she could finally take a sip, the rich taste flowing over her senses. Lucia swirled and sniffed her glass before taking a sip. While the wine was indeed good, it couldn’t compare to the collection at the Palace.

“So…what made you flee luxury today?” Fosca enquired, eyeing the younger woman. Fosca was only four years older than Lucia and married her husband when she was seventeen. Sadly, she had yet to bless her husband with a single child, which was hard to do when he was often away at war.

Lucia wanted to snort at the question but held back. Of course, Fosca would call her life luxury; she hadn’t experienced being locked away and followed by enslaved people and guards day and night. She and her mother were prisoners, unable to communicate or see the world outside the Palace.

“A cage is still a cage, no matter how gilded it is,” Lucia remarked, earning a quirked brow from the woman. The blonde’s eyes followed Lucia as she moved into the doorway overlooking the well-maintained gardens. “Had I been born male, I would have been sent away like my brother. I know not if he is alive or dead, but he is free from Roman politics.” She stated firmly. Lucia pondered what type of man her brother had become now that they were twenty-three. When she saw herself in a looking glass, despite being twins, Lucia knew her brother would look vastly different to her, as he was male and she female. But did they look similar now to when they were children? She thought of Geta and Caracalla. They had similar characteristics, but they had never been identical look-wise.

“Then marry.” Fosca retorted boredly. “You are a woman with a fertile womb. Any man would be fortunate to call you wife.”

Lucia rolled her eyes noticeably as she turned to face her friend. “It is this very womb that keeps me caged. The Emperors fear me baring a son that would threaten their rule, just as their father feared my mother doing the same.” Her hand came to rest on her stomach, just over her womb. “Even if a suitable man came along who I could love, they would never allow me to marry.”

“Then marry one of them. They’re both handsome, rich and powerful.” Fosca sighed, clearly having no interest in such a conversation. She did not understand Lucia’s plight and didn’t wish to, deeming that the younger woman’s issues could all be fixed with marriage—and they usually were. Lucia frowned at the suggestion. Yes, Geta and Caracalla were handsome, rich and powerful, with many young women throwing themselves at the twins and risking scorn and death for giving the men their virtue in the hopes of marriage; the Emperors were still her captures.

Fosca groaned dramatically. Handing her wine off to her slave, she got to her feet and stomped towards Lucia, poking her hard in the stomach. “You’re twenty-three, you won’t have your youth and beauty forever, and soon your womb will wither. Turn your prison into your key to escape rather than sneaking out and causing trouble for all of Rome.” Fosca’s words were spat from her pained lips like venom, painting a far harsher version of Fosca than Lucia was used to. “Our Emperors are twenty-six, and soon they will need heirs.” The blonde tried to reason.

“So you suggest I turn myself into a breeding sow?” Lucia asked callously. Fosca snorted and rolled her eyes. All women were breeding sows for their husbands; it didn’t matter if it was a slave or a Freewoman of various castes. It was a glory for a woman to provide her husband with sons; the more, the better. Lucia’s face softened when she realised why Fosca spoke to her so coldly and without heart. Ten years of marriage, and she hadn’t a single living child to so for it. In the eyes of Rome, Fosca would be deemed cursed or barren, and it would be all her fault Darius had no children. Lucia hadn’t wedded yet and had never tried to fall pregnant; therefore, the matter of her fertility was a mystery and something Fosca could be jealous of.

“Forgive me, my friend,” Lucia murmured, searching Fosca’s hazel eyes for an understanding. Fosca relaxed, understanding that she had overstepped towards someone of a higher status than her, but the scowl didn’t fall from her face.

“You’re forgiven,” Fosca grumbled. She moved back to her spot on the sofa, and her hand outstretched toward her slave for her drink to be returned to her. As soon as the goblet was back in her hands, she took a large gulp of the wine, wishing to calm herself further.

Lucia sat beside her, her fingers tightening around the stem of her cup. “I do not think I could ever trust them,” She said, looking down into the rich red wine and seeing her face reflected on the surface. Fosca’s eyes narrowed as she thought about the statement. It was well-known between the two women that General Acacius and Darius held no love for the two Emperors and didn’t even trust the twins. Many whispered about Geta and Caracalla being tyrants, using Rome as their playground. Lucia knew never to leave her chambers when they held their debaucherous parties, the Palace littered with intoxicated nobles drinking and fornicating. There were rare moments when Caracalla would coax nobles into sword fights just for entertainment, Geta smirking as he watched.

“Make them trust you,” Fosca spoke earnestly. She reached out a hand, touching Lucia’s thigh motherly. “Men would let a pretty face lead them off a cliff if she battered her eyes hard enough. All of Rome’s influential men see you as a pretty face and a walking womb with no thoughts inside your head. Let them.” She suggested, sipping her wine coyly.

Lucia sat quietly, thinking about her friend’s advice. It was true that no man took a woman seriously in Roman culture, expecting her to be subservient to what he wanted, even if she was the wife of a powerful senator. Women were considered weak and simple-minded, unable to measure up to their male counterparts. But to use that very thought against them was tempting and dangerous. If Lucia had attempted such a feat and been discovered, there would have been no telling how far Caracalla or Geta would go when their rage controlled them.

“Now, you’ve taken up much of my time, and I don’t wish to have the Paediatricians kicking down my front door,” Fosca spoke, rising from the couch and handing her empty cup to the slave.

Lucia obeyed, standing up. “They won’t expect to find me here. The wife of a loyal Roman soldier, they would expect you to hand me over.” Lucia said she would drink the last of her wine before placing the goblet on the carved stone table. Fosca laughed at her friend’s observation. The guards most likely did expect that. They also assumed Lucia would go to ‘obvious’ hiding places, such as busy markets, taverns or plays. Fosca walked her through the lavish home to the entranceway, adjusting the shawl to conceal Lucia’s face better.

“You be careful now.” The blonde lectured, eyeing her friend sternly.

Lucia chuckled. “And you.” The two women hugged briefly before Fosca opened the front door and peeked outside to ensure no guards were in sight. With a nod to Lucia, the princess slipped outside, quickly casting her eyes around the busy streets for anyone watching and paced away from Fosca’s home. To anyone, she looked like a slave being sent on an errand by her mistress, but Lucia still needed to keep her guard up. Rome wasn’t as safe as the senate deemed it to be, but they strolled around with their guards without a care for the peasantry.

She looked at Palatine Hill in the distance, home of the Emperors and the senate. It was a collection of temples, government buildings, and the Palace of Domitian, all surrounded by walls and heavily guarded. It was the seat of Rome’s power, nestled between the Colosseum and Circus Maxima, where the Emperors could travel safely to gladiator fights and chariot races. The Palace of Domitian was built over a hundred years ago for Emperor Domitian and all the Emperors who followed. Some smaller villas, such as the House of Augustus, couldn’t compare to the majesty of the Palace of Domitian.

Stepping closer along the walls that circled Palatine Hill, Lucia peeked around the corner, searching for any guards who could be patrolling, but saw only the guards keeping watch over the entrances. None of the lower public dared to get too close. They would never be allowed onto Palatine Hill’s grounds as they were not nobles or senators, and only enslaved people who bore the Imperial brand on their skin could pass.

Making her way to the aqueducts that boarded the high walls, Lucia stayed out of sight as she pushed a large bush aside and crept forward. Hidden low in the wall and behind a cluster of bushes was a metal grate that gave access to a secret tunnel into the Palace of Domitian. Lucia wasn’t sure when it had been built into the Palace structure, only knowing that her grandfather had informed her mother about it, and her mother passed that knowledge on to her. The young woman assumed it was a hidden escape route built for a previous royal family. Such precautions were deemed necessary with the dangers that constantly loomed over the Emperors and their heirs.

Lucia knew that Geta and Caracalla did not realise that the secret tunnel existed, much to her and her mother’s benefit; if they had, they would have taken action to ensure it was inaccessible.

Slipping inside a long, dark passage, with only the straight ongoing trek to guide her, Lucia ignored the sounds of rodents that scrambled past her feet until she reached the end of the passage. A false wall acted as a door into a storeroom in a far dark corner to hide the comings and goings of those who knew of the passage from spying eyes. Lucia entered quietly, pushing the wall closed while glancing around, noticing the room was empty of any lingering slave or servant. She reached for a basket, holding a fine chiton and a jug of water to clean her skin, quickly using a rag to wipe the purposely placed grime from her arms and face before finally changing her clothes. Folding the slave’s tunic and shawl into the basket and tucking it away from being easily noticed, Lucia made for the storeroom door, slowly pushing it open and peering outside.

Smiling, Lucia stepped into the hall and made quickly for her chamber. She knew if caught, she’d be taken straight to the Emperors, where they would lecture her and confine her to her chambers as punishment, just as they did every other time she snuck out, but it did nothing to discourage her. Being chamber-bound or locked to the Palace was just as bad as the other. Lucia needed to experience Rome, its people, and what existed outside of Palatine Hill. The coy smile on her lips fell when she rounded the corner to her chambers, spotting two guards outside the doorway, something the Emperors had never ordered.

“Ugh…” Lucia grumbled when the guards snapped their attention to her, their eyes narrowing coldly. They took one step towards her, their posture threatening. “Yes, yes.” She muttered, her hands raised defensively. “Lead the way.” Lucia stepped forward, one guard leading her while the other followed behind, ensuring she couldn’t flee.

Palace of Domitian - Rome 195AD

The twins lounged back on the plush sofas of the Palace banquet hall, surrounded by some of the finest prostitutes money could buy, each one scantily clad and faces heavily painted. Caracalla was laughing garishly, a goblet of wine in one hand as his free hand traced over the skin of the closed woman, leaning into him eagerly, wanting his sole attention. His eyes flickered to his older twin brother, Geta, pacing the room hastily while sipping his wine. The sight made Caracalla’s lips quirk.

“Relax, brother. Calm yourself with one of our guests.” Caracalla suggested, running his hand along the thigh of a prostitute, the woman giggling fakely at his touch.

Geta scowled. “Lucia is missing, and you can only think of whoring?” He stopped pacing, staring down at his brother with an exasperated look. Caracalla shrugged, muttering that ‘she was only a girl’. Geta’s hand clenched. “A girl who could bear an heir who can steal Rome from us.” He hissed, trying to address the importance of Lucia’s detainment to their care.

“Then we should kill her,” Caracalla suggested, shrugging playfully.

Geta stared at his brother, wondering how thoughts formed in his brother’s brain. It seemed Caracalla was only ever interested in sex, drinking, narcotics and violence. Geta shook his head. “The death of Lucia or Lucilla will cause an uproar among Rome’s people. They love their princesses too dearly.” It felt like the millionth time that Geta had to explain something so simple to his brother, but Caracalla just frowned, clearly bored by such a notion. Geta groaned, going back to pacing and drinking his wine.

His gaze flicked when a guard entered the room, and Geta felt his blood rush. “Did you find her?!” He asked hastily, not bothering to hide his enthusiasm. It had been several hours with his men searching Palatine Hill and Rome. He didn’t understand how a single woman could evade the Praetorian guard, the elite Imperial soldiers trained to be capable of anything.

The soldier nodded. “She’s returned, your majesty.” He spoke awkwardly, revealing that the guards hadn’t been responsible for finding Lucia. Geta’s jaw was tight, but he gestured for the guard to bring her into the hall.

Lucia strolled calmly into the room, her eyes draping over Geta and Caracalla. The younger twin wasn’t paying her any attention, too focused on the painted whores that surrounded him, but it was Geta that was staring down at her menacingly. “Emperor Geta.” She bowed, acting as if she hadn’t had the city being torn apart to find her.

Geta’s lips twitched. “Your respect is ill-placed.” He commented, stepping closer towards her. His eyes flickered to the guards behind her, and they stepped out, leaving the pair somewhat alone. “Three hours. That’s how long the Praetorian have been searching for you.” His tone was even, but Lucia could hear the bubbling of his anger. “You must cease these reckless endeavours,” Geta ordered sternly. “You and your mother are our guests for your own protection, a privilege you greatly take for granted.”

Lucia’s brows twitched. His ideas of ‘guests’ and ‘privilege’ differed significantly from hers. She was followed day and night by slaves, servants and soldiers, bound to the private wings of the Palace of Domitian and its gardens. If she were a guest with privileges, she could walk freely, without eyes following her, and leave Palatine Hill whenever she desired. “You may lie to yourself, your Majesty, but do not lie to me,” Lucia spoke, her eyes narrowing and meeting his heated gaze. “I see no protection in a gilded cage. I am a Freewoman of Rome, yet I have less than a slave.”

Geta visibly flinched, his anger starting to overwhelm him. How dare she speak back to him in such a manner, to talk down to him like he was a fool. He was Emperor, and all of Rome was his to command.

“If you have no more need of me, I shall retire for the evening.” Lucia bowed. She didn’t allow him to speak before turning sharply and exiting the banquet hall. Geta yelled in frustration, tossing his goblet harshly against the marbled floor, spilling its rich red contents across the white stone. It had dinged when it made contact, its echoing sound and Geta’s roar earning the eyes of the prostitutes and Caracalla. The prostitutes swallowed thickly, a shiver of fear going down their spines at having witnessed the man’s sudden outburst, but Caracalla scowled, his mind once more wondering if it would be easier to kill Lucia than deal with her ongoing trouble.

Geta closed his eyes, taking a moment to breathe and calm himself. Since Lucia started sneaking out and causing havoc last year, she has become annoying. He had preferred her when she had hidden away in her chambers, stuck reading poetry or playing the lyre. When she was quiet and hidden away, Geta didn’t have to even think of the woman. Now, she was acting out almost daily. It would be easy to send her away, but they had to keep her close. Unwed senators had become persistent in wishing to speak with the girl, and Geta knew why. They wanted the power and influence of marrying a princess of Rome and having a son born of that union become Emperor.

Everyone was out to see Geta and Caracalla fail, to see their reign end, just so those who envied them might have the opportunity to replace them. Lucia was the key to their end. Caracalla couldn’t see it, but Geta could.

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