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galos-writing · 4 days ago

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Ashes of the golden son -chapter 2

Commodus x you

Rome strips away the boy you once knew, leaving only a prince drowning in his father’s contempt and his own hunger. In a world that fears his temper and feeds his vices, you stay, touching him like he’s still worth saving, even as he sinks deeper into the monster Rome made him to be. Chapter 1 here

You stayed by the sleeping prince side for an hour, perhaps more. Making sure that he slept well. But sleepiness was reaching you too. The confrontation had left your chest hollow, like something sacred had cracked. But it had been positive; he had heard you; he had let you show him things could be different. That someone could truly see him.

You exited his tent and headed to your own for the night. You promised yourself to go visit him again before dawn. You thought that perhaps, if you were the first person he saw in the morning, his day would go well, his mind appeased.

You overslept; the exhaustion of the previous day had taken over. It was the chatting of some soldiers having breakfast that woke you. You stood up in haste, throwing cold water on you face and dressing up in your usual white tunic. You hoped Commodus had overslept too, this way he could wake in your company, safe, perhaps your hand caressing his curls...you shook your head at your wandering thoughts, focusing instead on your surroundings.

The tent was warm with sunlight when you entered. The guards, knowing your position let you in without question. Soft golden rays filtered through the canvas, touching the edge of the rugs, the basin of now-cold water you’d left by his bedside, the crumpled linen you’d dressed him in hours before. The scent of rose oil still lingered faintly from the cloth you’d used on his chest.

To your surprise and perhaps disappointment, Commodus was already up, standing in front of the mirror as he fixed his neck cloth, a slave tying his boots. You saw the prince. Not the trembling boy from the night before, who had curled into your lap like a wounded animal.

This man was dressed in silk and muscle, hair freshly oiled and brushed back from his forehead. His rings were on, his belt buckled. A golden pin shone at his shoulder.

He caught your reflection before you could announce yourself.

“Ah...” he said lightly, without turning. “My guardian angel returns.” he said, dismissing the slave.

You didn’t speak right away, not knowing if his tone was warm or a pretense of warmth. He turned then, the full weight of that practiced smile resting on you. Cool, radiant but detached “Forgive me, if I was… unwell last night. Something in the wine, perhaps.” he said casually.

You looked at him, the way you might look at a marble statue meant to resemble someone you once loved. “That’s alright. I stayed with you.” you said quietly. “You were shaking.”

He waved a hand airily. “I had a chill. The air in Germania is damp. You know how delicate I am.” he chuckled.

Your jaw clenched suddenly feeling where this going. “You were crying.” you insisted, trying to tell him it was okay, trying to have the real Commodus in front of you again.

He gave a soft snort, his look darkening. “Impossible. I don’t cry. Ask the Senate and they’ll assure you I was forged by Vulcan himself. Fireproof and full of wrath.” He stepped closer, studying your face now, a frown between his brows. “Why do you look at me like that?” he asked, voice smooth. “Like I disappointed you?”

“Because I was there, I know what I saw.” you said, your eyes searching his. But he remained silent, slights lifting his chin in pride.

“Yes. And you were very kind. Exceptionally so. You’ll be rewarded for it. A new cloak? A heavier purse? Your own pretty slave to serve you? Say the word.” he smiled, the kind of charming smile he used with senators.

You stepped closer now, narrowing the distance. "I don’t want coin or anything of the sort, Commodus.” you replied, you just wanted him...wanted him to okay. His smile faltered, just slightly. You touched the edge of his robe, fingertips brushing the clasp. “I want you to be honest.” That was the word, honest not just with you but with himself.

His eyes turned sharp at once. Like a blade drawn in the dark “It is Highness to you.” glancing at your fingers that had touched him as if you had burned him. “Taking some liberties, I see...There is no use for honesty in an emperor.” he said, coldly now. “There is use in discipline. In image and in control.”

“And in lies ?” you asked, your posture tensing as you took your hand away from his tunic. You could not understand, why even in front of you now, he was pretending to be that heartless prince.

“If they keep the world in order, yes.” he persisted. His tone without appeal.

You stepped back then. Not out of fear but something colder. He was rebuilding the mask, brick by brick, right in front of you. Last night, it had shattered. Now it gleamed again, polished, imperial, impenetrable.

And you? You were a witness to a truth he would never admit again.

He turned to pick up his scroll case, businesslike now. “Come.” he said. “The council meets before midday. I’d prefer you at my side, healer.”

You nodded, almost regretfully accepting. But you were still the only one he summoned that night. Even if now… he pretended it had never happened.

The council tent was filled with the low murmur of voices when you entered, always just a step behind him. It was a large space, stifling with heat and tension. Scrolls cluttered the central table, maps pinned with stones and carved tokens. A scent of ink, sweat, and damp wool hung in the air.

Commodus stood at the head of the room, resplendent in a fresh dark blue cloak. He didn’t look tired nor hangover. But you knew better. You reached discreetly into your pouch and held out the clay vial, bitter tonic of fig root and crushed lavender, steeped overnight. He didn’t glance at you, but his hand closed over it the moment it brushed his fingers.

The generals did not speak to you. But they noticed, of course they did. The proximity, the way the prince seemed to tolerate you. Only you ever approached the Emperor without permission. And actually, you were the first one to ever stand by his side, he was always alone.

He drank without question, then set the vial down, looking forward as if defying anyone to object. “Proceed.” Commodus said, his voice firm and steady. He was focused, wanting to prove to the world he was what they expected him, even if it costed him.

Maximus began the briefing, the state of the northern wall, casualties, weather patterns, ration decay. Commodus nodded at each, making small adjustments, his hand tapping against the wood just once. His face was still as sculpted marble but you could tell his mind was racing with thoughts, plans and hopes.

And yet, you watched him with the eyes of someone who knew another truth...

Once, he had cried once for hours into your lap.As a boy of seven years old, the night his twin brother died.

His sobs had come sharp and shameful, as if he had retained himself to the point it physically hurt. He hadn’t been allowed to mourn in public, not as a prince. The body of his twin brother Titus had been carried off to ceremony, and Commodus had been told by stern-faced philosophers that grief was an emotion that blinded the mind, that Caesars had to let it pass and rule before all.

You had held him while his fingers dug into your skirts, whispering only his name. You thought then it might change. That they would see what grief made of him, a boy no different than any other.

But they didn’t.

He stopped crying by the time his mother Faustina died. He just buried himself into silence. He was just a little boy standing beside a funeral pier with fists clenched and eyes dry.

He told you once that crying made his throat feel like glass. That it burned worse than any wound. That was the first time you saw his melancholy. And that his melancholy turned into anger, violence...and it never left.

Now, as he gestured for a general to speak, you watched the slight tremor in his hand, so subtle, none of them noticed. He smiled when they praised his military efficiency. But you had seen him stare into the the fire of the torches for hours the night before, his eyes gone hollow.

The generals, soldiers, senators, and everyone else feared his cruelty, his appetites, his anger. But you knew the truth...the boy never stopped grieving. He just learned how to turn his grief into spectacle.

“Send word to the southern outpost.” Commodus said now with a calm voice “And raise pay for the auxiliary legions. I want morale visible.”

“A wise choice, higness,” murmured one of the older generals. Marcus Aurelius nodded approvingly. Commodus inclined his head graciously as a reply to the generals, ignoring his father, it hurt too much to acknowledge his judgment, whatever positive or negative.

But when his eyes flicked toward you, just for a second, the smile faltered. Only slightly; enough for you to know he still remembered the night you cleaned the blood and sweat from his body. That you had seen him. And he hated it. He hated even more that he needed it.

The council had barely dispersed before he called for you. Not aloud, he simply threw you a glance with purpose before turning and vanishing behind the rear partition of the tent, the one section he used as his office. No generals, no guards. No one but you.

You followed and watched as he stood near the low altar where fresh water was poured each morning, beside a brazier of slow-burning resin. The cloth around his neck had already been loosened. One hand braced against the edge of the carved table, his back turned to you.

“You watched me.” He said calmly. Not soft but not angry, just coiled.

You didn’t answer right away, simply detailing him. “I’m always watching you” you answered truthfully “I always did.” you added with the hint of a smile; the affection you always felt for him.

That made him turn. He looked radiant in the firelight, all deep shadows and gold but his eyes were darker than usual. Not cold, but defensive.

“But you look at me like I’m fragile.” he said. “You don’t look at me with pride or such thoughts.”

“You are fragile. That doesn’t mean you’re weak.” you replied. “Besides I look at you with pride too sometimes.”

He took a slow step toward you, then another. “You’re the only one who dares say that.” he said, voice low.

You met his gaze without flinching. And something in him twitched. A spasm of frustration, or shame, or fear. You weren’t sure which. But he came closer. "I can’t breathe when you look at me like that.” he said. “Like you see something I don’t want to be seen. Makes me feel bare in front of all.”

“Because I do see it. The others don’t. Otherwise, things would be different. And you know it.” you replied, tempted to reach for him and caress his face but you didn’t. You felt he was tensing more and more.

He remained silent at first; looking down at you from his height “I don’t want your pity.” he spat.

“It’s not pity.”

“Then what?” He asked, his hands clenched, jaw tight. Like he was holding back not just anger, but the need to fall apart.

“Recognition.” you said simply. “Acceptance. Or affection if that doesn’t hurt you pride too much.” you had always seen him as who he was, a boy born different, meant to change the world.

That broke something in him. He stilled like a statue, silent. But his eyes did something strange. They blinked, too fast, too often. Like a child trying not to cry. “You think I’m broken.” he said, barely able to conceal the tremor in his voice.

“I think you were never taught how to bleed without being punished for it.” you replied. It was what had broken him; not just the losses but the way it had been handled.

His breath hitched at your words, and he looked at you confused, yet soft “Why does it matter to you?”

You could have lied and played it safe. But instead, you reached for the truth that had lived in your chest since he was a boy with too-wide eyes and a grief he wasn’t allowed to name. You lifted your hand, cupping his cheek “Because I care for you. Especially that part of you who yearns.”

A long silence followed, a light red colored the cheeks of the prince. Then, Commodus looked away, his cheek leaving your palm as if it burn him, not out of shame, but defense. “Don’t.” he said.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t see me...please...” he murmured, his eyes wet. You didn’t respond or didn’t have time to. As he stepped back, gathered his cloak from the chair, draped it over his shoulders like armor. The future Emperor again. Untouchable, magnificent and alone.

“I have duties.” he said briskly, quickly wiping a tear rolling down his cheek as if it was merely dust. And that was the end of it. Because Commodus was never sure what was worse. That you saw him. Or that no one else ever did.

As you came out of the tent, you found Lucilla seated at a wooden bench beneath a tree, her dark blue cape drawn close against the breeze. Maximus stood nearby, arms folded, eyes on the training field as if distraction could still the unease building in his chest. Both of them turned at the sound of your approach.

“You look like you’ve seen the Furies themselves.” Lucilla said gently, remaining seated like the lady she was. But her smile was kind with a hint of playfulness that she often had.

“In a way, I have.” you murmured, voice low. You looked toward the horizon, not ready to speak yet. Not of what happened in that tent with Commodus. How hard it was to want to help him when he ran away from saving.

Maximus tilted his head slightly. “Was it him?”

You nodded. That was all the answer they needed. “I heard...” Lucilla said, voice tinged with weariness. “There was an incident last night.”

“More than one.” you replied. You glanced at Maximus. “The boy was barely fifteen. I saw the lashes. He’ll carry them for life.”

Maximus’s jaw tensed. “And yet Commodus walks untouched.”

“He’s not untouched.” you said. “Just bleeding in places none of you see.”

Lucilla’s eyes met yours, sharp and perceptive. “You mean the cut on his side?”

You hesitated. “Yes. It’s healing well. But it’s not the worst wound he carries.” You inhaled slowly, grounding yourself. “Let’s say he feels more alive in the arena because at least there, they cheer, at least there someone cheers for him. They want him to be who he is, glorious, brutal, adored. Here… he thinks they’re all waiting for him to fail. Especially his highness the Emperor.”

Lucilla lowered her eyes. “Father, always thought love could be given through discipline. That disappointment would build character, encourage my brother to improve. I grew well with it. But Commodus isn’t made like others. He doesn’t grow under judgment. He corrodes.” Maximus eyes sharpened at your words as if to him it wasn’t excusing his attitude.

“If only someone, at least one person was willing to listen to him, to see him...” you thought, not realizing you had pronounced those words aloud.

Lucilla looked up, voice quieter now. “You care for him.”

You didn’t deny it. “I have watched him grow.” you said. “Lonely, starving for love. Criticized from the first steps he took into the world. I heard people say he wasn’t Marcus Aurelius son but the child of an affair between his mother and a gladiator. How badly can it affect a child do you think?”

Maximus shifted. “That boy is a man now. But he still remains afraid. And that… is dangerous.”

You met his eyes. “So is every man who has never been taught how to deal with his emotions. Instead, being told to ignore them and to rule his life with pragmatism. And still being looked down upon.” Silence fell between the three of you. The wind picked up slightly, tugging at Lucilla’s cloak.

Then she spoke. “He loved you once.” Your breath caught, remembering the deep sadness and anger that hit him when you had left the palace to follow the troops to war. You had not fully understood his feelings at the time “Maybe he still does.”

You looked away. “Because I was the only one seeing him truly, doesn’t mean he really loved me or still does today. I seriously doubt it.” Maximus said nothing. But his face was a storm of unspoken things, memory, duty, a kind of sadness that ran deep in men who have seen too much and tried too long to be good.

Finally, Lucilla turned to go. “Be careful.” she said, her voice almost lost in the wind. “There’s a line between blind love and complicity. And you’re the only one left walking it.” You watched her disappear down the slope toward the command tent, her figure dissolving into the golden light of dusk.

Maximus lingered a moment longer. Then, in a voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it “Don’t follow him too deep in the grave he dugged for himself.” Then he left you there, between dusk and night, silence and memory.

You tightened your shawl around yourself. Why did no one choose to stay by Commodus side? Why did his sister not fight harder for her little brother?

You remained alone for the rest of the night, silent; just like the camp was quiet. Commodus had long since retreated to his chambers. The generals had dispersed. The fires burned low. You sat alone in your healer’s tent, hands buried in the folds of your cloak, staring at a cup of untouched tea gone cold. Your fingers trembled, you told yourself it was the cold. But it wasn’t. It was the weight of it all, the years of watching him unravel, then the years without seeing him and to find him even more broken. The way he looked at you today...the way he begged not to be seen. You felt responsible, because you had not stayed...

You felt the crack in your own ribs start to widen. And then...you remembered...

You remembered the first time he cried in front of you, so long ago you could barely place your own face in the memory. He couldn’t have been older than nine. His arms too thin for the gold bracelets he wore, his sandals still scuffed from sneaking into the stables. It was late, past curfew. The corridors of the palace were sleeping.

He had slipped into your father’s infirmary, curled up on one of the couches, eyes wet and furious.You’d found him there.

“Commodus?” you whispered.

He looked up, but only just. The way a hunted creature does. “I didn’t mean to.” he said, his voice raw.

“Mean to what?”

He wiped his nose with the back of his arm. “Cry.”

You knelt beside him. Placing a hand upon his head. He looked at you then, and whispered “Are gods allowed to cry?”

Your throat had closed around the answer. He was so small. So heavy with what no child should have carried.“Even the gods cry sometimes Commodus.” you said gently. “But you’re not a god.”

“I’m going to be.” he said. “One day.” He said it like a curse. “I miss my brother... So much... it hurts.”

You didn’t speak. Just pulled him into your arms. He let you. That night, you held a boy who thought sorrow made him unworthy.

And now...

Now you sat alone, breathing too quickly, your eyes burning. You had spent so many years stitching him back together. But tonight, for the first time, the thread had slipped from your own fingers again.

You didn’t hear him enter. You didn’t see him until his shadow crossed the firelight. “Why are you crying?” His voice was soft, taken aback by your tears.

You turned away, wiping your face, furious at yourself. “It’s nothing.”

“That’s a lie I know well” he said.

You felt the warmth of him before you felt the weight, his cloak falling gently over your shoulders, still warm from his body, his scent wrapping all around you. You hadn’t even realized you were shivering. “Don’t.” you muttered. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” he asked, looking at you softly.

“Like I’m the one who needs saving.” He didn’t reply, then he sat beside you. Close but not touching. “I always thought you were the one who couldn’t break.” he said quietly. “That maybe you were made of something stronger than I was.”

You swallowed hard. “I had to be.”

He didn’t answer. But you felt his hand brush yours, hesitant, awkward. Then it landed softly on top of yours “I never knew how to grieve.” he whispered. “But you did. For me, always for me.” You turned your face toward him. His expression was unreadable. But his voice, for once, carried no mask. “Let me grieve with you. Just this once.”

That was what finally undid you; you bursted into tears and leaned into his shoulder, not as a healer, not as a subject. But as the only person who ever saw the god and still loved the boy. And Commodus, prince, monster and man, let you rest there. None of you spoke. You simply shared together the weight of the years that passed, the pain and the yearning for each other that none of you dared to think about. You remained side by side, until the tears dried. The silence became heavy, too full of unspoken things. You were too aware of your hand in his, his warmth.

You exchanged a look with Commodus, the muscles of his jaw working as if he wanted to say something or do something but he revised “Tomorrow morning, training grounds.” he simply said and gave a short nod, his way of wishing you goodnight and taking his leave.

The morning came without ceremony. The skies above Germania remained pale as it did now for several weeks. The sun of Rome was dearly missed. Soldiers drilled in the mud, their grunts and clashes ringing like a war hymn beneath the crows. It kept them distracted, their moral high.

You stood near the perimeter of the training field, arms folded, the lightest satchel of salves and linen slung at your hip. The healer, always watching and read to heal, wounds and minds.

Commodus was all fire again. He wore no crown here, no robes. Just his braccae pants and sweat and purpose. Commodus moved through the ranks like he belonged to them, a wolf in the pack, sparring with centurions, correcting posture, knocking one man flat with a turn of the hip and a feral grin.

You couldn’t help but smile as you watched. He was a good fighter, not one who feared bruises, one who fought like any other legionnaire. There was precision in his brutality, rhythm in every strike. A strange poetry to his violence. But then...

A slave stumbled too close. He’d been running back toward the armory with a bundle of training spears when his feet slipped in the mud. One long shaft skidded under Commodus’s foot. The Emperor twisted to avoid it, not falling, not quite, but the movement was awkward. Less than regal. Laughter rippled from some of the men. Only a few but enough. Commodus froze at hearing laughter.

The slave dropped to his knees at once, forehead in the mud. “Forgive me, Highness. Please, I-”

Commodus turned slowly, making the laughter stop. He stalked toward the boy, young, scrawny, barely older than the servant who had spilled the wine nights ago. Your hand twitched at your side, ready to intervene.

The boy’s voice trembled. “It...it was the mud, I didn’t see-”

Commodus towered over him. And for a moment, his hand hovered near his dagger.

You saw it and so did the others. You took a step forward out of reflex. Speaking no words, just looking. Commodus didn’t look at you, but he felt your eyes on him. The weight of it. The memory of the night before, the cloak around your shoulders. The way your voice cracked; the way he watched you fall apart in silence, and decided to stay.

His fingers curled tighter around his dagger, then he dropped them. Still the urge remained, the need to punish. The slave flinched anyway. Commodus still didn’t strike, he knelt instead, slowly, deliberately and picked up the dropped spear himself. He handed it back sharply.

The boy looked up, shaking. Commodus said nothing, then turned and walked back toward the center of the field. The soldiers said nothing and simply resumed training with the prince.

But you watched the line of his back, the quiet fury of restraint in his spine. The way his hits were now rougher. He had wanted to break something. And he didn’t. Because of you. Because maybe, for one unbearable second, he wondered if the boy who missed his brother, who asked if gods could cry, could still live inside the man he had become.

And maybe, just maybe, that boy didn’t want to disappoint you...

You returned to the infirmary. A soft light filtered through the slits of the tent, warm with the scent of herbs and crushed bark as you resumed working for the rest of the morning. You were restocking salves in quiet, focused rhythm, arranging the clay jars by strength, by sting. Your mind kept wandering to the prince, rocking back and forth between his darkness and his light.

You were pushed out of your thoughts by hearing the flap of your tent part. “Out.” Commodus ordered with a tone that made senators sit straighter and boys stop laughing.

The other healers scrambled out, even your father who used to take care of the prince didn’t question it. He gave you a glance you couldn’t read before vanishing into the next tent. And then it was just you and Commodus. You didn’t look up at first. Just kept folding linen. The quiet between you stretched like a bowstring.

“Say it.” he said.

You glanced at him now. “Say what?” He was in his training tunic still, damp with sweat, hair clinging to his temples, skin flushed from exertion. He looked like a soldier in need of tending. But there was something dangerous in his stance, something hurt.

“That you disapproved.” he added, his face unreadable. You raised an eyebrow. “The boy with the spear.” he went on. “I saw your eyes.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No.” he said, stepping closer, voice darkening. “But you thought it.”

You met his gaze. “What do you think I thought?”

“You think I’m a monster.” he said flatly. “That it’s something I have to resist. Something I almost did, for you.”

You set the linen aside. “You didn’t hurt him.”

“Because you looked at me.”

“You mean I stopped you?”

“I mean-” He faltered, of course you hadn’t stopped him, he had done so by himself. The firelight shifted across his face. “I mean I wanted to. And then I didn’t. And now I don’t know if I’m weak for it.”

You stepped around the table slowly, until nothing but a few feet remained between you. “You think mercy is weakness?” you asked, quiet.

He searched your face as if your question was idiotic or perhpas a trap. “Isn’t it?”

“No.” you said. “Mercy is a strenght. It is one of the qualities of the gods. Because you have the capacity to hurt but you chose not to.”

That stopped him. He looked at you like he wanted to refute it, wanted to laugh or to scoff. But the words didn’t come. “You started to change me.” he whispered. “And I don’t know if I should thank you or punish you for it.”

Your heart stilled. “And you think saying that out loud will make it easier?” He didn’t move. You stepped closer. “Maybe I didn’t change you.” you said. “Maybe I just reminded you of the boy you were before the Empire taught you to hide him.”

He said nothing. But his hands opened slightly at his sides. Like he might reach for something or someone....“I’m afraid.” he admitted. “I’m afraid...” he said again, clenching his jaw “Of who I might be if I stop punishing every time I feel.”

You stepped close enough to rest your hand lightly over his chest, just above the fabric, just over his heartbeat. You felt his heart thump against your palm “Then let it scare you, accept it.” you whispered. “But don’t make it disappear. Because it never does...you just bury deep enough to make go mad.”

His breath hitched. You saw his eyes flick to your lips. But he didn’t kiss you. He stepped back and turned away. “Thank you...” he said, voice brittle. “For the tonic. It worked.” And then, he left, his cloack swirling behind him. You stood there, your hand still tingled with the memory of his heart beneath your palm.

He was still running away from himself. But not as fast and not as far. Not anymore.

The light was gentler in the late afternoon, casting dappled gold through the trees behind the infirmary. You had stepped out for air, a warm drink in hand, when you noticed her already sitting there. Lucilla, draped in a pale green wrap, tucked beneath a tree. She was alone and looked up as you approached. "I wondered how long it would take you to notice me.” she said, smiling faintly.

You gestured to the cup in your hand. “Healer’s duties. Men find new and creative ways to injure themselves when training near a woman.”

Lucilla gave a quiet laugh. “And when training under my brother.”

You sat beside her. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just sipped your drinks in companionable silence. Then she said, “You were with him this morning.”

You didn’t deny it. “He invited me to watch.” you said. “Or at least… didn’t mind being watched.”

Lucilla studied you. There was no judgment in her eyes, only tired affection. “And then I saw he visited your tent too...” she added gently and knowingly.

You inhaled, the conversation still fresh in your mind “He nearly struck a servant. Again. But he didn’t.”

“Because of you.”

You shook your head. “Because of himself. I just seem to remind him of who he used to be, of who he could be.”

Lucilla hummed. “Maybe. But you were the only person he thought about before choosing not to.” You stared into the tea, watching the leaves shift like shadows.

Lucilla leaned in slightly, voice softer now. “Do you love him?” The question, she had mentionned those feelings the day before too. It was asked the way a sister might ask of another sister. You would have wanted to say that you simply cared for him, but you found yourself doubting your own feelings...so you didn’t answer. Your silence was enough.

Lucilla sighed, not unkindly. “He’s… not easy to love.”

“I never said he was.”

“But you do love him.” she said. “Not like others do. Not for what he offers. Not for his power, or his name.” She paused. “You love him in spite of himself. No matter the darkness in him. Don’t you?”

You looked at her then, still refusing to answer. Lucilla grew quiet, a nostalgic smile on her lips. Then said, as if to herself “I wonder if it might’ve been different, had he loved someone like you sooner.”

You turned to her. “He did love someone. You.”

Lucilla’s eyes shimmered, just briefly. “I am his sister and obviously we disagree on how the Empire should be ruled.” she said. “Our bond has been tainted by those expectations, politics. But you… you were always outside the palace; freer. I believe you represent that to him...freedom.” A faint smirk curled at the edge of her mouth. “I never minded, you know.” she added. “That he watched you.”

You blinked. “Watched me?”

Lucilla chuckled, a playful glow in her eyes “Even when we were children. He used to ask the palace guard how often you came to visit him. Whether you wore your hair up or down. I knew then. He was always chasing what he thought he could never have.”

You said nothing and simply blushed. Lucilla leaned her head lightly against yours. And for a moment, you let yourself imagine it: the three of you not born to power, but to a quieter fate. One of olive trees, soft music, and laughter. “You make him hesitate.” Lucilla said. “That may be the only thing left that can save him.”

You stared ahead, past the tents, past the tree line, toward the ridge of twilight. “I only hope...” you whispered “he wants to be saved.”

Lucilla didn’t reply. She just took hold of your hand, gently squeezing it. And together, for a few quiet moments, you both sat, the Emperor’s sister and his healer, watching the last light of the day fold itself into dusk.

***

But Commodus could not heal in one day, just like Rome didn’t build itself in one day.... that hopeful and tender path did not last long.

It started with a patrol report. An ambush on the northern trail. Two scouts injured. Maximus had led the response and returned bloodied, but victorious. It should have ended there. But Commodus, already frayed at the edges, chose to hear something else.

“Why...” he asked during the war table briefing “was I not informed before action was taken?”

Maximus straightened, calm as always. “Because there was no time, Highness. The men were under threat-...”

“And you decided...” Commodus cut in coldly “to act without imperial approval.” A beat of silence followed. The tent was full of generals, tribunes, aides. You stood off to the side having bandaged Maximus and watching the storm build behind Commodus’s eyes.

Maximus remained still. “I protected our flank. The choice was mine.”

Commodus rose slowly. “This is not your legion, General. And you are not Rome’s savior.” It was cruel words and unnecessary.

You stepped forward before you could stop yourself. “Enough.”

Silence fell like a blade. All eyes turned to you. Even Commodus, especially Commodus. “Maximus didn’t defy you. He defended your camp. Your men. And you.” you spoke bracely, but you coudl feel the air growing colder.

Commodus said nothing at first. But his jaw clenched and his eyes… darkened. “Everyone out.” he ordered. “Not you.” Commodus said to Maximus. “Not yet.” The tent emptied fast. Except for you. And Maximus. Maximus gave you a glance, one of warning.

Commodus approached you slowly and when he spoke, it wasn’t rage. It was betrayal. "You interrupted me. In front of all.” he said.

“He didn’t deserve it.” you replied.

“You speak for him now?”

“I speak for what’s right.”

He stepped closer. The quiet fury rolled off him in waves. “You embarrassed me.” he said. “In front of my generals.”

“I protected you.” you said. “From being the very man your father claims you are.” The silence was deeper this time.

“You’re dismissed.” The prince spoke without looking at the general. Maximus hesitated, sensing the tension, fearing for you perhaps.

Commodus didn’t look away from you. “You’ll want to go.” he added darkly.

Maximus clenched his jaw but left. And then you were alone with the prince. Commodus stepped closer. His hand came up, fast, and for a moment you thought he’d strike you. But he didn’t. He grabbed your chin forcefully.

“You dared to humiliate me in front of all. You questioned my authority.” he said, voice quiet and cold. His fingers squeezed a little more to avoid you replying. “Tonight, you will come to the party I organized for my legions. You will respect my authority, you will obey and see.” he stated, his tone without appeal.

You stared at him. “You are punishing me?” you asked. “Because I reminded you?”

“No.” he replied. “Because you reminded me I’m not. Years have passed, and I am not the little scared boy anymore.”

You held his gaze. And saw it; the shame, the fury. The deep ache of a man who had been stripped bare… and resented you for having the power to do it. He turned and left the tent. You clenched your jaw; you had a bad feeling for tonight. Every time you took a step towards Commodus, he backed against the wall until it hurt him.

That evening, you were summoned to the outer ring of the camp. The place where you had witnessed Commodus’ debauchery for the first time; where the officers dined, where wine spilled freely, where slaves bent low and laughter filled the air. You knew what was awaiting you...Commodus would remind you of what he had become.

The moment you stepped in, you knew it would be harder than the first time. Because you had seen there was still good in Commodus, but he chose not to show it. The atmosphere was off, too loud, too eager, the kind of forced cheer that wrapped around fear like perfume over rot. And at the center of it all sat Commodus.

Lounging like Bacchus reborn, his robe half-undone, a slave kneeling at his feet pouring wine directly into his mouth. Another curled behind him, stroking the gold chain at his collar like a leash.

His eyes met yours the moment you crossed the praetorians. He smiled but it wasn’t a smile of joy, it was rather of challenge. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” he said loudly, lifting the goblet you once used to mix his tonics. “I thought you might be… too busy defending other men.” he said, making his men laugh. You kept your head high, it was a first low blow, and you knew more would come.

He stood then, slowly, swaying slightly and raised a hand. The place quieted at once. “I want everyone to know...” Commodus said, voice smooth as honey on steel “that I’ve made a decision.” He turned to you. “Your presence...” he said “will no longer be required in my tent...or at my side.” Whispers rippled through party, some enjoying the news, others surprised. Your stomach dropped, but your face remained still.

“I’ve grown weary.” he continued, walking toward you with the lazy elegance of a lion in a pit. “Weary of those who see weakness when I impose command. Those who dare raise their eyes to me as if I’m something that needs to be saved or controlled...” He stopped just before you, close; so close. He tilted his head, his breath brushing your lips as if he might kiss you “You are dismissed of your fonctions, healer.” You could not respond, too shocked by the news. His tone dropped, like a whisper just enough for only you to hear. “You refuse to believe in the monster they warned you about...” he whispered. “So stay.”

He turned and clapped his hands. Hell began...he called for wine, for dancers, for the scent of myrrh to be poured on the coals. Slaves were pulled in, some terrified, some practiced, and laid bare before him like offerings. He didn’t even look at them. He looked at you. As one began to kiss his throat, he moaned, too loud almost theatrical; a parody of desire. “Watch.” he ordered you “Watch the prince I have become...your future emperor.” he said, voice thick now with drink and venom.

One of the slaves flinched at the violence of his grip. Another, tried to pull back when Commodus forced him to his knees. You stepped forward without thinking. He turned his eyes on you, fire blazing behind them. “Don’t.” he said. “You’ve already saved a man today. That’s enough.”

Your fists clenched at your sides. He leaned back, spread his arms. “I am depraved, am I not? A disgrace to my father, to Rome, to every virtue written in your little healer’s heart.” You did not answer, your heart was hammering in your chest, filled with pain “Say it.” he hissed. “Say what you see.”

You couldn’t speak because what you saw…was grief, hunger, raw and devouring him alive. He wanted you to hate him. He needed it so he could justify destroying the one thing that made him hesitate. You.

You stood still for as long as you could. As laughter curdled around you, as he pulled one body after another into his lap, as the wine turned darker, you did not move. Not even when the man on his knees choked again and Commodus shoved him aside with disgust.

Not even when the girl looked at you while kissing him, to provoke you, to hurt you. Showing you that she had more power over him than you did. That she could bear and enjoy what you couldn’t. And she was right...you had seen battlefield wounds. You had dressed torn flesh. You had burned rot from the legs of dying soldiers with your own hands. But this...this was worse. Because he knew exactly what he was doing. And he wanted you to see it. Your nails dug into your palms, your throat bobbed.

He looked at you again, head tilted lazily against the shoulder of the woman now feeding him grapes like he was some god damned golden idol. His eyes were rimmed red with drink and something more violent.

As if he was begging to be punished. You stepped forward, carefully, your heartbeat in your ears louder than the music around you. The laughter faded, the chatter quietened, curious to see if you would scream at him or if he would force you on your knees too. Even Commodus’s eyes stilled.

You bowed your head. “My lord.” you said, your voice shaking, “I request to be dismissed.”

He blinked. You looked up, your eyes were wet, you were trying so hard not to cry. “I cannot watch this.”

A beat passed; the air had suddenly become ice cold. Commodus sat up slowly. “No.” he said, the smile fading. “You came to judge. Stay and finish it.”

Your lip trembled. And this time, you didn’t hide it. “Please...” you whispered, close to a beg “Let me go.”

Commodus rose to his feet and stood before you in silence, chest bare, mouth-stained red. He reached up, touching your cheek, wiping away a tear rolling down your cheek. “I wanted you to see what I am.” he said quietly.

“I do see.” you replied, voice cracking but you had not flinched at his touch.

And that broke something in him. He turned his back suddenly, perhaps ashamed “Go.” he said, his voice hoarse.

You bit your lower lip, deep down, a part of you wanted to grab his hand to pull him away, take him to your tent and keep him to yourself, safe from a world that was too loud for him...but tonight he clearly didn’t want to be saved...You quickly stepped away, leaving him into the Hell he had accepted for himself.

You didn’t see that the moment you left, the atmosphere of the party changed. Little by little. Commodus didn’t smile. The laughter didn’t return. The wine didn’t pour in his cup. No more bodies climbed into his lap. The music faltered. One by one, the guests began to slip away. No one wanted to be the last to leave the prince. By the time the final soldiers slipped away, Commodus stood alone at the heart of his own feast.

He remained there for a long time...the brazier sputtered; the air stank of warm wine and cooling meat. Commodus stood there in the silence, breathing heavily. His hands were clenched, his throat tight. Then, suddenly, he screamed. He flipped the nearest table with a crash loud enough to wake the dead. The goblets scattered like bones, grapes rolling into the corners, wine spreading like blood. Another scream, this one torn from somewhere lower, buried as if he had been trying to get rid of what he held inside.

He dragged a statue of Mercury from its pedestal and smashed it against a rock, shards flew and sharp edge sliced across his palm, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even feel it. He tore at his robe next, ripped the golden clasp clean off and threw it into the fire. And then...he stood there, panting, sweating and bleeding. Alone....The rage was gone, there was nothing left. Nothing but the silence.

And the echo of your voice: ‘Please… let me go.’

He sank to the floor, hugging himself. No throne not crown, nothing, no one. He was just a man who ruined the only thing that ever touched him without asking for something in return. His breath came in sobs now, quiet, ashamed of his own sounds. He buried his face in his hands. And wept. They had all left, his companions of debauchery... No gods showed their faces to him...no one who cared for him.

He was just the prince, the future Emperor; broken in the aftermath of his own undoing, crying for the mother he was never allowed to grieve; for the brother who died before he could ever feel whole; for the father who so another man as his own son; for you, the only one who dared to look him in the eyes and still stay. Until he drove you away, too...

Thanks for reading, I'm looking forward to your reviews!

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galos-writing · 4 days ago

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totally love this, the sweetness of every gesture and you managed the show-don't-tell marvelously

Honey cakes for the lonely god

Commodus x you

Here is my gift to Commodus for his birthday (for his 1864th birthday if we want to be precise) Hope you will enjoy reading it <3 Apologies for any mistakes, I wanted to publish this before midnight I'm all sleepy XD

The palace woke before the sun; today was a big day. Slaves padded softly down the corridors with ewers of water and baskets of bread. Garlands looped from column to column like laurels without heads beneath them. Oil lamps threw honeyed light onto marble and bronze and men who smiled with too many teeth. Everywhere were trays of dates glazed with syrup, wine poured so dark it looked like ink, sweet cakes everywhere.

“Dies natalis of Caesar.” the chamberlain had announced at dawn, and all day Rome had tried to make that sentence true. Praetorians stood more rigidly than usual; singers rehearsed their ode twice over; a poet pressed a scroll into his hand with trembling fingers and a face that said he would die if Commodus did not read it. He read it. He even nodded. He could perform gratitude better than most men performed sincerity.

By the fifth gift, he stopped tasting the offerings. By the tenth, he could not tell whether the wine was from Galia or Graecia. By the end of the public salutations, he had learned, again, how many ways a man could be congratulated without being seen.

When they let him go at last, he cut through the peristyle rather than the state halls. He liked the sky between the pillars, the way a square of evening could hang there like a borrowed freedom. The laurel in the courtyard was heavy with new growth. He reached out and pinched a leaf off just to feel something alive tear in his fingers.

Voices drifted from behind a column where the senators liked to shelter with their courage. “Is it his dies natalis already?” a voice snorted. “May the gods grant us patience.”

“Patience and a father who admits the boy looks nothing like him.” another said. “More like those gladiators Faustina watched with such passion.” The two men laughed, they were the kind of honeyed senators who never missed a celebration, praising and smiling in front of the Emperor but stabbing him in the back with their sharp tongues. Until one day it would be knives.

Commodus did not flinch. Nor did he get angry. He could have shouted for their execution, but instead he stood still and counted his pulse. One, two. A way to stay calm on that dreadful day...a day where he used to not be alone but to have a heartbeat matching his...now long gone. He had arrived in this world with company and had spent every birthday since discovering how long a day could feel when you were carrying it alone.

He pivoted away from the whispers and kept walking. Everyone he passed greeted him as if the greeting might save them from drowning. “Caesar.” they murmured, and their smiles had the desperate shine, hoping for favors. He slipped through them like a shadow until he reached the one door that did not require armor between him and the world.

You had been up, as you always were, before the palace finished waking. You were tending to a small brazier made for your little shrine, Hercules, a household Lar, and a smooth stone with a line of natural white in it you claimed was luck. The room smelled like myrrh and warmth.

He didn’t announce himself; with you he never bothered to pretend his footsteps were not his. You looked up and read him before he could organize his face.

“It is only a day.” you said softly. “And yet it is the longest day.”

His mouth tugged, somewhere between a smile and a wound. “They speak like it belongs to them. My name, my birth. As if I am a rumor they could correct.”

You stood up and approached, close. You detailed the green of his eyes which seemed darker today, the tightness at the jaw, the way he kept the right hand closed. There were stubbles on his cheeks because he’d slept badly, and a sleep-crease still marked his cheek like a thumbprint from the night.

“Tell me.” you told him, reaching for his closed fist, which made him unclenched it.

“They said I do not look like father.” he replied with a dry breath. “That I am...” he laughed once, without humor “that I am gladiator’s blood playing prince.”

You reached up and touched his cheek. “Hercules was a bastard twice over and still a god. If blood is all they have, they are poor men indeed.” you replied sharply. He knew the sharpness wasn’t aimed at him.

“It is not only their mouths.” He looked past you, at the little shrine. “This day is like a book, showing everything I am not. Not my father. Not… two.” He rarely spoke of his twin, Antoninus, a name that stung even in silence but grief today felt like a recent wound. He had woken every year with the strange compulsion to prepare a gift him, to steal his cloak and fight all morning with wooden swords; to ride in the city and flirt with pretty women.

Without ceremony you guided him to the low couch near the lamp and sat. He folded down beside you and let his shoulders touch your knee. When you set your hands to his hair he went very still, as if a feared you would disappear or break.

“They will forget me.” he said, and there was no bluster in it. “When my father dies, they will remember him as a great philosopher, a god. When I die, they will remember their jokes about me.”

You didn’t argue. You had learned that he did not need a correction as much as he needed somewhere for the ache to go. “Then let me tell you what I will remember.” you said. “I will remember your laugh when you knock your knee against the table and refuse to admit it hurt. I will remember the way you kiss the top of my head without thinking. I will remember how you come back from council stinking of incense and fury, and the first thing you do is find a book, a corner and my hand to hold.”

He exhaled slowly. Relaxing little by little; the tense emperor leaving to leave space to the boy you always knew. You reached behind you for the bowl of warm water you’d set near the brazier and a cloth that smelled faintly of chamomile. You took one of his hands and washed it, knuckles, palm, the tip of his fingers. He watched you the way a thirsty man watches the cup and said nothing. You dried his fingers and smoothed scented oil into his wrists, into the tendons that always held tension. When you moved to pass your fingers through his hair he bowed his head, obedient as a penitent, and the small sound he made was the truest thing uttered in the palace all morning.

“The world may forget as it pleases.” you murmured. “I will not. I could no more forget you than forget how to breathe.”

He tipped his head back into your lap and looked up at you inverted, his eyes suddenly very young. “Do you promise?”

“I do.” you said with a smile, kissing the tip of his nose. He nodded once, like a pact sealed without blood, and closed his eyes. He looked almost peaceful. If you could, you would keep him on your lap forever, just to shield him from the world.

You let him dose off there while the palace burned through the lucrative lies of the day. At noon a messenger came to the door and you sent him away. In the afternoon a slave arrived with a tray of this and that and you told him you were not receiving anything that smelled of Senate today. Commodus surfaced, occasionally, to remark that the pigeons in the courtyard sounded like old men arguing, and then sank again, his breath flattening into steadiness. The city clattered and bargained and snapped just beyond the wall. None of it mattered. You had saved the only part worth having.

When the hour slid toward dusk, you touched his shoulder. “Come.” you said. “Let me steal you a little more.” you cooed.

For once, he did not ask where. He let you lead him by the hand through the long corridors, past the golden rooms. You had commandeered a small storage chamber off the library weeks ago, a quiet square space with a narrow window and clean plaster, more practical than grand. On ordinary days the servants stacked scroll boxes there; today, you had made a temple in a way.

He hesitated on the threshold. The room was all golden with the light of the candles, fat beeswax candles set in low bowls. Laurel leaves were scattered on the floor like a wind had come and been gentle. On the table you had set a small bronze dish for incense, a thin curl of smoke rising. Beside it lay honey cakes, simple, round liba brushed with sweetness and a little clay lamp with two wicks.

You did not say ‘happy birthday’. It felt like the wrong language for a day that had always had more weight than happiness in it. Instead, you took up the lamp and lit the first wick. “For the boy who remains...” you said. Then you lit the second. “For the boy who is missed.”

His throat bobbed. He took the lamp from you and set it between the honey cakes with a care that made the gesture ceremonial all by itself. The room smelled of warm wax and honey and laurel, a scent more honest than any banquet’s. He drew a breath that shook at the edges and then steadied, as if the simple balance of two flames had soothed something that had never been acknowledged aloud.

“Come.” you said, and guided him to sit. You poured watered wine and pressed the cup into his hand. It felt good to put something into him that had not passed through anyone else’s fingers first.

“Do I make a wish?” he asked after a moment, a slant of humor lifting one corner of his mouth because he knew how foolish it sounded and wanted permission to be foolish anyway.

“You do.” you said. “It will bring your fortune.”

He leaned forward, eyes on the twin flames. “Then I wish...” he said, and the flicker gilded his lashes “to be remembered for something other than the way others pronounce my name. I wish…” He swallowed, looked up at you, and finished quietly, “I wish to be loved...”

“You are.” you said simply with an affectionate smile. Commodus often needed to hear the words aloud to be reassured. He closed his eyes and blew. The flames shuddered and went to smoke.

You broke a honey cake and put a piece into his mouth without asking. It crumbled and softened and grew sweet on his tongue. He laughed, a real happy laugh that brought back good memories.... because honey had the peculiar magic of dragging anyone, prince or slave, straight through time to the first year they ever tasted it. He took your hand and returned the favor, smearing your lower lip with honey on purpose. When you licked it away he exhaled a sound that could have been a prayer if the gods he trusted had been anything but unreliable.

You tipped the incense onto the charcoal a pinch at a time. “Hercules...” you said, and you did not pray for greatness or victories or public devotions. “Keep his shoulders, which carry too much. Keep his hands, which give too much. Keep his sleep.”

Commodus bowed his head with the automatic gravity of a boy taught to make offerings at a lararium, and then lifted his gaze to the little clay figure whose club had chipped somewhere in a move and never been repaired. “If you keep what she loves,” he added, “I will build you a temple of happiness.”

“That would be a novelty in Rome.” you said dryly, arching an eyebrow before smiling.

He smiled and reached for your fingers. They were sticky with honey and smelled like the myrrh you had used on his wrists, and when he brought your knuckles to his mouth he kissed them without heat, with devotion, and infinite love.

“They can say whatever they want...” he murmured, his eyes on the low, tame light. “Tomorrow they will still be who they are. And I will still be...” He paused, pressing his thumb between his brows to erase the frown “I am, and tonight, that is enough. And please stay...” he spoke with need, a need for presence.

You nodded “Of course I will stay Commodus.” you replied, wrapping your arms around him to hug him tight.

The candles burned lower. Outside, Rome rehearsed its myths of Commodus, the emperor gladiator. Inside, there was the soft crackle of wicks guttering, the occasional pop from the brazier, the small wet sound of someone finishing a last bite of cake because it felt sacrilegious to leave even a crumb uneaten on this particular night.

When at last you stood, his eyes had the slack softness of a man on the edge of sleep and something gentler than sleep. You pressed the last of the honey from your thumb to his lips like a seal.

“Felix natalis, Commodus.” you said, the wish low and private, not for corridors or councils. “May this day be kinder next year. And if it isn’t, I will be.” because there were a thousand other ways of saying ‘I love you’.

He bent, touching his forehead to yours in the quietest salute he knew. “If they forget me...” he whispered “I will not mind, so long as you do not.”

He took your hand as you stepped into the corridor, and you let him keep it all the way back to the bedroom. He paused at your door, the stubble at his jaw catching a stray beam as he turned his head. “Thank you.” he said, not as a prince to a subject but as a man to the single witness who mattered. He hesitated, as if to add more, then only shook his head and smiled. “You have made the longest day…small enough to hold...and sweet enough to keep.” he murmured fondly

He kissed your temple, one of those thoughtless, almost shy kisses that always undid you and pulled back with a look that promised he would sleep, that he would try. You watched him go. You were happy to have made his day a little less unbearable, a little more happy. Because if there was something Commodus deserved, it was a day of happiness, one where he would be loved unconditionally.

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galos-writing · 4 days ago

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aka your wet dream

do it, gurl

Feeling the urge to write a transmigration fic where reader is a historian/ archeology student/ etc and ends up transported into the time of Commodus

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galos-writing · 12 days ago

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DUDE after everything you told me, Commodus bowing to a SENATOR and licking their whatever is WILDDDDD but how you make it sexy as hell how the fuck do you do it 🫢

Taming the Lion

Commodus x Senator!reader

I had way to much fun writing this, thanks to my little chat with @smallratboy: for you dear ^^

During the day, Commodus is the untouchable Emperor, smirking and venomous as he spars with you, his sharpest adversary in the Senate Hall. But when the doors close, the roles shift, he becomes bratty, desperate to be tamed, and you… the only one bold enough to do it. Enemies in the Senate but lovers behind closed doors...

It had become a routine, a usual day where the Senate Hall vibrated with hostility. Senators spat words like daggers, Commodus replied with dangerous smiles. And in the middle of it all, you were his sharpest adversary.

Commodus lounged on his gilded chair, chin propped lazily on his palm, as you rose to speak against yet another one of his decrees.

“Rome requires stability, Caesar.” you declared, voice steady but a sneer on your face “Not your endless games and spectacles. Circuses do not last. When they end, hunger rises and then the People.”

Commodus tilted his head, lashes lowered in mock boredom, though a flash of mischief danced in his eyes. “Ah, but the people do seem happier with wine and circuses rather than with dusty scrolls and speeches, don’t they, Senator Y/N?” His lips curved into a wicked grin. “Perhaps you envy their joy. Shall I toss you to the arena for a turn? You would look charming in chains.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the chamber but some angry whispers too; the emperor who loved defying the senatorial aristocracy always had that effect. Just like his cruelty was always laced with playfulness, but you saw the deliberate provocation in his eyes, baiting you, pushing your limits.

“Better chained in the arena than shackled to your whims, Caesar.” You bowed stiffly, not giving him the satisfaction he sought. Then, you sat, your knuckles white around the edge of your chair from the tension.

Later, as the senators left the hall, you strode down the marble corridor, the session had ended into nothing, no decison and the debate would pursue tomorrow. That's when you you felt his presence...Commodus lingered in the shadows, waiting. He stepped into your path, close enough that his perfume of myrrh and musk caught you.

His smile was soft, almost boyish but his words were venom as he leaned close to your ear. “Careful, Senator. You look as though you might stab me in the Senate itself.” His voice dropped lower, just for you. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to strike me somewhere… else.”

You paused, lips curling, leaning just enough to whisper back “Careful, Higness. Keep provoking me, and I will punish you for it. Even emperors can be brought to heel.”

Something flashed in his eyes, shock, then hunger. It made your stomach twist deliciously. He swallowed and stepped aside, but the smirk lingered as he murmured, “Then punish me?” his tone had a hint of hopefulness. You chuckled; you loved when he started to crave.

Later that day, when the sun started to dip into the horizon and that senators went back to their luxurious villas for the night, Commodus requested your presence in his study. You were escorted by the preatorians but they remained out of the room, some paces away even; as if they had been instructed to. The room was quiet, except for the distant song of birds in the gardens. You had expected to find the Emperor sat by his office, working for the Empire. Instead, Commodus was sprawled like a lounging cat on a Triclinium.

“You sent for me.” you said coolly, bowing only as much as protocol required.

“Yes.” He gestured lazily, gold rings glittering. “My most infuriating senator. I thought we should… discuss our little quarrel more privately.” His tone dripped with mockery, but his eyes were sharp, testing.

You approached, chin high. “If you seek to gloat, Caesar, do it quickly. I’ve little patience for-...”

But Commodus suddenly shifted, rising to his feet. He moved close, far too close for imperial dignity, and whispered close to your mouth “Punish me, Senator. You threatened. I want to see if your words are as sharp as your tongue.” he purred, he had waited all day for you to do so, yet you had denied him of any attention.

Your breath caught, red reaching your cheeks; he meant his words but there was another purpose behind too... his smile was bratty, defiant. He reached for his belt, loosening it slowly, taunting. “It is the problem with you the Senate, words, always words but never action.”

Something in you snapped. You grabbed his wrist, roughly pulling it away from his belt, your grip almost painful. He gasped, half in shock, half in delight. You pulled him down to his knees, forcing him to look up at you.

“On your knees before the Senate’s will.” you said coldly.

Commodus licked his lips, eyes alight with perverse joy. “Yes… there...finally, the Senator brings his Emperor low.” He tilted his head, mocking even in submission, voice thick with heat. “What will you do, Senator? Beat me? Break me? Or make me beg?” he cocked an eyebrow, insolent.

Your hand caught in his hair, yanking his head back. His smirk faltered into a groan. “I’ll make you remember...” you hissed “that the Senate is not your toy. That I am not your toy.”

His laugh was shaky, breathless. “And yet… here I am. On my knees for you.”

You pressed harder, forcing him to stay down, to feel the weight of your power over him. Right now, it wasn’t the Emperor who had the upper hand, it was you; the Senator he could not stop provoking, taming him until all that bratty arrogance melted into needy obedience.

He was still smirking on his knees, silk all around him like he was some spoiled god dragged to the floor. “Go on then, Senator. Humble me. Your Senate has been trying to do that for years.”

Your grip in his hair tightened, pulling his head back until he hissed. “You think this is a game?”

“It is always a game.” Commodus purred, eyes glittering with defiance. “You lecture, I taunt, you rage… and here we are. Admit it, you live for this.”

You shoved him forward until his cheek pressed against the cold marble floor. “Careful, Caesar. You’re in no position to test me.”

His laugh was muffled against the stone. “And yet I do...”

You yanked him back up by the hair, forcing him to kneel tall, throat bared. Your other hand caught his jaw, squeezing until his lips parted. “You speak too much.”

His tongue darted out, teasing the pad of your thumb. “Then silence me, Senator.” he purred, the look he threw you was pure lust, scandalous.

That insolence was the last straw. You shoved him forward, making him bow to you, catching himself on his palms. “On your knees, properly. Hands behind your back.”

For once, Commodus obeyed, but with a brat’s flair, dragging the movement out slowly, theatrically, as though kneeling were a favor he bestowed upon you. When he finally clasped his wrists behind his back, he arched his brows in mock innocence. “Better? Shall I bow again next? Perhaps kiss your sandals, the way Rome kisses mine?”

You struck him, a sharp slap across his cheek. The sound echoed in the chamber. His smirk broke into a shuddering moan, head dropping forward.

“Again...” he whispered hoarsely.

“No.” You grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet your eyes. “You don’t command here. You’re not Emperor in this room. You’re mine to discipline.”

That hit him deeper than any blow. His pupils dilated, his lips parted, and for a moment he faltered, boyish panic breaking through the arrogance. But then his mouth curled again, softer this time, as if savoring the sting. “And what punishment does the noble Senate prescribe for its Caesar?”

Your hand pressed down on his head until his face hovered at your waist, just shy of contact. “You’ll serve. With your mouth. No crown, no throne, just your lips and tongue where I place them. That’s how you’ll remember who holds your leash.”

Commodus gave a low laugh, shivering. “A senator making Caesar kneel and serve… ah, the gods will howl.” His tone was still mocking but his body betrayed him, already hard beneath the silk, his breath ragged. “You’ll ruin me...”

“That’s the point.” You tangled your fingers tighter in his curls, dragging him closer, until his lips brushed the heat of your body through your robes. He gasped, the provocative laughter finally breaking into raw need.

“Say it.” you commanded.

His voice cracked. “I’m yours, Senator… make me your slave.”

Your grip tightened in his curls, forcing his head against you until his lips brushed the front of your robes. He gave a sharp intake of breath, then chuckled against the fabric, playful even now.

“Mmm...Senator’s victory at last. On my knees, just how you dreamt of me.”

You tugged his hair back cruelly, baring his throat. His smirk faltered into a groan. “Open your mouth, Commodus. Not another word unless I permit it.”

His lips parted instantly, and you pushed the fabric aside, baring yourself to him. For the first time that night his arrogance dimmed, pupils wide, breath shuddering at the sight of what you demanded of him.

“Lick.”

The command cracked like a whip. His tongue darted out tentatively, then with more hunger, wet heat stroking slow and deliberate as his eyes flicked up to yours. He was mocking you with the gaze alone, as if to say see ‘how well do I serve, Senator?’

Your grip gave a little yank to his hair, making groan into you, the vibration sending a jolt through your body. “This is not for your pleasure...” you hissed, grinding against his mouth. “but for mine...”

You held him there, forcing his face deeper, rocking against his tongue. His hands twitched behind his back, desperate to touch, but you pressed harder on his skull to remind him of his place. He whined, muffled, messy but obedient, licking and sucking like a man starving.

“That’s it...” you breathed between moans. “Rome’s...Emperor on his knees...mouth open...choking on the Senator he mocked...look at you...”

His eyes fluttered, the shame only driving him harder, lips working furiously now as if redemption lay in every stroke of his tongue. Saliva smeared across his chin, dripping down his throat, but he didn’t care.

You pulled him off suddenly, his mouth wet, chest heaving. He tried to lunge back for more, stubborn to the end, but you tightened your grip in his hair until he yelped. “Not until you beg.” you grinned, slightly panting from pleasure.

His gaze flickered, licking his lips, the proud mask slipping into desperation as he understood you would not falter. “Please-”

“Properly.”

Commodus dropped his gaze, voice breaking. “Please, Senator. Let me serve...let me taste you. I’ll be good. Your whore, your slave, anything...just don’t stop. Don’t leave me like this...” his voice was the softest beg, almost a whine.

Satisfied, you shoved him back onto you, and this time there was no defiance. Only frantic need, his tongue plunging deeper, sucking harder, desperate to please. You grounded against his face until your climax tore through you, sharp and ruthless, wringing every ounce of dignity out of the Emperor.

When you finally let him go, he collapsed against your thigh, panting, lips swollen and wet, his hair messy. His eyes met yours, wide, almost frightened, the brat completely tamed. And then, soft as a child, he whispered “Yours...only yours.”

He nuzzled against your thigh, slowly trying to calm down his breathing. For a long moment, the chamber was filled only with the sound of his panting and the crackle of the torches.

You brushed damp curls from his face, then took hold of his chin firmly but gently this time. “There.” you murmured. “That’s what happens when you provoke me.”

His eyes, still glassy, searched yours. No smirk now, just more hunger, devotion… and a flicker of boyish fear that you might cast him off.

You tilted his face higher, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Tomorrow, the games may go on. Your circuses, your shows, I’ll give you that. But in return, Caesar, you will grant my reforms. More wheat of Aegyptus for the people, protections of the ships transporting it to Rome. You concede that much.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. And then he smiled, slow and aching, as though the deal itself was a form of intimacy. “Done. Bread and circuses. Yours and mine.”

You leaned down and kissed him, not sharp or punishing, but tender, sealing the bargain. He whimpered into your mouth, clutching your robes as though they anchored him to the earth.

When you drew back, he whispered it again, raw and earnest: “Yours... Always yours.”

“I will share your bed tonight. Because sometimes Commodus you need affection more than punishment. You have been good.” you cooed with a soft smile, an affection that had grown over the months.

****

The next day, the Senate chamber buzzed with voices as the men sat into their chairs. Scrolls were unfurled, tablets tapped against knees, the smell of wax and parchment heavy in the air.

Commodus arrived late, as he often did, the doors flung wide so the assembly had no choice but to watch him stride in draped in purple, laurel crown gleaming. He smiled too brightly, that feline grin of his, as if last night’s bruises on his knees were a private joke only the two of you shared.

“Senators.” he purred, settling on his gilded seat “Let us not bore ourselves today. Rome requires action, not endless debate.” His eyes found yours across the chamber, and the curl of his lips was deliberately insolent. “Perhaps… games, for instance. A festival of blood and glory. Does the people’s joy not strengthen the Empire?”

A few senators muttered in discontent. One elderly man stood, protesting, “Caesar, with respect, spectacles drain the treasury. The people cry for bread, not arenas.”

Commodus leaned back, toying with his signet ring. He let the silence build, the whole chamber waiting for his retort. Then his gaze slid back to you. “And yet… perhaps the people might have both. Bread, and circuses.”

A ripple of surprise went through the chamber. Eyes turned toward you, curious. Was this concession your doing?

You rose slowly, letting the silence weigh before you spoke. “If the Emperor honors his promise, that grain shall be secured to Rome, then the Senate will not stand in the way of his games.”

Commodus’ smirk deepened, that boyish, mocking light dancing in his eyes. “So the noble Senate approves of Caesar’s fun, provided I feed their bellies first. Very well. I am a generous emperor. Let it be written: Rome shall eat, and Rome shall be entertained.” he announced proudly.

The chamber stirred, some pleased, some outraged, all shocked by the Emperor’s sudden compromise. He was not one to negotiate but rather to impose his will, with a dagger if needed.

You sat again, meeting his eyes across the hall. He looked at you like a man savoring a secret, smug but beneath it, tamed by your hand. Only you could see the faint flush high on his cheekbones, the memory of how you’d made him kneel and beg.

And though he lifted his chin and spoke to the Senate like a triumphant Caesar, when his gaze lingered on you, you knew what he was really saying was 'Yours. Always yours.'

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galos-writing · 12 days ago

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I personally consider "spice" still a bit tolerable, unlike calling sex the "boombayah" as I heard from somebody on tiktok

i know that the average user of tiktok rarely touches grass and/or is a kid, but the adults who use that word 💀

like girl the characters are naked on a bed do u think they gonna dance a Kpop song or what

People saying "spice" instead of "sex" and calling romance "clean" if it has no sex scenes give off absolutely rancid vibes

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galos-writing · 12 days ago

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AMEN.

Had a long shift at work and I couldn’t stop thinking about Abbe seeing your pussy for the first time

Gentle hands that part your thighs, his breath ghosting over your trembling skin.

Softly running a finger through your folds, looking to you for approval like he’s unsure of himself.

Him gasping at the feeling of your wetness, bringing his fingers to his lips and tasting you with a groan.

When he begins to finger you, his cock would twitch every time you pulsed around his fingers.

Making you cum would be better than his own release, those intense blue eyes soaking in every twitch and shudder, savoring the sound of every moan.

a man needs his priest porn after a long day, okay?

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galos-writing · 15 days ago

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Let alone if you CREATE villain characters

GOD FORBID

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galos-writing · 18 days ago

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it infected ao3 too

we're doomed

PSA: AO3 HAS BEEN INFECTED WITH AI BOT COMMENTS.

Have you seen one of these dipshits? If you post regularly on ao3, chances are YES, but more likely you didn't notice nor suspect it was a bot. Sometimes they start off nice, or even praise you before getting nasty out of nowhere, like so:

But much like Grok, their newest obsession is nazism.

I don't know where they come from, or what purpose this could possibly serve other than suicidebaiting random people in the internet, I guess; but apparently they've started parroting names from real users to send these comments and shifting their general length to go by undetected. Maybe those are scrappers trying to train 'reviewbots' to be sold as part of some scam service promising to give feedback for newbie writers, who the fuck knows.

Here are more examples of the tone and backhanded compliments you can find in these:

If you regularly post on AO3 or interact with writers in it, please pass this along so they don't feel insane receiving bombs in their inbox. This is ridiculous.

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galos-writing · 19 days ago

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The Best Chance (The Best Offer 2013)

(Virgil Oldman X Male OC)

Summary: Fate has another plan for a man who barely knows who he is anymore Prologue/ Ch. 1-2-3

TW: mention of harassment

4 - Reassessment

The world stopped spinning when Virgil saw the blond stranger again, talking to the library employee. It felt like a vision.

He was wearing heart-shaped pink sunglasses and had light clothing on, but he was packed with jewellery; his gold river of hair was trapped in two cute braids, pink ribbons tied at the edges.

He seemed perfectly fine, as if nothing had happened.

The old man’s heart started racing like crazy, and his feet moved by their own towards him with no chance of stopping them.

The blond stranger looked up from the employee and noticed the auctioneer. “Monsieur Oldman, hello!” He cheerfully saluted. His hand was up, showing his fingers adorned with pretty rings.

Virgil found himself right before the young man, and only now could he clearly see how tall he was; he himself was barely above 180 cm, but felt short compared to the blond boy.

A strong scent came from him, itching Virgil’s nostrils. It was citrusy for sure, mixed with an aroma he didn’t think he was familiar with; for some reason, it reminded him of his university era, giving the stranger’s scent an oddly addicting factor.

“Good afternoon,” Virgil politely nodded at him, holding his hesitation back. “I’m glad to witness you’re doing better.”

“More than better, monsieur,” the young man said, his full, glossy lips curled in a sly smile. “You didn’t think I’d stay hidden in my room like a pussy, did you?”

The old man blankly shook his head, hopelessly drawn to that stranger, catching every word and detail of his.

He had spent quite a bit trying to reach out to him, and now the twist of fate made them casually meet in a library.

The young man detailed the auctioneer through his sunglasses. “My colleague told me you were looking for me in my tattoo studio, y’know. I’m sorry for not reaching out to you.”

Virgil’s face went up in flames. “No worries, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I’m relieved to see your face has no more traces of…” he explained with a feeble voice, unable to end the sentence. “Though I can’t deny I felt like a fish out of water, in there.”

The blond man giggled. “Damn, a shame I missed that!”

The bid caller frowned slightly, his chin raised in a proud, annoyed expression. “It wasn’t funny,” he muttered. “A friend of mine was shocked to see me there, too. It was even humiliating, to be honest.”

Stress escaped his nostrils through a sigh as he looked up at him. “What about your… ex-boyfriend? Did he try to reach out to you again?” he asked with concern.

The younger man didn’t seem to appreciate the question. He faintly clicked his tongue as he pulled his own mobile phone out. Next thing he knew, Virgil had a full screen of messages planted right in front of his face.

He squinted his eyes, hurt by the light coming from the screen, and grabbed the phone with one hand as he reached for his glasses in his pocket with the other.

“I can translate them for you,” the blond man shrugged, but Virgil just waved his hand in a dismissive gesture: he could understand written French pretty well.

He gently took the phone from the young man’s hands, sensing it was heavier than his own device due to the decorated cover and the shining, girly charms dangling from a corner. Their fingers brushed for a second, but the leather gloves blocked direct contact as usual. For once, this protection frustrated the auctioneer.

His glasses allowed him to have a neater view of what those texts were saying: shifts between regret, anger, denial, love.

Virgil hesitated a bit, unsure of how to scroll through those texts; his finger was pressed against the screen, sometimes moving to see more.

He read a whole wall of text, narrating the way they met, the sappiest cliché of any average romcom: two bored folks, waiting for the rain to stop in a bar.

Apparently, that night, a thunderstorm caused a blackout, so most customers in that bar were just waiting for it to stop so they all could resume their hangout. The two of them eyed each other and started talking, taken by boredom and in the process of sobering up.

They both recognised a song they both loved, but Virgil didn’t know, ‘Lovers Rock’ by TV Girl, and started talking about music, discovering more and more passions in common.

The enchantment of that narration was completely shattered by the next text from the blond man. Virgil struggled to understand it, hence it was written in slang and with broken grammar, but he eventually managed to figure it out.

Not what happened, Pierre. You buzzed around me all night and begged to have my fucking number. And I gave that to you because I found you hot, but you’re shit, and you should be ashamed of yourself.

The next texts from said ‘Pierre’ had lost every grace and sweetness, now filled with anger. His words were drenched in venom as he called his stylish ex-boyfriend all kinds of insults in the book.

Among those violent messages, Virgil finally spotted the first name of that mysterious blond stranger. It was so uncommon and comically unfitting, the old man thought, for someone like him.

“It’s terrible,” he commented, giving the phone back to its owner. “I’m sorry this is happening to you, Mr Chagall.”

His greyish eyes detailed the boy’s face once again, eyeing a star-shaped, golden string of metal coming out of his nostrils.

Mr Oldman frowned a bit, unable to figure out what he was looking at, but soon his eyes moved to the tattoo artist’s toned arms, when he shrugged: full of tattoos, of course.

All of that man was so oddly intriguing to Virgil, he couldn’t stop looking at him.

“I guess I must thank you in person for what you did for me that afternoon, since you didn’t answer my email,” the boy mentioned with an amused smile.

Those words brought the auctioneer back to reality, making his cheeks slightly blush. “I rarely check my emails myself; it’s usually my assistants who reply for me, you know,” he explained, trying to hold a proud tone, but his eyes fell on the ground, faking interest in the black lines between the white floor tiles.

“They didn’t answer, either, though,” the tattoo artist instantly replied flatly, making Virgil blush in shame even more. He wasn’t a naturally flustered person, so all this hurricane of emotions was vaguely new to him.

“I suppose they misinterpreted your email as spam, then. I apologise,” the auctioneer murmured. He finally looked up at the boy, meeting his sly smile again.

“I’m heartbroken now. Who knows if I’ll ever recover?” he joked, a hand dramatically resting on his strong chest. Virgil scoffed, briefly closing his eyes.

“Oh là là, Monsieur Oldman can smile, then,” the young man then teased, making the auctioneer stop smiling immediately, his face was burning.

“You'd better stop, young man, I’m not appreciating your teasing,” Mr Oldman retorted, grouchy, but the other’s giggle didn’t calm his fluster down.

“Pardon, sir,” he said with a smaller smile.

The library employee came back with a big book in their hands for the young man to shove into his paper bag with many other books.

“Are you an advanced reader, perchance?” Virgil attempted, a last spark of hope shining in that bag stuffed with literature. The tattoo artist turned back to him, blushing a bit.

“I comfortably call myself a, uh… a book rat, yes,” the man replied, his turn to be flustered now.

Virgil frowned. “You mean a bookworm?��

“A bookworm,” he repeated, his embarrassment highlighted by pushing up his sunglasses that were sliding down his heavily freckled nose. That gesture looked particularly cute.

The old man nodded with a small smile. “Then I hope you’re not offended if I ask you for help finding a peculiar novel, Mr Chagall.”

The young man hinted at a nod, shrugging, his eyes quickly eyed his phone. “With pleasure, we can meet again for it.”

The auctioneer’s heart got lighter; he had another source of help to find Claire’s novels. He swiftly shoved his hand in an inner pocket of his blazer and pulled out his own business card.

“I totally agree,” he said as the young man took the card and detailed it. “I will give you more details in the reply email I owe you.”

“What elegance,” the boy commented about the appearance of the business card, giggling, but no trace of mockery in his voice. “Sounds good to me, Monsieur Oldman.”

Having said so, the boy walked towards the cash register to purchase his enriched loot.

Alone in his own thoughts, Virgil could finally realise what he had just gone through: his brain replayed in full speed the entire encounter with the boy he had tried so hard to find just to check on him, but then he had forgotten after his book pursuit overrode.

Ange Chagall – the stranger’s full name – couldn’t be more different from him, but their conversation was overwhelmingly natural.

In the silence of his private mental state, surrounded by eager young readers, Virgil Oldman put a hand on his chest.

He needed to talk to Robert.

---

tagging: @darknessisafriend @walsiegirl @capitan-rush @panbarbossa @jediknight1984

#scenario #imagine #geoffrey rush #virgil oldman #mlm #virgil oldman x oc #writing #creative writing #attempt #writing exercise #the best offer

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galos-writing · 20 days ago

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as a deeply paranoid person, this is the most accurate representation of what a never stopping working mind does to the rest of the body.

this message doesn't come from your best friend, but from somebody who needed to read this and see part of their symptoms shown in a wonderfully written piece of fiction.

thank you for writing this <3

Echoes of a fading mind

Commodus x Reader HC

I had a little chat with @smallratboy the other day about Commodus starting to have memory loss due to paranoia (it is a side effect, due to hypervigilance, stress and insomnia) and I thought we could explore that a little !

What if Commodus start having memory issues due to paranoia ?

It would start with small things, Commodus being distracted, what seemed like nothing more than a wandering mind. As you or the senators mentioned a subject, he would ask again for a summary of it, sometimes even interrupting mid-sentence as if he had never heard it before.

At first, you assumed it was disinterest or arrogance, but the repetition became frequent enough to notice. When you gently pointed it out, Commodus would frown and act as though you were the one mistaken.

He would get annoyed as he felt your confusion, interpreting it as a challenge to his authority. Sometimes, his voice would sharpen, and he would accuse you of “changing the story” to manipulate him, his paranoia bleeding through. Every time those words hurt you deeply, making you fear to lose him.

It would end into a heated argument “Do you hear yourself Commodus!? Do you truly think I care about changing the story or siding with a bloody Senate!?” your voiced raised, shaking as tears prickled in your eyes “I have been betrayed by my own family! Why would you be different!” he yelled back, followed by silence, his words landing like a blow. And as they came out of his mouth, he would realize the meaning of it.

“Because I love you...that’s all.” your breathed as tears ran freely down your cheks.

To protect yourself and him, you would distance yourself physically from him. Going to another part of the palace to read, the gardens, waiting for him to come to his senses. And usually after a few hours, he would come back to you, in tears, asking you to forgive him, to not leave him. That his own mind had become a prison.

You soon understood it was not simple distraction; paranoia had dug its claws deep into him. The constant fear of betrayal kept him awake at night, listening for imagined whispers in the corridors, convinced every shadow concealed an assassin.

The lack of rest began to take its toll. Insomnia hollowed his eyes, stress tensed his shoulders until his posture looked almost painful, and his mind, once sharp enough to recall obscure political debts, began slipping.

One day, he entered in his quarters where you sat on a couch doing some embroidery to pass time. You were sewing a gladiator, a gift for your husband. You looked up as you heard him stop in his tracks. He was looking at you, seeming confused.

“You look like you have seen a ghost. What is it?” you teased him gently, pausing your sewing. “I thought you were in our villa of Lanuvium.” he replied, approaching, troubled.

“Love, I have told you already, I canceled. I have no point going there if you remain here.” you replied, standing up and approaching him “Do you?” he replied, a frown forming between his brows. “Commodus” you called him, cupping his face. Now you were worried “You could have gone with someone else. I thought you would.” he added, his voice a murmur, as if he doubted his own words as he pronounced them.

“With who? I don’t want to go where you are not.” you lifted his head to meet his eyes, they were searching yours. He was scared “Y/N why do I seem to forget everything lately...?” he breathed, his voice shaking, his eyes becoming wet.

“I don’t know.” you caressed his cheek with your thumb, and kissed his lips gently at first, then pressed your mouth harder against his. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing you almost painfully against his body.

“When I cannot find sleep...I feel in haze, his eyesight blurs...I struggle to think clearly...I get angry to the point I want to slaughter them all...sometimes I even think they mock me. And worse...I hate it when you are the one suffering from what is happening to me...Y/N what if I am losing my mind...? What if I end up forgetting you?” he swallowed down, clenching his jaw.

Your eyes filled with tears at the thought, but you swallowed them back, being strong for this who needed to be allowed to be weak, at least once. Commodus had always been strong, carrying the Empire on his shoulders, the favors and curses of the gods, the plots, the cheers, all of it. And he couldn’t stop crumbling under the weight of it. Little by little, everyday more than before.

“You won’t forget. I won’t let you. Even if that means I have to remember for us both, tell you of every second we spent together, every kisses we exchanged, where your hands touched me...and then I will tear you away from this place that is turning you into a monster...taking away the boy I always loved, the one who loved to stay in our villa of Lanuvium, painting the sea...one who dreamt of becoming the hero of the Colosseum, a gladiator...”

Tag list: @skaravile @lyoongx @weirdflecksbutok @stardancerluv @sgtsavoytruffle @ohcarlesmycarles @rajacero @niniitah-ah @morrisonmercurryphoenix @fly-like-a-phoenix @thatdummy-girl @galos-writing @hopelessdisasterr @buttergirlie @rosebloodstuffandthangss @clowndaddyfleck @jaylovesbats @dreamingmaria @just-a-fucking-comedy @lady-carnivals-stuff @sierraclegane @lemondedeniname @hvproductions @syvellsworld @papercut-paranoia @jokerflecker @bring-your-holy-water @five-miles-over @beatlebabe1996 @kfanniart @soulsfrostedheart18 @mayflower-gal @creativestorylove @cheese10001 @dantes-paradiso @smallratboy @pstvchld @chiclunatic

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galos-writing · 24 days ago

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gay abbé once again aaaaa I love it🥹

could you write a little tiny something on how the abbé would have a male lover?? I love your writing :>

Thank you for your request anon and for your patience! It's been a while since I wrote the Abbe and damn I had forgotten how good it feels ! He has quite some things in common with Commodus, the pull of madness, the yearning to do well and succeed, the hunger to be loved 🤤 Anyway I hope this is what you were hoping for, I thought it would be nicer as a OS instead of HC^^

The Last Psalm

Abbe de Coulmier x male!lover

Charenton Asylum, several years after the Marquis de Sade's death. The Abbé de Coulmier has remained within its walls, not as its master, but as a relic of his broken dreams.

It had been years since they brought in anyone who unnerved him.

He was used to the screaming, the moaning, the mad prayers whispered in broken Latin through the walls at night. His soul had hardened to those long ago. But this one… this one looked at him as if he were a saint or a sin.

You were a young man arrived in the rain, slick hair clinging to your temples, wrists bruised from the carriage restraints. You wore a threadbare frock coat, once elegant, now torn, clinging to your slight frame like a memory of dignity. Your lips moved as the guards pulled you from the cart, half-prayer, half-riddle.

And then, you saw him. You froze, your eyes widening, not believing you were seeing him again.

The Abbé.

Coulmier stood in the corridor, a bible pressed to his chest. He had not spoken during the arrival, merely watched as the new patient was dragged past. But the moment your eyes met his, you stopped struggling.

Your lips curved into something too soft to be a smile.

“…you still wear black.”

Coulmier blinked. His fingers tensed around the leather binding of the book.

The attendants looked between you two frowning. “You know him?” one asked.

The Abbé said nothing. But you did.

“Don’t you remember, mon cœur?” your voice was lilting now, almost sing-song. “The Book of Job, under the blankets. The night it rained. You said I had the voice of a martyr…”

Coulmier took a sharp breath.

The attendants rolled their eyes and resumed dragging you away. But not before you twisted in their grasp, eyes still locked on Coulmier’s.

“I dreamt you’d be waiting for me,” you said, softer now. “But I didn’t think you’d still look so sad.” You commente, detailing him, pained. As the moment felt like forever, you were suddenly pulled away, the doors slamming shut behind you with a hollow echo, sealing you inside like a confession no one wanted to hear.

Coulmier didn’t move.

He stood there in the corridor long after the rain had stopped dripping from the archways. Only the candlelight flickered now, casting long shadows across the stone. His grip on the Bible had turned his knuckles white.

He hadn’t heard that voice in over a decade.

Not since seminary. Not since he had torn himself away from a trembling mouth and breathless laughter, disgusted with himself, with God, with him.

"Ange..." He whispered your name as though it might bite.

Later that evening, the corridors of Charenton were quieter than usual, perhaps because the newest patient had fallen silent. That was always worse than the screaming. Silence meant retreat, calculation, or worse: clarity.

Coulmier made his rounds, slowly. He hadn’t been Father Coulmier in years, not in the Church’s eyes. No mass, no collar. Merely the pale, quiet man who fed the forgotten and wiped the fevered brows of the broken. The pale reflection of what he used to do. The asylum hadn’t exiled him. That would have been a mercy.

He reached the newest cell. The small window of the door was unlatched. He shouldn't look, he told himself. But his eyes betrayed him.

You were sitting on the floor, legs folded, thin fingers curled around a scrap of parchment. A rosary was wrapped tight around your hand, biting into your skin. Your gaze was vacant, but when Coulmier leaned closer…

“I told the guards.” you murmured, without looking up “that the shadows in this place speak. But I know it’s just you, standing there.”

Coulmier's breath caught, not used to be the center of anyone's attention anymore.

“I remember the way you walked.” You continued, still not lifting your gaze. “Always like you were afraid the ground might open and swallow you. Even then, you thought yourself damned.”

“You need rest.” the Abbé said quietly. His voice had grown more hollow with the years, and he despised the tremble in it now.

You smiled to yourself. “Rest is for the sane, mon tendre ami. You and I are well beyond that.” you paused, detailing his beautiful face “I’ve dreamt of you every night since that day.” you added all to softly. You could have been a succubus.

The candle in Coulmier’s hand flickered, as though the words had unsettled the flame itself.

“You need to stop." he said. “This is not appropriate.”

Now you looked up. Your eyes, clear for once, piercing, met the Abbé’s fully. “So you do remember.” you breathed with newfound joy.

Coulmier’s mouth opened, but no words came.

You quickly stood. Not lunging, not wild. Just… rising, barefoot on cold stone, like an fallen angel pulled from Hell. You stepped close to the door, the iron bars casting crosses over your face.

“You left me.” You whispered, voice trembling. “Do you know what that does to a boy who loved you?”

Coulmier turned sharply, retreating down the corridor as if it might burn.

But you didn't not let go, anger, pain surged once again, one you thought would appease. Your voice rang out behind the Abbe, soft but sharp, like the last line of a prayer turned curse:

“But you came back! And now, you won’t leave again.”

****

The Abbé stood in the corner, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed anywhere but on the canvas.

“You could sit.” you offered, looking unbothered and innocent while you painted a homoerotic scene. “If your spine can tolerate proximity.”

“I’m fine standing.” Coulmier’s voice was flat. But you knew that tone. You remembered it well, from whispered chapel debates, from the way Coulmier used to whisper your name with trembling restraint under dormitory blankets.

You hummed thoughtfully as you dipped your brush in dark ochre. You had always painted best when you were hungry for something.

"I’ve been thinking..." you said, eyes never leaving the canvas, "About that summer in seminary. You remember the one? The year you broke your fasting vow because I smuggled in wine?" You paused “You were very drunk.” You chuckled, teasing him just a little.

"I remember no such thing." Coulmier lied with all the conviction of a man who’d dreamt of it just last week.

You chuckled softly, but there was no real humor in it. "I do. You were reading the Song of Songs to me. And then you stopped reading."

You glanced up, brush frozen in air. "You said I looked like one of those angels painted on church ceilings. And then you touched my lip with your thumb." You traced the gesture in the air, slowly, like casting a spell. "You said: ‘God would forgive me if I only did it once.'"

"Enough."

But you weren finished. Your tone turned gentle, almost pitying. "And then you kissed me. Softly, like you were afraid I’d die from it."

The brush met the canvas again. Quiet strokes. "But you didn’t stop, did you? Not when I touched you back. Not when you pushed me into the bed. Not when you whispered His name as you—"

"I said enough." Coulmier’s voice cracked, his jaw clenched.

A silence, almost religious followed.

You finally looked at him. "You kissed like a man drowning. You held me like you believed it would save you. And when it was over…" You leaned forward, your voice sharpening. “You cried. And then you called it sin.”

The Abbé was pale now, but you weren't done.

"I forgave you. But you didn’t forgive me, did you? You vanished. Denied it. Denied me. And now you walk these halls with your silence and your guilt like they're holy relics."

You stood, slow and deliberate, paint staining your fingertips like blood. "You can call it madness if it helps you sleep, François,” you whispered, stepping close enough that your breath mingled. “But I remember how your hands trembled when you touched me. I remember your voice when you begged me not to stop. And I remember..." your lips curled into a faint, broken smile, "How you tasted. Like wine. Like blood. Like someone who prayed too hard and still ended up damned."

You reached out, slowly, deliberately, and brushed a thumb along Coulmier’s collar, hoping he would give in, hoping he would finally renounced to the walls he built for himself.

"Tell me to stop" You murmured. "And I will."

But Coulmier said nothing. He couldn’t. His hands remained clenched at his sides, white-knuckled. His breath shallow. And his silence spoke louder than a confession.

"You think I’m still that frightened boy from seminary." the Abbe said through clenched teeth, suddenly grabbing you by the wrist and leading you into the shadows of the stairwell. "But I’ve spent years burying that part of me. I buried it so deep—"

You smirked, breathless, your wrist limp in the Abbé’s grip. "That it rose again on the third day?"

Coulmier spun, slamming you against the stone wall, the echo of impact swallowed by silence. His hand was still wrapped around your wrist, but he didn’t squeeze. He was shaking.

"You don’t understand what you’re doing to me."

You tilted your head, lips parted in mock confusion. "Then tell me. Reprimand me, if it will help."

"You’re not the boy I knew." Coulmier whispered, voice raw. "You’re cruel now. You say things only to hurt me."

"I say them," you said, softer now, "because they’re true. Because no one else will speak to the man you are. Not the priest. Not the caretaker. You."

You stepped forward until your foreheads nearly touched.

"You want to punish me?" you whispered. "Then do it, hit me, curse me, shove me away. But stop pretending you don’t want to kiss me again."

Coulmier’s hand trembled against your chest. "You are madness."

Your lips brushed against his cheek, just below the eye. A ghost of a kiss. "Then drown with me."

And just like that, the dam broke.

Your mouths met with the fury of a thousand denied prayers. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was painful. It was teeth and breath and trembling desperation. Your back hit the wall again, but this time you welcomed it, pulling Coulmier closer by the waist, moaning into the kiss like a man starved.

The Abbé groaned, as though torn from within, his hands gripping your face, then your shoulders, then lower, every touch frantic, uncertain, as though he didn’t know what he was allowed to do but couldn’t stop doing it anyway.

Your lips slid to his jaw, down his neck. "You’re still the same..." your whispered between kisses. "You kiss like a man afraid of being saved."

"I don’t want to be saved." Coulmier gasped.

You froze. Pulling back just enough to see the fire in the Abbé’s eyes.

"You don’t?" You tilted your head, curious.

"No." Coulmier breathed, shaking his head. "Not if it means losing you again...and wander alone in these empty corridors..."

For a moment, everything stilled, just breath, just closeness, just truth.

You breathed, your heart racing in excitement“Then let me ruin you." You whispered.

Coulmier's lips parted in a desperate prayer but instead of words, he kissed you again, sinking to the steps with you, hands threading through your hair, tugging, trembling. Your torn cassocks tangled together like shadows in the dust.

And the Church, the world, the law, none of it mattered. Because in this this moment. Only this shared madness and madening love mattered

tag list: @lyoongx @weirdflecksbutok @skaravile @niniita-ah @stardancerluv @sgtsavoytruffle @charlie-sisters @ohcarlesmycarles @valentina15 @bring-your-holy-water @buttergirlie @fly-like-a-phoenix @we-were-electrocute @sophiefleck @the-queen-of-things @five-miles-over @jokerflecker @galos-writing @smallratboy @pstvchld @chiclunatic

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galos-writing · 29 days ago

Text

This is perhaps one of the most brutal pieces you've ever written, it made me genuinely cry

Ashes of the Golden Son- Commodus x you

The angst is finally here! I love writing it and I can't wait to have your comments! (open to write more chapters in case)

You were in the medical tent, a brief quiet moment where you rearranged vials and linens.

“General.” you heard soldiers salute nearby, followed by the flap of your tent. You smiled, knowing who it was already.

“Maximus.” you said, turning around, finding the general who briefly bowed his head at you.

“Y/N.” he smiled, friendly as you bowed your head at him too.

“What happened to you now?” you asked glancing at his left arm he was clutching; he had reopened a wound you had stitched the day before “Not a day passes without you visiting my tent. I’m starting to think you are doing it on purpose just to see me.” you teased him, patting a stool for him to sit.

“You give me such pretty scars. I cannot resist it.” he chuckled, sitting on the stool and letting examine the evolution of the wound. It came from an arrow that scrapped his biceps. He winced as you applied a mix of vinum fervens and acetum “Especially when you are so tender with me.” he added sarcastically, making you giggle.

“Sorry.” you apologized with a laugh, then applying herbal salves. “There is a lot of noise outside. What is it all about? The barbarians again?” you questioned. You often got caught up in your work in the tent, cutting you from outside events.

“No. The imperial family is arriving. Commodus and Lucilla.”

You stilled, looking up at him and frowning slightly “Oh. They are here earlier than expected...”

“Marcus Aurelius insisted.” he simply replied before smiling playfully, slightly nudging you with his shoulder. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t make you happy. I remember you got along with them well. Especially Commodus. He was following you around like a lost pup.”

“Well, that was years ago...” you blushed, focusing again on his wound. “I last saw him 5 years ago; he was still a child, and I was not even an adult either. Now he is grown, and I probably don’t matter to him so much anymore.” you spoke softly, your heart speeding in your chest at the thought of seeing him again. “I heard much about him. Good and bad. I am just eager to know which are true.” you murmured, wrapping linen around his arm.

“He is different now for sure. The Emperor made him come here almost by force. I have talked with Lucilla on the way here.” you tilted your head, intrigued.

“She says Rome had a bad effect on her brother. He made many friends in the city but not friends an emperor should have. Marcus Aurelius decided to have him here, to deal with war and grow as a worthy Emperor.”

“I see...” you remembered a lonely boy with no friends; it didn’t surprise you if he would welcome anyone as long as they offered their friendship to him. “He has never been on the battlefield before. It can be a terrible moment.”

“I was two years younger than him on my first battle. You never get used to death, but it is important he fights with his soldiers, just like his father did. I heard Commodus fights very well in the sand of Rome. Now he just needs to find the courage to fight in real battle in those bloody forests, where it matters.” he spoke, letting you tighten the bandage around his arm.

“I will talk with him. If he grants me an audience.” you stated, wanting to catch up with the prince.

“Of course. You have always been his healer, his confident. But don’t expect to find the adorable little prince he used to be.” he said as he stood up, briefly touching your shoulder, a way to comfort you “He used to be like a brother to me. Now he is cold, I wouldn’t be surprised if he stabbed me in the back.” he chuckled, a hint of sadness flashing through his eyes.

“Don’t say that! I am sure he just needs to be reassured.” you playfully pushed him out of your tent. As he walked away, your smile faded, his words had worried you. As a child already you had not only stitched Commodus’ physical wounds but the invisible ones too. The fear of the dark, the trembling of his hands after being ignored by his father.

But this time, if the rumors were true, you feared… you might not be able to put him back together.

Unfortunately, you didn’t have the chance to meet with Commodus. Days passed and the prince spent his time by his father’s side, surrounded by generals and soldiers. All were curious and happy to see the heir of the Empire about to fight by their side. So many gathered around him that you didn’t even see his face, only dark hair from afar and a dark blue cape.

And Commodus didn’t call for you either.

“What did you expect?” you told yourself, preparing ointments and poultice in great quantities, a battle was to happen, and you would receive many poor soldiers to your tent. Hopefully not Commodus...

***

The battle was over.

The forest still stank of blood and wet ash, the air thick with the metallic tang of iron and the bitter stink of burnt hide. The bodies were being dragged into makeshift pyres. Groans echoed between the trees. Ravens circled.

You stepped carefully across the uneven ground, sent by your father to the battlefield to look for wounders, your satchel slung over your shoulder, your tunic hem stained from kneeling over too many broken men. You gave a strong and deathly concoction to those that could not be saved and suffered greatly. The war had teeth. It didn’t care for emperors. And neither did wounds.

But as you headed back to camp, you noticed a figure from afar...dark curly hair, the familiar scar of his upper lip, the imperial ring around his finger...Commodus seated on a dead tree trunk near the command tent, stripped of his armor, back to the breeze. His skin was smeared with grime and sweat. Blood, too, though it was hard to tell if it was his.

“Hold still.” you said, setting the satchel down beside him.

He didn’t flinch when you knelt. But he didn’t speak, either. The cut was across his side, clean, shallow, just beneath the ribs. It bled steadily but wouldn’t need stitching. Still, you knew better than to treat only the wound.

“You fought well, highness.” you said, reaching for a cloth soaked in warmed wine.

He let out a breath, something too sharp to be a laugh. “I survived. That’s enough.”

“Others didn’t.”

He looked away, jaw tight.

You cleaned the cut in silence, the cloth turning red in your hand. His muscles twitched beneath your touch, trained, tensed, never truly at rest. You could feel the battle still vibrating beneath his skin.

“Commodus.” you murmured. “Breathe.”. He looked at you, as if only realizing who he had in front of him...his healer.

“I am.” his voice cracked, broken, dry. HIs eyes filling with an emotion you couldn’t identify.

“It’s going to be alright.” you breathed, detailing his face only now. How it remained slightly round, but a few stubbles grew on his cheeks, his hair not as short as it used to be, curly. A grown man, yet you could still recognize the child you knew.

His hand twitched beside you. Not clenched, but close. Like he wanted to grip something, someone and couldn’t let himself ask. “They don’t see it.” he said suddenly, voice low. “The difference. The crowd, the Senate, they cheer when I take the arena floor. But this…”

He tilted his head toward the woods, where the last echoes of death still hung.

“This is not glory. This is slaughter.”

You looked up at him. There was sweat along his brow, but his eyes were clear, awake. And frightened.

“You’re not a soldier.” you said gently. “Not in the way they are. You fight to be seen. This place…” You paused. “This place doesn’t see anyone.”

He looked down at you, and for a moment he looked like the boy under the laurel tree again; the one who had scratched his knee and bled in silence. Raw, stripped of everything but the question in his eyes.

“Then why did I accept to fight here?” he asked.

You dipped the cloth again. Gently touched the rag to his ribs. “Because you think you need to bleed to be worth something in the eyes of your father.” That broke something in his gaze. Not anger, not shame. Just a long, hollow understanding. He looked away again. “It’s easier when they cheer.”

“Because it’s not real?”

“Because then I’m not scared.” he looked in the distance, swallowed down.

You finished cleaning the wound and set the cloth aside. When you looked up, he wasn’t watching the trees anymore. He was watching you again. And whatever he saw there, the hands that didn’t flinch, the mouth that didn’t praise or condemn, made him exhale, long and low.

His hand came up, not to touch you. Just to hover near your shoulder. Like a man who had forgotten how to ask for comfort and feared it wouldn’t be given even if he did. You reached for his hand, gently taking it in yours and squeezing it. Neither of you spoke, words could not describe the mutual understanding, and the relief of seeing each other after years.

That moment felt like time froze, as if the gods allowed you to recover all those years. You didn’t talk much, rather sat in silence next to each other, it brought comfort to the prince, the quiet he needed after the rage of his first battle.

Soon you were called back to your father’s side to attend the many wounded, leaving Commodus side with a gentle smile. But he had the gaze of a sea before the storm...a sea that held too many monsters and nightmares in its depths.

By the time you were deep into duty, murmurs began to reach your ears. A servant boy...the cloak...blood on his mouth.

“Lost his temper again.” someone whispered. “Stripped the lad to shame him. Whipped him bloody, in front of the entire fire ring.”

You closed your eyes for just a moment. So, the rumors seemed to be true, prone to anger, mercurial, violent. Soon afterwards, you watched as healer took care of the poor lad. Commodus hadn’t come to you to relieve his mind, he had preferred to stay alone, to hurt someone. Or remind himself that he could.

You didn’t sleep well that night. Turning over and over again in your cot, reminiscing over past memories of the prince. Remembering the man he had become. Understanding that as he grew, Commodus didn’t become stronger. He was a great fighter yes, but his physical abilities, a shell that only compensated for his fragile mind, soft, and crumbling under Rome’s weight.

Morning came, you are cried for Commodus. Your steps were heavier than usual as you walked around the camp, checking on patients from time to time. You passed the guards near the war council tent, half-alert, half-avoiding eye contact. The morning was thick with unspoken things. The kind of silence that followed disgrace.

And then, you were summoned. A senior officer found you near the stables, mouth drawn tight.

“His Majesty requested your presence again.” he said. “No one else.”

That wasn’t surprising in itself, you were his personal healer after all but why now? “Did he say why?”

He only shook his head. “He’s with the Emperor now.” the officer added, more cautiously this time. “They’ve been inside the tent since breakfast.”

Something in your chest went still. You headed to the Imperial tents, that massive canvas monstrosity lined with silks and armed men. But you didn’t enter.

Because you heard them. Their voices already raised. Already burning.

Marcus Aurelius and his son. Barely reunited that they already argued, because it was their only way of talking to each other. You approached the Emperor’s tent with careful steps and stopped near the guards, far enough to wait to be invited in, close enough to hear their words.

“You were drunk last night, Commodus.”

A long silence followed. Then a low voice, Commodus. “I’m often drunk, Father. It dulls the sound of your disappointment.”

“You humiliated that boy in front of the camp. Had him stripped, beaten, because he spilled wine on your cloak?”

“He was careless.”

“He was a child, Lucius! You barely arrived here that you already spread chaos!”

Commodus laughed, not loud, nor amused. It was a broken sound, bitter and worn thin. “You give more mercy to slaves than to your own son.”

“I give you everything.” Marcus said. “And still, you rot from the inside.”

There was the sound of something thrown. A goblet, maybe. Or a chair leg kicked.

“I was born in your shadow. Raised on duty, on restraint, on cold marble floors while you praised Maximus like a son and paraded me like a flaw.” He spoke again; his voice had grown dark.

“You are my blood and I want you to learn from Maximus.” Marcus said. “I see what you become when you are unrestrained. You think cruelty makes you powerful. But you’re weak, slave to your emotions, indulgent, lust-sick. You poison everything you touch.”

You didn’t dare move. You heard your breath in your ears.

“I know what you do in that tent.” Marcus said. “The guards talk, the servants talk. You let them touch you like you’re some temple whore. Men, women, doesn’t matter to you, does it? So long as they kneel.”

A silence fell.

Then Commodus’s voice again, low and almost calm: “Do you think me depraved, Father?”

“I think you are lost Commodus.”

Another pause. But this time, something colder followed, a tone you hadn’t heard from Commodus before. “I’ll remember that.”

There was no shouting. No weeping. Just that single sentence. Like a sword laid carefully back into its sheath.

Moments later, the flap opened. Commodus stepped out, still regal, still composed, not a single hair out of place. His eyes met yours.

And something in them had gone still, as if he had forgotten he had called for you.

“Walk with me.” he said.

You bowed and followed, of course. You always did. But something inside you tightened. The day before, you had touched something dangerous. Something beautiful and wretched. And this morning, you saw the shape of it. Not just a man but the future emperor becoming the monster his father feared.

You walked a step behind him, as was protocol. Not out of reverence, out of instinct.

Commodus took long, measured strides that carried him down the gravel path leading to the edge of the camp. Past rows of tents, past soldiers who dipped their heads in silent deference. No one dared look too long.

You did. His hands were clasped behind his back, his tunic immaculate, golden cloak brushing the dust with every step. To any other man, he looked composed, controlled. But you had seen the twitch in his jaw, the ghost of a tremor in his right hand. The flicker of something furious hiding beneath the surface.

He stopped suddenly, near a grove of cypress trees just beyond the last campfire. “Do you know what he said to me?” Commodus asked, voice calm, eyes still on the horizon. “He called me lost.”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t need you to.

“Tell me something, healer.” He called you rarely by your title, only when he was furious. He turned to face you, gaze sharp as drawn steel. “Would you call me lost?”

You held his eyes. You had talked to him, healed his wounds. And now he looked at you like he might break, or break you.

“I don’t think you were ever given the chance to be found,” you said quietly.

That startled him. Commodus blinked once, twice. His lips parted. But whatever words had risen to the surface died there, unsaid. He looked away again, jaw tight.

“When I was twelve.” he murmured, “You and I heard my father tell one of the philosophers that I was like a horse too spirited to break. ‘Strong,’ he said. ‘But useless in war.’” He smiled bitterly. “That’s how it’s always been. My passion is a flaw. My desire...perversion. I laugh too loud. I want too much. I let servants fuck me.” He turned back to you. “But when the blade needs to falls, when Rome trembles, they all run to me. Me. The depraved son.”

The silence stretched. Only the wind moved, whispering through the trees like the ghosts of ancestors. “Maybe I am lost,” he said at last. “But I’ve learned something, my sweet healer.”

He stepped closer. You didn’t retreat. “No one fears the sheep who follows...” he said, gaze unwavering. “Only the wolf who walks alone.” He stood so close now you could feel his breath. Smell the oil in his hair. See the faint smudge of wine on his lower lip.

“And you...” he murmured, fingers grazing your wrist, a cruel echo of last night. “You saw the wolf. And you didn’t run.”

His mouth was inches from yours, you thought he might kiss you. But he only watched, waiting, daring you. And somewhere, in those imperial eyes, was a glint of something hollow. Not quite asking for help, but daring you to see past the rot.

He stepped back from you and unsheathed his sword, handing it to you.

“Take the sword.” The command came low, harsh. Like it had been burning his throat.

You stared at it, frowning, not wanting to accept what he requested of you. You didn’t move, so he grabbed the front of your tunic, making you gasp and shoved you back a step, fire in his eyes. “I said take it.”

“Commodus—”

“Take it!” he roared, loud enough to send a flock of birds shrieking from the trees.

Your heart was racing, your hand trembling as you reached for his sword. Obedience. Your bronze bracelet clicking against the hilt of the sword.

Good. That finally made him smile.

“You think I’m weak. You pity me.” he spat, circling you like a lion as he drew his dagger “Because I get scolded by father, Because I fuck anyone who comes to me? Because I need?”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t want you to feel for him. He wanted a blade in his face. Physical pain to forget the pain of his mind.

So you gave it to him.

He lunged first. No warning. The flash of his arm, the twist of his torso, he fought like a man who had been taught by killers. A blade in his hand, no matter the size of it was no less deadly than a throne beneath him.

Steel met steel, and the ring of it sang through the clearing.

Commodus didn’t hold back. He wanted pain.

He struck high, fast, again and again, each blow forcing you to retreat, breath shortening. The blade was heavy for you, you had learned a few basic moves, but you were quite untrained. You barely blocked a slash meant for your shoulder when he growled, “That’s all you have? That’s who you serve?”

You clenched your jaw this time “You want pain? From me, your healer? Wrong choice Commodus!” You yelled in anger at his words, turned your blade and parried. Your elbow caught him in the ribs; right on the wound you had treated, you may not have much brute force, but you had the strategy. He gasped but grinned through it.

“There...” he rasped. “That’s better.”

He shoved you again, and this time you didn’t give ground. Blades locked. His face inches from yours. Eyes wild; chest heaving, your arms hurting.

“Do it!” he hissed. “Cut me...make me bleed...kill me if you have to!”

“What happened to you...?” Your grip faltered at his words, pained, your eyes became wet.

He slammed you against a tree, stars exploded behind your eyes as you stumbled. Commodus came at you like a wave, relentless. You dropped low, kicked his legs, brought him down with a grunt, hitting his head with the handle of your sword. But he rolled, kicked out, knocked the sword from your hand. He straddled you now, panting, pinning your wrists to the ground. A thin line of blood slid down his temple from the impact. It painted his cheek like war paint.

“You look at me like I’m more than him...” he snarled, lip curled. “Like I could be something else. But this...this is what I am.”

He raised his dagger. You held his gaze, not flinching, panting. Because you still believed the tender boy was still there, somewhere.

The blade hovered above your throat.

Then-

He dropped it and collapsed onto you. Shaking. You felt the tremors in his arms before you heard the breath catch in his throat.

He wasn’t crying. But he was close. You could feel his throat tight, his jaw clenched, retaining himself from letting his pain flow. He was still holding your wrists like they were the only things anchoring him to the world.

“I hate him.” he whispered. “I hate the way he looks at me like I was born deformed. I hate that I beg for love like a fucking animal...”

You didn’t say anything and pressed your head against his. You just let him burn. Because maybe, just maybe, you were the only one who could touch the fire without turning away.

His grip on your wrists loosened slowly, then completely. He pulled away without a word, the full weight of his body leaving yours as suddenly as the dagger had fallen.

You remained on the ground, breath still ragged, watching as he stood.

The blood from his temple had begun to dry along his cheek, a streak of crimson in the low sunlight. He wiped it with the back of his hand; eyes fixed on something far away. Something not you.

You thought, maybe, he’d say something. You could see it trembling behind his lips, an apology, perhaps. A confession or a plea.

But Commodus said nothing. He turned his back to you, picked up his blade, and began walking away, towards the camp. Back to his father, the generals and the soldiers; back to the people who didn’t see past the mask of violence.

He didn’t look over his shoulder. Didn’t ask if you’d follow. He simply left.

And you knew why.

Because if he stayed, if he lingered by your side in the aftermath of fury and closeness...he might feel. And Commodus did not survive on feeling.

He survived on power, on control and lust.

Later that night, you heard things from his tent. Not screams but whimpers, moans. Then a choked cry and silence.

By the time you passed by, the guard outside the entrance wouldn’t meet your eyes. A young man exited the tent moments later, dazed and flushed, clutching his tunic and stumbling away as though he’d been devoured.

You looked at the entrance canvas. You didn’t step inside. It wasn’t your place. You were a healer, the one of the imperial family, nothing more. But now, you knew it wasn’t about pleasure for him. Not anymore, it was a purge. Commodus didn’t fuck for comfort. He fucked to forget...

However, you were sure of one thing. You would try to save him, try to bring back to boy you knew, make him see he was worth it.

You dozed off to those thoughts. But the quiet didn’t last long, you were kept awake by the noises of laughter, cheers. As if a celebration was happening. You got up, you curious too strong to resist.

“What’s all that noise about?” you asked to a soldier who walked by, he was tipsy.

“The prince organized a celebration for yesterday’s victory. There’s some generals too, food, alcohol, music and slaves, the prince takes good care of us!” he cheered as he walked away. You were sure such celebration wasn’t approved by the Emperor, him who favored modesty, and simple things.

Your suspiscions were confirmed as you reach the ‘banquet’; rather a gathering of all sins and excesses.

Commodus was already drunk. Not the careless kind of drunk, not celebratory. This was something hollow and ravenous.

You stood near a tree, not daring to come too close, but taking a cup of wine to avoid raising attention. It was enough that you were the only free woman around, all the others were slaves. You were quickly focused on the center of your thoughts, the prince. What you saw made you blush bith in shame and fluster. You almost didn’t recognize him.

He lounged across the cushioned couch like a god grown bored of worship. Robes askew, neck glistening with sweat, his fingers tangled lazily in the hair of a slave kneeling between his thighs. A woman poured wine onto his chest, and another licked it clean. Laughter spilled around him like perfume, loud and artificial.

But his eyes were empty.

He wasn't there.

You watched him snap his fingers, watched as more bodies came to him, male, female, it made no difference. He kissed a man’s neck, then turned and bit a woman’s lip until she bled. He whispered something to the one between his legs, whatever it was made them flinch and then push deeper, until they choked.

Still, Commodus didn’t moan. He didn’t even smile. He just watched the sky like it held the answers to everything he lost.

Someone joked that the Emperor had the appetite of Bacchus himself. That he’d fuck the gods if given the chance.

But you saw it. He wasn’t hungry. He was starving, of something lust could not satisfy, nor violence.

The moment shattered when the servant between his legs gagged too loudly, and Commodus shoved them back hard enough to knock them down. The party fell silent, eyes wide.

He stood, adjusting his robes like nothing had happened.

Then his voice rang out, cold, amused. “Forgive me. I thought they could breathe and suck at the same time.” Generals laughed nervously. Soldiers and sycophants applauded, cheering to him.

You didn’t laugh. The sight made you angry, and sad above all.

Then, he met your eyes across the party. And for a second, just one second, the facade dropped. He hadn’t expected to see you there, witness his drowning.

You saw the despair in him. His hands trembled when he reached for more wine as if troubled because you saw him, truly saw him. You didn’t look away. Pained that the boy you held in your arms and comforted was suffering so much. Alone.

He looked like a man begging to be punished. Or saved.

But you also saw this truth: He wouldn’t ask. Because Commodus would rather drown in pleasure than admit he was already bleeding inside. And you, you were just a healer. Who could heal his physical wounds, for his spirit you could only help him, if Commodus wanted it.

The banquet began to decay.

The wine was running thin, the bodies around Commodus were sticky and laughing too loud, and the smell of sweat and sex clung to the air like incense gone sour. Commodus sat slack on his couch now, robes open, his skin flushed and sheened with heat, pupils blown wide with lust or fury, you weren’t sure anymore.

You decided to step forward. To put an end to that grotesque display.

“My lord.” you said quietly, bowing, your hands clasped in front of you “Let me take you to your tent.”

He laughed, not even looking at you. “Why? Am I not entertaining enough here? Afraid I’ll start biting again?”

“I’m afraid you’ll collapse.” you said, firmer. “And they’ll see.” you added, your eyes briefly scanning your surroundings, people were already staring.

That made his eyes flick to yours. You didn’t break the gaze and instead gave a little encouraging nod.

After a long silence, he pushed away the slave from his lap and rose. He stumbled slightly, you reached for his arm to steady him, he let you. “I am leaving friends! My doctor insists I go to bed...I earned special care from my sweet healer!” he announced with a grin, which made them laugh, thinking the prince would sleep with you.

No words passed as you guided him out of the party, down towards the imperial section of camp. His body was heavy and warm against yours, one hand fisting the folds of your tunic at the waist like a child clinging to balance. The smell of wine and perfume clung to him like smoke.

“You look at me like I’m still a man.” he muttered, slurring. “You shouldn't. I'm not. I'm just… appetite. That’s all that’s left.”

“That's not true.” you said softly.

“Isn’t it?”

You turned a corner and froze.

Marcus Aurelius stood close to the tent, sitting on a wooden stool, hands clasped on his lap. The Emperor’s robes were simple, a contrast to the dripping luxury Commodus had wrapped himself in. His expression was unreadable.

His eyes fell on his son. Commodus was bare chest, wine-stained mouth. Reeking of decadence and debauchery.

Then, his eyes shifted to you, holding his son up.“Another late night.” Marcus said evenly.

Commodus went very still beside you. Then slowly pulled his arm free. “I was just walking.” he slurred. “Taking in the virtues of Roman celebration.”

Marcus didn’t move. “Did you enjoy playing with the slaves ? Or choking on your own ego more?”

A beat of silence. Then- “I learned from the best.” Commodus said.

His voice was calm, but his hands were shaking. “I watched you rule with silence, Father. With absence. You held your love like a blade and gave it to everyone but me. Because I was never enough...because I do not fit in your list of virtues...never did.”

“You were loved. And you are still loved.” Marcus replied. Quiet, absolute. “You were given everything.”

“Given everything to be what you wanted!” Commodus barked, staggering forward, pointing a trembling finger. “Never to be myself! Taught to ignore my emotions, to perform and to smile to senators plotting my end! Taught to submit to these old men’s aristocracy! Taught to be someone who would follow your legacy but never change the Empire...!”

His breath came faster now. You saw it in his chest, the panic. The unraveling.

Marcus remained still as if used to hear those words. Yet, you wondered if he had ever listened and done something about it.

“You call me depraved...” Commodus seethed, “but I’m just the echo of your silence. You made me hungry. You made me starve.” The words hit like a blade.

His voice cracked then, just slightly. Enough for you to hear the break. “I’m… tired,” Commodus whispered. His shoulders trembled. “I don’t want to perform anymore.”

Still, Marcus didn’t move.“You should go to your tent.” was all he said. And turned; walking away.

Like a curtain falling. A father ignoring the cries for help of his son.

Commodus stood there in the stone path; eyes still fixed on the place his father had stood. Then his knees gave in.

You caught him before he hit the ground. He didn’t fight you, didn’t speak. Just buried his face in your chest, hands clutching your sides like he might vanish if he let go.

You said nothing. Because there was nothing left to say. Only the quiet, and the trembling, and the man who was supposed to be a god, now breaking in your arms.

The tent was quiet.

Outside, the camp still murmured in the distance, the fading sounds of armor, low voices, the crackle of firewood. But here, within the canvas walls, it was just the two of you.

Commodus sat on the edge of the bed like a man carved from something ruined. His hair hung loose, curls damp with sweat, lips parted in exhaustion. His hands trembled in his lap, still stained with wine and a smear of blood, someone else’s or his own, you didn’t know.

You returned with the basin of warm water; a cloth folded over the rim.

He didn’t look at you. Not until you knelt before him and began unfastening what remained of his robes.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“Because you need someone to.” you simply replied as you dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out. Your hand went to his chest first, wiping gently along the curve of his collarbone, clearing away the stickiness of wine and sweat. He hissed a little at the touch. Not from pain. But from shock.

You were gentle.

You continued in silence, down his arms, across his shoulders, over the bruises that bloomed around the wound on his ribs from the sparring. You touched him like he wasn’t a god, a monster or even an Emperor. Just a man. A man who had fallen too hard, too fast.

When you moved to untie the last layer of cloth over his hips, his hand shot out, caught your wrist.

His eyes met yours, sharp and glinting with something desperate. Not seductive. Just reflex.

“If you want me...” he rasped, voice cracking. “Take what you want of me. I’ll be whatever you need. I can give you—”

“No.” you said.

His mouth opened, not used to being refused.

But your tone silenced him.“You don’t have to give anything tonight.”

You eased his grip from your wrist. His fingers let go like they didn’t know how.

You finished removing his robes without a word, left only the modest linen wrap at his hips untouched. Then you cleaned his legs, one at a time, down to his knees and calves, his ankles. You took his feet in your hands and washed the dust from them like he was sacred.

No one had ever touched him this way.

And it showed.

When you finished, you helped him into his night robes, simple, ivory linen, clean, soft. They draped over his bruised shoulders; over the bare chest you’d just bathed. You moved slowly, deliberately, like you were calming a wounded animal.

Finally, you folded the bedding back and helped him lie down. He resisted only slightly.

When he settled into the sheets, he looked up at you, dazed. The firelight flickered against the damp shimmer in his eyes. “Stay.” he said.

“I'm not going far.” you replied, tightening a shawl around your shoulders. You sat beside the bed, silent, as he curled toward you, not to seduce, not to tempt. Just to be close. His hand touched the hem of your tunic, resting there like an anchor.

“You didn’t want me,” he whispered, more to himself than you. “And you stayed anyway. Even...even after I hurt you...I’m sorry.” he breathed, referring to the sparring.

You didn’t answer. You just smoothed his hair back from his face.

And when his breathing evened, when sleep finally claimed him, you stayed right there, decided to protect him, at least try. The one person who didn’t touch him to take something away.

*****

Anyone wants to see what will happen next?

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galos-writing · 29 days ago

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The Best Chance (The Best Offer 2013)

(Virgil Oldman x Male OC)

Summary: Fate has another plan for a man who barely knows who he is anymore. Prologue/ Ch. 1-2 TW: none?? i think???

3 - Violation

The trip was excruciatingly silent. Virgil was gripping the steering wheel with such strength that his hidden knuckles were probably white, and he was strongly exhaling through his nostrils; Billy was sitting next to him, his eyes blankly looking out the window. His face hosted no regret, only utter vexation.

“I hope you’re satisfied, now,” the old artist mumbled. Those few words were enough to make the auctioneer explode.

“Me?! You’re…!” He cleared his throat; his yelling wasn’t necessary. He immediately gathered his calmness. “You’re one to talk, causing a scene with that poor boy,” he spoke, refusing to look at his friend.

“He insulted me! What was I supposed to do? Apologise?”

“You said his brother-in-law maybe deserved being attacked by a psycho. Do your math,” Virgil hissed. Billy rolled his eyes, and he noticed. That gesture pissed him off even more.

“Why do you care so much? I don’t remember you being so emotional. That fag jock is being fine even without you,” Billy insisted, irked.

Mr Oldman frowned, his head turned towards his friend for a second, not wanting to distract from the road for too long. They got into traffic and soon found themselves stuck among cars. His vehicle turned into a cell that trapped him with the man he thought he knew so well.

“You’re being excessive, Billy,”

“God forbid a man has opinions,” the artist crossed his arms and huffed in irritation. His mind formed a specific thought, which made him stare at the auctioneer with intense focus. “Since you’ve met him, I barely recognise you, you know. How much time has passed since the last time you spoke with your client?”

Virgil’s cheeks suddenly heated up, his eyes fell like boulders on his gloved hands. “Why do you ask?”

“I noticed you get anxious and irritable when you don’t hear from her for a while. If you weren’t scared of women, I’d dare to say you have a crush on her,” the other man answered with a wolfish smirk. How dare he treat him like a silly high schooler…

Yet the term ‘crush’ didn’t resonate well with Virgil: was that a crush? Was that love? Virgil’s mind unapologetically started popping up questions over questions, without its owner’s permission. The first time he saw Claire, he felt the same puerile excitement, the same bubbles in his stomach whenever he captured another secret lady for his caveau, another piece of his treasure snatched from those greedy bidders: the same feeling, but boosted at 300%.

It felt like witnessing one of his ladies come to life before him. How naive he was, for not recognising the taste of romantic sentiments, he thought. His face reddened again in shame.

“S-Still, I don’t approve of how you behaved with that waiter. He was in the wrong for insulting you, but rightfully so for your hateful words,” the auctioneer mumbled, his eyes following the road's white-painted lines. “Adding to that! you ruined my reputation at the Steirereck. I don’t know with what courage I will present myself there next time.”

“Cry me a river, Virgil. I said what I said, and what I say is honest,” Billy just answered with coldness. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back: Virgil suddenly stepped on the brake and unlocked the doors.

“Get out.”

“What?!” Billy gasped, his face turned pale. “You’re not serious, Virgil. We’re in the middle of traffic!”

“Not my problem, maybe you deserved to be kicked out,” Virgil replied with a devilish, small grin. “Now get out.”

Billy was about to protest again, but every complaint parked in his mind was killed by the loud honks from the cars behind them. He looked at Virgil with pleading eyes, silently begging him to spare him that treatment and just go, but the auctioneer didn’t budge. Soon, Billy was out of the car.

—

Virgil groaned a bit louder, his face turned scarlet as Claire laughed, her voice muffled by the trompe-l’œil that separated them. “May we move forward, please?”

“Y-Yes! Yes, sorry, Mr Oldman, it’s just…” the girl was doing her best to hold her giggles back. “I can’t believe you actually kicked your best friend out of your car!” And resumed laughing. Virgil wasn’t.

Soon her chuckling died in the girl’s throat, and she just coughed in awkwardness. “Well,” she started. “I can’t deny I feel honoured that I give you such a sentiment of calmness. I find your need to talk to me quite flattering.”

Virgil distractedly nodded; his mind was still absent.

“However inappropriate it might sound,” she added with a lower voice, a last attempt to catch his focus back again. Those words made Virgil’s heart dive in shame.

“I know, Miss Ibbetson-”

“Given the circumstances, maybe it’s more fitting for you to call me Claire.”

The auctioneer gulped. The room felt empty.

“I-I suppose it’s true… Claire. And of course, you can call me Vir-”

The girl interrupted him again. “For now, I’d rather call you Mr Oldman. I don’t feel comfortable lowering someone like you to my level, not yet,” she teased, gaining a scoff from the auctioneer. “However, I’m happy to have this level of intimacy with you, Mr Oldman. Thank you for the trust you’re giving me.”

Claire sounded sweeter than usual, which of course took Virgil off guard. He couldn’t help but feel flattered at her praises, making his chest puff a bit in pride, but he was just as concerned about his own doubts.

Maybe, just maybe, she could be a good confidant and listen to him the same way he had listened to her about her issues.

He looked down, his gloved hands shrank under his severe gaze. A gaze that knew what was hiding underneath the light brown cotton: years and years of a skin that had touched nothing but anointed canvases.

“Having said so,” Claire broke the silence again, “you seem lost in thought, Mr Oldman. Is there something bothering you?”

“Yes, actually,” Virgil immediately said, longing for that question like a lonely soul lost in the desert longs for water.

Claire stayed silent, waiting. That silence made every piece of furniture in that room come back, that space felt welcoming and warm in its chaos, again.

“I kicked my best friend out of my car because it felt right to do so. At that moment, I couldn’t think straight and acted instinctively, which is so out of character for me. And now that I think about it… Maybe the only friend I have isn’t what I think he was.”

Claire didn’t speak, just nodded, but Virgil couldn’t see it. Or, at least, that was how he imagined her.

“We’ve always been so connected, on the same page about art, sharing the same humour, and it was disappointing to see such an ugly side of someone you care about, you know?”

Virgil waited, but there was no answer to that, either.

“I wasn’t advocating for anything, nor was I trying to be ‘woke’, whatever it means. My friend accused me of that, but how can I be something I don’t even know the meaning of?”

Still no answer, if not a simple ‘hm’ from the woman. Virgil paused a bit before sighing.

“I am just worried... I can’t simply forget what happened to that boy-”

“Mr Oldman,” Claire stopped him. “I’d like you not to bring back what happened that day, out of my house. I’m still quite shaken about it.”

Virgil’s eyes widened, blankly staring at the trompe-l’œil.

“I apologise.”

Their conversation slowly orbited on other topics; the old man’s embarrassment after upsetting his client struggled to fade. He didn’t notice how she was skillfully avoiding every attempt of his to talk about work, immediately changing the subject every time he mentioned the plausible maximum price for any piece of her furniture. Talking about it must be painful, he thought.

“Even if I did sell everything, what should I do? Just move out?” She kept asking with her feeble, trembling voice. “The thought only paralizes me, I can’t even work.”

The auctioneer blinked, his head tilted a little. “I didn’t know you were working.”

Claire hesitated. “I write. I write novels, stories,” she cleared her throat, obviously nervous for some reason. “Things like that.”

Her hesitation didn’t even approach Virgil’s eardrums: everything he heard was the words of a brilliant, tormented soul. “I’d like to read them. I’ll buy some,” he coyly smiled as he spoke, before looking down at his gloved hands. He was no bookworm, but he was eager to give it a better try.

“Luckily for both you and me, you’ll never manage to,” her dry answer was.

The bid caller felt oddly calm at that response, and just gently frowned. “Why not?” He asked with a trace of concern in his voice.

“Because I write under a pseudonym. And I loathe what I write.”

Claire’s avoidant behaviour and insistence on not wanting her novels to be discovered didn’t stop Virgil from craving it: holding a book written by her. It would have automatically opened the tiniest door for him to peek into a more intimate side of her; the thought only gave him a shiver of anticipation.

The next weeks were spent between auctions around the continent and the frantic search for Claire’s lost manuscripts, weeks marked by emotional stress. Gilbert Jeune, Thalia, Feltrinelli, he attempted them all.

Soon, he started forgetting about everything that didn’t involve those books.

One morning, before starting his workday, Virgil decided to give his crazy hunt one last attempt: he invaded a Waterstone’s library, immediately looking around like a predator. His eyes scrutinised every category, every shelf. The library was almost empty of people, which saddened him a bit.

What could Claire be writing about? He first thought about romance, but he didn’t think Claire would be that kind of sappy girl.

Political? No, she barely knew about the world right outside her villa.

Dystopian books? Meh, her inner world was too damaged for her to build a new corrupted system.

Maybe fantasy? Might be, her mind needed an escape from her golden cage, after all. Romantasy sounded like the perfect compromise for her.

Without noticing, he found himself staring at a huge, blue book with golden doodles, a huge title right in the middle of the plastic cover. A love story between a British girl and a Scottish boy didn’t sound like Claire.

“Ya need?” a voice spoke right beside him. Virgil jolted and looked around, only to find a short girl staring at him with curiosity, wearing the library uniform for employees and a tag on her chest. He took a couple of seconds to answer, his eyes scanned some major details about her: thick and dark, curly hair and green eyes; the tag showed name and pronouns. He didn’t really give attention to the employee’s name, but he was quite puzzled about the ‘they/them’ pronouns.

“Uh… actually, I do need help. But I don’t know how to ask. It’s quite complex.”

The employee scoffed, their eyes scanned the old auctioneer. “Well, ‘ey, don’t worry if it’s an embarrassing name. People buy that stuff with no shame,” they grinned as they pointed at the blue book he eyed before.

“I-is it that bad?” He asked, wondering if the name of the author might be Claire’s. The employee shrugged. “Not my jam, but who am I to judge?”

Then they stared at him, expectantly. So he sighed: he was there already, that nth humiliation was worth a shot for his client.

“The situation’s a little twisted. You see, my client, she’s a writer and often publishes her novels, but won’t tell me what she wrote, nor her pseudonym.”

The fellow started thinking. “Is she from here, or is she a foreigner?” They asked, only now Virgil noticed a slight Italian accent.

“She’s a local, yes,” he answered, nodding.

“What’s her name?”

“Claire Ibbetson.”

They frowned. “Wait, I think we have a Claire Ibbetson, but…”

Virgil shook his head. “No, it’s impossible. She said she publishes under a pseudonym, so it can’t be her.”

They grinned. “Unless she lied to you to not be found out,” they spoke; their insolent insinuation irked the auctioneer. Someone else called their attention.

“Excuse me, sir,” the employee said before dashing towards the new client. Virgil looked up to the one who stole his helper, and suddenly turned pale.

"You..."

tagging: @darknessisafriend @walsiegirl @capitan-rush @panbarbossa (please tell me if you want your tag removed)

#scenario #imagine #geoffrey rush #virgil oldman #mlm #virgil oldman x oc #writing #creative writing #attempt #writing exercise #the best offer

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galos-writing · 29 days ago

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thank you for tagging me @five-miles-over!

tagging: @darknessisafriend @ajokeformur-ray @werewolf-and-go-wild @smallratboy @elelloletee @indieblair @panbarbossa @fly-like-a-phoenix @hebimoonlight @jokerflecker @lokischambermaid @callmejokerr and whoever sees it :D

Tagged by Sam @punkgeekcryptid thank you love ❤️

Try out this picrew, its adorable! And post the last song you listened to as well.

Npt: @karinamay @nonbinairyboi @princessanglophile @vindictivegranny @stitch-away @sizzlingcloudmentality @fridays13th @clubsoft and anyone else that wants to do it! Sorry if you've already done it and I missed it.

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galos-writing · 29 days ago

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thank you for tagging me into your wonderful story,, I love the way you write🫶🏻🫶🏻 keep going pal!

My Lord/My Champion - Chapter 8 - Final Chapter

You and Commodus grew up together, your father a soldier and his an emperor. But when you are taken as a prisoner of war and suspected dead, nobody expects you to return as a slave, and a gladiator. When Commodus sees you in the arena alive and well, it sparks something inside him unlike what he's felt before, and leads him on a journey of desire, fear, pain and love.

Previous Chapter

Masterlist

That night, you toss and turn. You can hardly sleep, your mind whirling with thoughts of Commodus, Maximus, and your fight tomorrow. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, you feel terrible about your fight with Commodus. Even though you know you should be resting, you decide to get up and go look for him.

You assume he's in his quarters sleeping, and so you make your way to his rooms. The palace is creepy at night, the torches cast shuddery shadows and every statue seems to watch you. You keep your arm firmly wrapped around your bandaged stomach, as if to protect yourself.

When you have to climb a flight of stairs, your stitches pull and you have to stop to catch your breath. You push through the pain and try to ignore the doubts that circle your mind like carrion, waiting for you to fall.

When you reach Commodus’ door, you debate knocking. You assume he's sleeping, so you let yourself in. To your surprise, though, Commodus is sitting at his desk. You walk towards him, but he almost doesn't seem aware that you're there. Instead, he's facing the full moon which bleeds white light into the dark room. He is bathed in the eerie glow, and he is so still you can’t even see him breathe.

“Commodus?” you whisper, coming to stand beside him. He flinches, not realizing you were there.

“Oh,” he gasps. “It’s you. What are you doing here?” He's breathing heavily, trying to regain his composure.

“It felt wrong to leave things the way we did,” you admit. “I wanted to make sure you're alright.”

“Thank you,” he whispers. He is so quiet, a stark contrast to his paranoid shouts mere hours ago.

“Commodus, it was wrong of me to call you weak,” you're starting to ramble. “I just get so worried, I don't want to see you hurt. So I start to think that if I can do everything for you, then maybe you'll be safe. But I've just pushed and angered you, and I don't want the last words I've spoken to you to be with anger because now–”

“What are you trying to say?” Commodus cuts you off. He leans forward against his desk, all his focus on you.

“I'm trying to say that I love you,” you whisper, tears in your eyes. “And I don't want to lose you.”

“You love me?” Commodus’ voice breaks, and his eyes are glassy with tears. You nod.

“I love you.” He whispers, almost inaudible.

He stands slowly, walking towards you. His expression is unreadable, and for a moment you think he's going to scream. He stands before you, his breath hitching and emotion in his eyes. Then, he falls into your arms.

You wrap each other in a powerful hug. You cling to each other, your breath shuddering and hot tears running down your face. Your heart aches, but not with pain. It aches with completion, with hope. You really have found your way home.

You sit side by side on the marble floor, the moonlight kissing your skin and turning your teardrops to diamond. Commodus looks godlike in this light, his eyes almost silver. Between gasping breaths and laughter you kiss him; his face, his lips, his eyelids. You feel each scar and love it beneath your lips.

Time passes in a moonlight haze as you enjoy each other's presence, the feeling of complete devotion warming your whole body. Commodus’ skin is soft beneath your touch, and when he threads his fingers through your hair and pulls you think you've found heaven.

As the dreamlike moonlight fades and the sun begins to rise, reality creeps its way back into your bones. Your fight with Maximus is just a few hours away. No matter the outcome, by the end of today your future will be decided.

“Commodus,” you whisper. You're still on the floor, although it seems he's fallen asleep on your chest. You nudge him and he stirs slowly.

“Are you alright?” He asks sleepily. You nod, and brush his hair back from his forehead.

“I saw Macrinus last night,” you confess. “I'm to fight Maximus today. He promised me my freedom if I win.”

He sighs, and moves so you two can sit side-by-side. Your backs rest against the windowsill, the morning sunlight spilling over your shoulders. For long moments he is silent, fidgeting with the string of your necklace.

“Do you really think you can win?” He asks.

“I don't know,” you answer honestly. “It's up to fate now.”

“Your faith in fate is unusual,” he says, fear in his voice. “I don't want to lose you again.”

“Fate brought me back to you before,” you say, grabbing his hand. “She will bring us back again.”

He holds your cheek and kisses you tenderly, his love colored with everything he can't say.

Your armor is heavy as Commodus helps strap you in. You've bandaged your stomach wound thickly, although it still aches with every breath. As you take up your sword, you stretch and adjust everything into place. No matter the outcome, this will be the last time you wear a gladiator's skin.

You give Commodus one last kiss before you step out into the arena. Commodus has requested to watch the game from inside the arena, surrounded by armed guards. You worry for his safety, but are glad to have his presence.

When you see Maximus face-to-face, some of your nerves lessen. He's not any taller than you, not absurdly muscular. You bow to one another, meeting the fight as equals. You imagine that under better circumstances, you would like Maximus.

As soon as the fighting begins, though, you become scared. Your wound is unhealed, freshly stitched, and it slows you down. You parry a blow, keeping him away and managing to land a blow on his arm. Briefly it seems like you might have the upper hand, but then Maximus’ foot slams into your stomach and you double over, pain sparking up your spine.

You sweep his legs out from under him, and the two of you roll across the sand. Your body is weak, your injury betraying you. Metal clashes against metal as you keep his sword away from you, but you're finding it difficult to breathe. You wheeze, and when his knee bashes your stomach, your arms buckle.

Your eyes flash to Commodus, and you try to whisper something to him. Maybe an apology, maybe a confession of love, maybe a prayer. Whatever you're going to say dies on your lips as Maximus’ sword crunches through your breastplate and into your chest. Pain flashes for a moment, and then is gone.

You're detached from your body, pulled out of the dying flesh. Your vision is blurry and you can't hear, but you still feel Commodus' scream deep in your soul. He pushes past the guards and stumbles to your body, taking your face in his hands.

He is weeping, picking up your sword and rushing at Maximus. You try to tell him to stop, try to pull him back and calm his rash decisions. He can't hear you, though, and begins to fight Maximus with feverish rage.

Swords clash and screams fly, Commodus shouting curses from heaven and hell in a poisoned vengeance. Commodus slashes again and again and again, tears streaming down his face.

Maximus’ sword slashes across Commodus’ neck, and he stumbles back. You try to scream but can't, the noise absorbed by the void surrounding you. His body falls onto yours, and you try to go to him. You look frantically for a way to save him, but the life has already left his eyes.

It seems to take ages, time moving so slowly in the lonely void you've been left in. Your bodies are moved, carried to a room you've never seen. Your armor is removed, and your stomach churns at the gaping wound left in your chest.

The two bodies are laid side by side, dressed and cleaned. Commodus looks so wrong, so unanimated and, well, dead. You try to remember a time when he was happy, alive, but all you can think of is the present.

You and Commodus are carried to a cemetery, and you're worried that they're going to separate you. The last thing you have of him now is his body, and you don't want to lose him even in death.

Instead, you're both laid into a large tomb. Your hands are bound together with the necklace he gave you, almost like you're holding hands. As the soil is laid upon your bodies, your vision begins to darken. You can't fight it, submitting to the darkness that takes over your soul.

Darkness is not the end.

Light comes back into your vision, and when you regain your senses completely, you see you're in a green field. You look to your right and see Commodus, dressed in white and free of blood. You wrap each other in a powerful hug, and you finally feel a sense of peace.

You could not lose Commodus, no matter what. Your souls have always been entwined, since the moment you first met. Except now, you are far from Rome, far from war, and far from the pain of life.

“You didn't lose me,” you whisper. Commodus kisses you, full of love and hope. You're together, you're safe, forever. He holds your face, your foreheads touching, and you can see the light in his eyes. You know you'll get to cherish that forever.

“Now we are free.”

a/n: I hope you liked this!! I had a lot of fun writing it, I always love exploring the dynamic with Commodus. Requests are open, and you can find me on ao3 @ Homo_Sexy

taglist: @darknessisafriend @five-miles-over @fly-like-a-phoenix @it-vexes-me @galos-writing @jokerflecker

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