#and i'm certainly not a poet

[fictionadventurer]

Why I Am Not a Novelist

Too many words make me lose the story

Too much time makes me lose my courage

Too much failure makes me lose my patience

[chiropteracupola]

Sagt ihm, er soll auf der Lichtung stehen / Thymian ist da und auch Rosmarin / Mit Kraft zwischen Ufer und Wellen bestehen / Nur so kann er seine Liebste sehen...

[aidsyouinthinking]

That sweet rounded smell, powerful, wrapping, consoling, a blanket; pungent and evident, but welcoming. Most associate it with unclean, I? Intimacy, of all kinds: The willingness to be bare. They come in different flavours, the bacteria changing the scent, but almost like pheromones, I can tell when that smell is of whom I've loved. Though please still have showers!

[inkskinned]

i keep thinking about how rfk said that autistic people "will never write a poem." i keep thinking about that, about if humanity is calculated on the back of old verse. how far we measure personhood is in baseball and stanza breaks.

i keep thinking - i have over 7k poems on here alone. language can be a special interest, after all. did you know the word autism comes almost direct from the greek word autos, meaning "self"? self-ism.

maybe he is right - i haven't really played baseball. i was a ballet dancer instead. and besides - my sister once accidentally hit me in the face with an aluminum bat. i'm not sure if the injury gives me half points. am i only a person in the dugout? hand in a mitt? swinging?

does softball count? does cricket? am i a person if i throw the ball to my dog. am i a person as long as the ball is in the air, or do i stop being a person as it rolls into the bushes. i took my girlfriend to fenway recently; was i a person in the sun, with my hands up, with the game laid out at my feet in a diamond. i felt like a person, but that was back in the summer, and i often feel my most person-like then.

am i more of a person because of the sheer number of things i've written? does quality matter, or is it quantity? i used to write entire books every summer in high school - i wasn't doing well. i felt the least like-a-person back then. but then - does any person feel human in high school?

in the library, ink on my skin, i feel personhood shutter at the edges of myself. actually, writing feels blissfully like not being myself. it feels birdlike; escaping into creation so my body dissolves and i survive only by muscle memory. i am not there, i am writing.

but who can deny the falconlike focus of warsan shire, the tenderness of mary oliver, the sheer skill of amanda gorman. those are poets. they are certainly human. you could line them up with the way their words have influenced us and measure their literary shadows like wings.

perhaps it was very assumptive of me to want to be a poet rather than "a [ label ] poet." i wanted the work to fill itself in, rather than be stained by what i am. i do not write in despite of my neurodivergence, i am just neurodivergent and writing.

does the poem have to be in english or can i send it through my palms into the coat of my dog. does the poem have to make sense. does the poem have to love you back.

if i break a glass, will the poem appear naturally? or is the act of breaking the glass human-enough. the shards of my life glittering out beneath me - do i have to write the poem, or is it self-evident in the pile of glass splinters? i cannot grasp this world the way other people can. regardless, i endeavor to touch - even the mess - very gently.

i broke my toenail against my coffee table recently. i released a bug outdoors. i made coffee. i walked my dog.

i didn't write a poem about any of these things.

something else, then. existing without humanity.

[plethorawrites]

Here I request a damian x sunshine! fem! reader where reader is extremely passionate about art and everything magical. She loves translating whimsical visions into paint and flowery scenes too!!! Despite her extremely bubbly personality, her precious smile falters when people complement her works and she ends up stiff and avoiding eye-contact. Pair that with a tsundere Damian and I see sm fluff and cuteness><!!!! If u have the time ofc:D!!!... Otherwise, have a lovely day!! or night... x3!

I can absolutely make time. (I'll admit, I did have to look up tsundere because I'm not heavy into anime aside from a few shows, but I know now!)

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Damian Wayne would HATE a sunshine reader at first. The over the top, bubbly, smiling appearance annoyed him to no end.

School was beneath him and had been since he was in middle school. He thought he had grown to at least be able to tolerate it by the time he was a senior in highschool, so close to escaping it. Maybe his father would finally accept that he didn't need futile lessons when he already had an IQ higher than Einstein.

But then, in his very last year, he was thrown one last curve ball. A perky, energetic, irritatingly happy girl who somehow managed to be in every single one of his classes.

How anyone could be sitting with her done and her clothes pressed, thrilled to be alive at 7 am for Political Science, he didn't know. He certainly had no interest in it.

She always raised her hand to answer questions and always got them right, too. His only real interest was the art program he had right after lunch.

It was just his luck she was there too, sitting right next to him, humming while she spread her paints on the palette, mixing colors. It took at his willpower not to tell her to shut up. He figured she'd stop at some point.

The humming persisted until her brush actually hit the canvas, then, it was dead silent. He glanced over, confused by how she had miraculously shut up for basically the first time since 7 am. Her eyes were focused on the canvas, watching the paint smoothly spread over it. He looked over again and again throughout the class, noticing the way her forehead crinkled and her teeth sink into her bottom lip while concentrating.

He scowled, though, when the teacher complimented her painting, claiming it was "Bright, but had a hidden depth to be explored." Unlike his, which was. "Very dark and telling of his thoughts."

That annoyed him a bit, but not for long because it was replaced by confusion when she just shrugged meekly, avoiding the teacher's eyes. She did that a lot, he soon found after watching her a bit more instead of making a conscious decision to stop ignoring her entirely.

He saw her cheeks redden when the teachers said her answers were right or congratulated her on a text. He noticed her looking down at her desk when a classmate said something along the lines of asking for her help because she was doing really well in the subject. He saw her bury her head in her locker, pretending not to hear when guys asked her out.

Eventually, he was just too damn curious and after yet another football player got shot down, she took a breath, lifting her head out of her locker right before Damian slammed it shut with his hand.

He leaned against the locker beside it, his arms crossed, asking what was wrong with the guy for her to reject him. "Aside from the obvious lack of brain cells and the fact that he's on a one way track for steroid addiction and early balding, of course."

She snorted a laugh, covering her face as it reddened, before clearing her throat and replying. "Just wasn't interested."

"Who are you interested in, then?" He couldn't help but ask. "You've turned down the jocks, the nerds, the supposed bad boy who is a Mama's boy in disguise, and the suave poet who left notes in your locker. Not many cliques left. So, you're clearly not finding anyone who's your type. What js your type, anyway?"

Her lips quirks. "Are you stalking me, or something?"

No. Of course not. He had way better things to do. But...it wasn't like he wasn't bored out of his mind during school hours since he already knew everything in every class. So, maybe in a way, he was watching. Slightly.

"You're not interesting enough for me to bother," he retorted with no real bite. "You are a bit of an enigma though. I don't like those."

"Sorry. Not trying to be," she promised just shrugging. "But if you ever want to try to figure it out, go for it."

So, he does. He could easily run a background search, but that wasn't how he wanted to do it. No, he'd rather figure her out by himself.

During class, he paid special attention to her notes, taken with a pink pen, mostly covered in doodles of flowers and mountains, or a forest of some kind with a creek.

She, he admitted to himself, was quite good. Even better with paints during art class. He started asking questions, starting off easily.

"Why those colors?"

"Is there a memory attached?"

"Did you have a sketch to go off?"

Then, he started catching up with her at lunch, because it was the best time to really grill her.

"Why did you move to Gotham?" "

Where are you from?"

"No siblings, I'm sure, because you don't ever text or talk about one."

"You look allergic to carrots, since you keep picking them out of the salad during lunch. That or you just hate them. Which is it?"

He'd occasionally slip up though, without realizing, by starting a question with a compliment.—"Since you're good at art, I assume you've practiced since you were a child." The tips of her ears burned red and he frowned. "Why can you never take a compliment?" He asked.

"I can, I do," she defended.

"Yeah, but not well. You get all...weird about it." His voice was a bit less accusatory and more gentle.

She shrugged. "Just don't like them."

He couldn't understand that. Everyone liked compliments. It was the reason the world was polluted by attention seekers looking for praise.

"How come?" He pushed.

"Just don't," she insisted.

"Don't really feel like they're accurate." He hummed. "So, you have low self esteem despite your annoyingly perky attitude, then," he surmised.

Her eyes widened. "I do not!"

She definitely did, he knew then and there by her reaction. Her cheeks got redder, flushing to the point it looked like heavy blush and she stormed off, leaving her salad.

He ate the carrots, nodding to myself. He had finally figured her out.

But, for some reason, that wasn't enough.

He thought he'd be satisfied, but he wasn't. If anything, he felt a bit bad for pushing so hard when she clearly didn't like attention despite always being the center of it, just by being herself.

The next time they had art class, he complimented her painting, just to see her blush. It was really quite cute. So was she. Not that he could admit it.

He did it again and again until she was frustrated and he was amused, asking her to just admit it, which she finally did when they were alone in the classroom after it was let out.

"Fine!" She exclaimed. "Yes, I have low self esteem. I don't like compliments, they make me feel weird."

"That's called validation. You get it because you're good at things," he told her, his voice completely sincere despite trying to be sarcastic.

She held her arms, avoiding his eyes like she always did when she got a compliment. "Great, I'm competent. Doesn't mean people have to say."

Damian frowned a bit. "Humans are hardwired to say what we see. Just like we're designed to see what we say. But you don't do that part. You never see the reason behind all those compliments," he explained.

She scoffed lightly and it was perhaps the first time he'd ever seen so much attitude from her. "I see plenty. Students who want to walk all over me like a door mat because I'm nice and every guy just want to date me to say they've done me—" "

That is an incredibly crude thing to say about yourself," he interrupted. "Not to mention entirely untrue."

She rolled her eyes. Again with the attitude. It seemed she really was capable of it when she was fed up with something or he supposed someone. Him.

"Oh, please, spare me," she muttered sarcastically.

"I'm serious," he repeated. "That's untrue. Some guys, yeah, maybe even most. Definitely the dumbass football guy who is failing homemaking somehow. But plenty of men, who actually know how to be respectful, would appreciate you. And for more than your looks, as well."

"Oh, the sparkling personality, you mean? The one you think is a facade."

He had thought that. At first.

He sighed, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. "It's not a facade, but you have more layers than that." Her head tilted so he elaborated. "There's more than just the pink pens and highlighters, like the study method you use to scribble and write simultaneously for better retention rates. You're naturally bright, probably a B average if you didn't study, but you do."

"So?" She wondered.

"So," he parroted. "You make A's because you have a strong work ethic. Because you come from a family who prioritized it, maybe even to the point you were almost neglected from how often they were gone because you always seem fine going last, or getting whatever scraps you're handed inside of fighting for anything else."

She frowned, not at all liking to hear that. Not only because it was slightly true. Alright, definitely true. But also because it was something she worked to keep hidden.

"I thought you said I don't put up a facade?" She countered.

"You don't. You're happy, and bubbly, always looking on the bright side and that's not a ruse. It's who you are," he clarified. "But you can still get angry, frustrated, annoyed, especially when your character is called into question. Clearly."

She didn't know how to feel about the tone in his voice during that last part. "You can stop, now."

But he didn't. He didn't want to. He'd spent so long trying to figure her out and he was so sure he had done that he was his work to pay off, for her to admit he was right or at the very least hear what he had to say, even if she didn't want to say it was true.

"You're not vain about your looks, even though you could be without effort because you're easily the prettiest girl in this entire school."

Those words came out of nowhere, especially the last few. But he had said them and there was no taking them back, even if he wanted to.

It was silent for a while.

"You really are a stalker," she quipped quietly, looking to the floor.

He huffed in annoyance. "Take the damn compliment," he insisted, stepping closer to her, lifting her chin. "Look in my eyes, not away and just accept it."

He waited, to see if she'd push him away or let him compliment her. He swallowed, suddenly feeling the urge to go red as well, but refusing to allow himself to.

"Fine," she agreed in a whisper, locking eyes with him. That alone was clearly already hard, but she was trying. "You're not just the most beautiful girl at this stupid school," he muttered. "I think you could quite possibly be the most beautiful I've ever seen at all. Especially with that blush you seem to hate and hide."

Her cheeks got redder, her lips twitching to avoid any sign of emotion and it was clearly hard for her to look away, hating the level of attention. "It's not cute, it's utterly embarrass—"

"Don't try to refute it either," he interrupted, shaking his head calmly. "Just...just accept it. Please."

He said please. God, he hated doing that.

But it seemed to work and she gave a small nod, finally listening.

He nodded back, letting go of her jaw, stepping back and clearing his throat.

She stared for a bit, before grabbing the rest of her things and leaving him alone to blow out a long sigh, mentally cursing himself for that entire exchange. Perhaps even getting curious about her in the first place.

But then, a second later, she walked back in, the flush less prominent on her cheeks and ears. It was replaced by the look in her eyes, which seemed rather determined despite a bit of apprehension.

"You asked me, like six weeks ago, what my type was," she reminded him.

His eyes narrowed, recalling the conversation. The first time they ever actually had one. He meant it mostly as a quip or some dig. "Yeah, considering you've turned down like 3/4 of the boys in this school. Plus a few girls, for that matter."

She huffed a laugh, gripping the books in her arms closer to her chest and nodding. "Yeah, well, they weren't my type, you were right," she confirmed causing a bit of a smug expression to cross his face. "I didn't even really know I had one, but uh- I think I might."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah?" He questioned, adding another quip. "Let me guess, older guys. You've been giving the math teacher eyes all week."

She shook her head firmly. "No, definitely not," she told him. "I'm pretty sure my type is the weird, stalker boys who are actually really sweet."

[oikarma]

muse

pairing: lando norris x poet!reader

summary: you're notoriously picky about your muses. no wonder lando's all flattered when he manages to figure out that you've written a few poems about him.

a/n: please enjoy! as per usual any songs/poems i reference are not my work. thank you so much for the request, i didn't follow it entirely but i loved the idea of an artistic!reader

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liked by mothercain and others

yourinstagram found a new muse

view all 1,394 comments

user1 new collection WHEN

user2 that cat is so cute is it yours? ♥︎ liked by yourinstagram

yourinstagram yes! her name is stevie

user3 she's picking up the pen again!

mothercain well? show it to me

yourinstagram i'm in the editing process 🤕 art takes time mothercain or you're getting shy

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liked by alexandrasaintmleux and others

yourinstagram oh...technology

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user1 y/n and f1 crossover??

user2 collab we didn't know we needed

user3 we see you alex

alexandrasaintmleux send me the pictures you took please 🩷 think i found my new favorite photographer

yourinstagram too kind. usually i'm more of a pen and paper girl alexandrasaintmleux well the artistry certainly carries over user4 i KNEW they'd like each other

user5 waist who

user6 love you SM

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liked by f1 and others

yourinstagram teaser

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user1 OH MY GOD WHERE CAN I ORDER

user2 ur such an inspiration y/n

mothercain proud of you

yourinstagram thanks ml <3

user3 wtf is f1 admin doing here

f1 we love y/n's poetry, doesn't everyone? user4 is she doing a f1 special or sth

user5 the signature is sooo cute

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liked by mclaren and others

lando i'm literate, i promise.

view all 4,719 comments

user1 his jawline...

user2 on holiday?? don't you have a car to be driving

oscarpiastri as long as you believe it!

lando you're a horrible friend

user3 WAIT GUYS THAT'S Y/N'S BOOK

user4 who's y/n user3 @/user4 @/yourinstagram she's a poet and she recently came out with a new poetry collection user5 woah. hear me out: it's about lando?? user6 bfr no educated girl would go for that man

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liked by lando and others

mclaren Celebrated poet Y/N L/N in our garage today 🧡 Wanna write something about our cars, too?

tagged: yourinstagram

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user1 i would cry if i wrote a poem about a driver and he read it and his team read it and then they invited me and asked me to write about their cars

user2 mclaren really trying to cement their legacy

user3 oh she's STUNNING

yourinstagram was it fun tormenting me

mclaren do you not like our company ☹️ user4 @/mclaren she's only there for lando

user5 so we're basically accepting that her new collection is about a freaking racecar driver

user6 lando's fine but is he THAT fine user7 love does weird things to people user8 i mean he liked the post

lando guess i'm just more interesting

user9 y/n hasn't responded guess she's busy dying of mortification user10 oh he's going to be insufferable user11 the dad lore will go crazy "that poem you're reading in english class? yeah! it's about me!"

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liked by others

f1gossipofficial Is that Y/N L/N with Lando Norris? We think it might be.

tagged: yourinstagram, lando

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user1 oh my god it's real

user2 are they car-shopping together??

user3 i'm so confused who is she

user4 YN NATION RISE SHE HAS A MAN. I REPEAT. SHE HAS A MAN!

user5 lowk can't believe the guy who bagged our girl y/n is an athlete user6 i thought she'd go for like a random college prof. or a nerd. idk. user7 remember when we thought she was dating daniel radcliffe 😭 and then it turned out she was coaching him for the kill your darlings promo LMAO let's not rush into this user8 @/user7 that was so embarrassing...we all got tricked but this time y/n's been writing about him user9 @/user8 are we SURE though

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liked by mothercain and others

lando thought it was time to return the favor x

tagged: yourinstagram

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user1 don't be shy, lando. show us the picture

user2 they're so book couple coded?

user3 if i write enough fanfiction will my celeb crush notice me too

yourinstagram not bad, norris.

lando so now you're all nonchalant? didn't seem like it last night user4 HELLO? freaks. FREAKS, i tell you. user5 well y/n it might be time to write your man a pr manual

user6 well she's definitely an artist for the ages. he'll be immortalized in her work. and her? her legacy speaks for itself but i suppose she might treasure that photo just as much

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a/n: have a great march!

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

First time between virgin reader and viktor??🫢

how to lose your virginity like a pretentious poet

word count: 1,8k

this turned out rather vague, but still explicit enough to... titillate, so to speak. virgin!viktor, virgin!fem!reader, protected sex, oral (f receiving), dirty talk. this was supposed to have a different ending, but i figured why write about a perfect first time when i can do a more realistic scenario where it doesn't exactly work out? plus, i'm known for edging my readers, so... there you go.

and i'm sorry for how... strangely this is written. i read too much anaïs nin and it shows.

—

His fist swallows him, bottomless, in a dry toe-arching vortex of his climax—a conflux of cum and spit shriveling in the oblique of a lean hip. Vortex climax conflux. A lewd stanza that he croaks at, snicker-like, thinking of its triple-X ending waning alongside his own—perplex, postsex, unorthodox. The poetry of touching oneself to sleep. 

His mind is all thighs and ankles. A shy affinity inching on a fetish. Every night, he yearns for it in a fist-fight with his cock. All but twists his nipple out of the aureole and wishes it were yours instead, dotting his skin a hot, sticky white of sheer hunger. 

In person, it’s much tamer. He’s almost through with the conduit: of groping uphill, from knees to chests to necks, of name-whimpering litanies waiting to become fleshed-out moans, of artifices in friction not yet daring to evolve into orgasms. You know he yearns for resumption. He knows you yearn twice as fierce. The ouroboros of awareness has been choking on its tail for a while. And you envy it. You’d like to choke on a certain appendage, too. 

The night he caves, you lose the nylon and let him topple inside: a thousand taste buds flat against your thigh like a tickle. A hundred tiny spit-flicks fumbling with the peach fuzz. Which then diminishes into a dozen meek bites and, finally, mere units of thrusts—airtight, approbatory, avid. It’s a poem. It has been one, all along. Now, clumsy stanzas are licking through: Viktor simply added some alliteration. Ah. Ah. Ah. Right here. Right there. Ri—mhm! 

“You taste… acidic,” Viktor says. Looks up from beneath your skirt and pushes the linen out of your fist: his fingers are rather selfish. Still damp from whatever preceded this mouth-to-mound endeavour, they claw at your palm and pin it down—a sparring of digits bending into loops. 

And it’s such a silly thing. You, prying your hand free and squeezing his chin in a way that’s both commanding and inept—tugging his tongue out to assess the slight swell. Him, almost slipping off the bed on a numb knee. The regrouping that follows—a tangle of legs and elbows. A kick here, a tackle there. Splicing until the rhythm is back and the poem becomes sloppy—a vers libre, shirtless and blouseless. The underwear hasn’t slid to its ‘less’ yet. It billows around your ankle—with a frilly twist, baby pink all over. A sinful stain still wet on the very gusset he’d licked before pushing the thing aside. 

“Acidic?” You push a finger into his mouth and gasp when the muscle bends under your touch—pliant, sheepish tongue swirling around your thumb like sleazy sin. And then it gnaws at you—the playful force of his teeth, aiming at your phalanx in a tender strike. Drawing an offended ‘ouch’ and lining into a grin—about thirty whites beaming at you mockingly. 

“Mhm,” he finally answers. Sexily. Perhaps just a little conceited. 

“Acidic?!”

“Er, savoury might be a better word.” 

“Might it really?” 

“Why the frown? I like savoury.” 

“Can’t you just talk dirty to me like a normal person?”

“I can certainly try. Just be mindful of my… non-existent experience. I’m a debutant, after all.”

“So am I, but you don’t see me telling you that you taste weird.”

He laughs, undismayed. Prowls to your mouth with a smile so quivering that yours falters along and tumbles under this Klimt-esque endeavour. It tinges you tart. Licks stolen sour right back into you. Peels your bra off one flushed nipple after a strained ‘May I?’ and bites down, harshly soft. Breaks a moan into toothy half-whimpers and dribbles, treacly, down your ribs in a stream of besotted spit—a clumsy glaze of startled gooseflesh reaching a bumpy aureole. 

“You taste—“ Viktor rasps, slick-jawed, “s-so good.” Throws your thigh over a shaky forearm and pulls you close, lisping an earnest ‘sorry’ when your nipple gets caught in his brace. “I want you to— I want to–“ he gulps, “Oh, if I had it my way, I’d devour you until you burn a hole through my tongue. Yes, render me physically speechless. I doubt I’ll be doing much talking from now on. My mouth has found its purpose between your legs.” 

That disarms you. Languishes your mouth in a way that leaves it agape and rolls some breathy praise into his throat—and he swallows it, chokes on it, spits it back into you. “How did I do?” mumbles toothily. Like he doesn’t already know the answer. 

“Good. For a pretentious poet, that is.” 

“A pretentious poet?” He snickers, humbled. Grabs you by the calf—reverently, with an obsessive humm—and tugs you upright, chest to flushed chest, wondering what strained sound to pick for your next remark. His repertoire is scarce. A chuckle, for something cheeky. A moan, for something obscene. 

And, sure enough, you’re licking into his ear. “Mhm. Are you fucking me or serenading me?” 

Ah. A moaning chuckle, in that case. “Can’t it be both? Clearly, it’s efficient.”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“There’s no need for that. The evidence—“ he reaches under your skirt and plows a finger over slickened folds, “is overwhelming.” 

The silence, aside from the audacious moan he draws from you, lingers. By convention, it evolves into a kiss, then into a teeth-clattering sparring. It stains everything bloody—more clumsy than malicious, yet bloody nonetheless—and this time he doesn’t come out unscathed: there’s rouge saliva shining on his chin, no doubt thick and tasting of intermingled iron. Viktor licks it up, too—the ever intrepid gourmand—and stares at you with the splendour of, well, a victor. 

“Condom,” you gasp—an order, “I want to fuck that attitude out of you.”

His eyes turn glassy—voidy pupils bursting out of irises. “A-Are you certain?” A stumble, that’s nice for a change. “I’ve never done this before—“

“Neither have I.”

“Precisely. Are you—“ He clears his throat, then retaliates with a gentler, “Are we certain we can go all the way tonight?”

“Do you want that attitude ridden out of you or not?” 

His gaze snaps back to its usual almondy shrewdness. “I do. If you’re up for the task.” 

And you reach for his nape, whispering a promising, “Take your pants off.”

The filthy poem reads on.

He fumbles with the rubber with contrived effort, wiping puzzled perspiration off his flushed forehead—a man ungracious, fatigued with his want. You crawl from behind his shoulder—a cautious succession over each bony slope—a pendulum of strike and stroke swinging between each sweet option. Then a comfort, sibilant, is tongued into his hair—a deliciously inane plea that wraps around his cock in a supportive squeeze: keeping it upright so the slick cover slides right on in a satisfying roll. 

“It’s funny,” he says, leaning back. Bucks against your shoulder in a delirious shove and moans, half-undone, at the loving bob of your hand. “I was touching myself to the thought of this just this morning.” 

Your laughter pinpricks his neck. An aspiration—hasty, homely, husky. “The thought of what, exactly? Struggling with condoms?”

He twitches—internally, with a transient cramp. Peels your wrist off of him in a confluence of plea and order and turns around, excitedly, to help you onto his lap: hands on hips-on haunches-on heel spurs. The fetish finally reaches its utmost. 

Your world comes propping down onto his shoulder—a descent conferred. It’s a staunch thing—breathy, crude, a little undirected. He offers his skin for the lancing of five prickly nails and waits, politely impatient, for you to take the staking. A delicious one, he hopes. But it’s a fit tight enough to strangle. Now, which head is a question of your aim. 

The tip scorches its way inside through a curse. You wince, then leave his worried pout behind blurry eyelids, stilling mid-downward slope. A cautious kiss upon your jaw tips your gut out of the spasm and soothes it, darlingly, to a mushy, liquid feeling somewhere between tense legs. When you open your eyes again, a pair of huge, pensive ones looks back into you. 

“I’m fine.” A promise, strangely coherent. You lean him against the headboard, weaving shaky fingers into his hair just in time to muffle the thump. And he whines for it, gratefully, and rushes to pet the cramp out of your calf. The smile that follows prompts an attempt to take another inch. 

“Do you need me to—“ Viktor swallows his words and looks at the impressive stretch of you around him. Pulls you into another kiss and chokes on cloying saliva, easing you into the friction of excited taste buds. 

It ends with a wet plop. Bumps sweaty foreheads together and has you gulping as you assess the sensation. “No. It’s…” Immense? Wet? Sultry? “Good. Feels good. Just a little intense. Er… prickly.” 

“Ah.” He chuckles, relieved. “Certainly. I, eh, could touch you, if you like?”

And you like. Of course you do. You plunge downward, and squeeze him to the hilt, and pull him, graspingly, by the strap of his brace into a halation of glowing eyes and spitslick mouths contorted in none other than a drawn out ‘Please’, which arcs into a ‘Fuck’ when his fingers come down in a tender onslaught on your clit, schlicking along the very first clumsy thrust. 

Then comes the comatose. Of insides, taut and startled, burning in a pervasive pooling of ‘way too much’. Painting you a pained rouge and causing a rasp that you all but spew into his shoulder, crestfallen. And he seeks you, shakily, from beneath the tousle of his hair—bleeds disjointed confirmations, incidentally, in a language you don’t understand, having caught but an isolated ‘Lásko?ʼ

“I.. I think I—“ It comes out of you gutturally, with a spasmodic writhe. “I think my… eagerness got the best of me.” 

He nods, mouth agape, with his tongue arched under his palate. “Would you like to stop?” Asks piously, swiping a careful peck across your knuckles. 

You cower, arching off of him—a clumsy hesitation between retreat and resumption. And, surely, the former prevails, easing you from around him with a guilty gasp. “Yes. I would.” Then, an addendum, meek and muffled, “I’m sorry.”

Viktor frowns and hurtles you into a tangle of arms—moulds your face into his in a fleeting touch of lips, and smoothes a palm over your shaky thigh. “None of that, please. Come hold me. I’ll get this, er—“ He winces, poking the shrivelled condom, “thing off.”

You laugh—bubbly, perhaps just a little hoarse. Stumbling over a purr-like sound, you curl into the sheets as he pushes his limbs under yours—a beauty, dishevelled, and staring at you, awestruck. You nose his clavicle, contemplating a playful suck.

“Could we—” you offer, sheepishly, “reschedule this? For later tonight. I promise I won’t rush this time.” 

The chin above you comes to rest on your head. “Only if I get to carry on with my pretentious obscenities.”

And you smile at him, wanly, for the umpteenth endearing time. 

“Of course. Serenade me all you please.”

[murdockparker]

Of the Same Mind

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: A mutual distaste in a certain author—should he even have the grace to be called that—leads to an unexpected meeting.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: mentions of drinking/alcohol, pregnancy, fluff, time skip

A/N: a cute lil request! made me actually read a little Byron myself to get the gist! and it wasn't that terrible I'm so sorry to disappoint

Dull. 

Everything was dull. What was supposed to be the social event of the season was shortened due to poor weather—an outdoors event of sorts, it seemed, Benedict really didn’t pay his mother much attention when she explained the whole ordeal. Thus, half of the ton was crammed into Lord Whitehill’s home instead of his luscious grounds, all due to the pouring rain. Most conversation was boring, most of the ladies were whining about the rain, the men whining about their whining wives and daughters. 

At least the drinks were good. 

“…seriously think that fodder is worth your breath?”

Benedict’s ears perked up, focusing on a conversation that was decidedly not about the current weather. A breath of fresh air. 

“I-I did not mean to insult you, miss,” a young gentleman sputtered, his face rosy red. “I only meant to indulge you in poetry of the highest regard—” 

“If that was your intention, you would have chosen from a finer list of poets. Byron?” The lady nearly laughed out loud. “Byron is the bottom of the barrel, as it were, so your intention was ill-placed.”

“Byron is a well-regarded poet—”

“By who? Chamber pots?” 

Benedict nearly spat out his drink. The action alone brought the attention of the arguing couple to him—both sets of eyes trained on the tall Bridgerton at once. “Oh,” he fake coughed, “it seems the drink went down the wrong way, please, forgive me.”

The man—who Benedict now recognized as Lord Whitehill’s son—scoffed. “Bridgerton. You are well versed in the arts, are you not?”

Benedict nodded. “I dabble.”

“Would you please explain to Miss (Y/L/N) that Byron is a novel poet,” Mr. Whitehill asked, “and that she should be flattered I recited poetry for her, regardless of the poet?”

Miss (Y/L/N). So that was the lady’s name. 

“But that would be lying, Whitehill,” Benedict gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “And I am ever a gentleman, raised to never lie, especially to a fine lady such as Miss (Y/L/N).”

She smiled at that. 

“You do not agree?”

“Oh I certainly agree with Miss (Y/L/N),” Benedict said quickly, setting his glass down. “Byron is a mockery to the art—meaningless words and jaunty titles, why, I tried to read his latest and it put me right to sleep.”

“I fear I had the same reaction,” Miss (Y/L/N) said, turning to Benedict in earnest. “Right before I decided to throw it to the flames.”

They both laughed.

“Imbeciles, the both of you,” Mr. Whitehill said, pushing past the newly acquainted pair. “Keep insulting me like that and I’ll have my father throw the both of you out into the storm.”

“Mr. Whitehill,” Miss (Y/L/N) said softly, her eyes melting into puddles of apology. “I fear we were not insulting you, but rather your taste in poets. I also fear there is a stark difference in that, for if I were to insult you, I’d make a more fitting jab, more educated in that regard.”

The shorter gentleman stormed off, steam nearly pouring from his ears. Benedict laughed.

“I must say, Miss (Y/L/N),” Benedict leaned down. “You have quite the sharp tongue.”

“I am known to be rather well spoken,” she beamed, standing a little straighter. “Perhaps it is my taste in literature?”

“For that, I believe we are in agreement,” Benedict said, grabbing a fresh glass from the table beside him. “May I offer the lady a beverage?”

“Only if you decide to share whatever’s in that pocket of yours,” she pointed to his chest. Benedict’s ears went pink. “Do not think I did not see you pour an added flavoring into the lemonade—it seems impolite that you would neglect to share.”

“It would be impolite,” Benedict said, carefully pulling his flask out of his coat. “I am surprised you saw that, though, given the crowded room.”

“You are a tall man, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, taking the glass from his hand. Benedict poured a healthy amount of clear liquor into her cup before adding the rest to his own. “I would have found it hard to ignore you.”

“Your first season? I presume?”

“Technically,” she said, looking up into his blue eyes. “My family, we just moved to Mayfair. My father came into some money and relocated us here this year, my brother is set to study at Eton in the fall.”

“And you?”

“I am now expected to marry a rich and eligible bachelor,” she laughed into her glass. “Which I really have no problem doing, save for the fact that gentleman is nothing like Mr. Whitehill.”

“Mr. Whitehill is rather rich,” Benedict smirked. “Would that not placate you?”

“And listen to him dribble about Byron? Perish that thought,” she said. “When I do marry, I expect my husband to be of the same mind, a similar taste in the arts.”

“You know,” Benedict nearly whispered, “that is an admirable thought. But how will you find this man?”

She looked him up and down, quickly and all at once, returning to drink from her glass.

“I suppose I will know when I find him,” she smirked.

Benedict smiled back. “Well, please let me know when you do, I feel rather invested in your prospects.”

“You will be the first to know, I assure you,” Miss (Y/L/N) said, nodding her head. “But, if I may be so bold, if you are not currently preoccupied, would you care to further our discussion on Byron? It is hard to find someone who agrees with such a… contrasting opinion of the poet.”

“Why, Miss (Y/L/N),” Benedict finished his glass, offering his arm, “I was afraid you’d never ask.”

—

The gardens on the property were lovely, so lush and full of life. She made good on her promise to keep them well maintained, only keeping the finest blooms and plants in their care. It was always the perfect place to spend time on days like today, sunny, a gentle breeze. 

They had given the governess a day off, her mother had fallen ill, it was the least the Bridgertons could do for her.

“Mother!” 

The lady looked up from her book, eyes meeting with her eldest daughter. Blue eyes, just like her father.

“Yes, darling?”

“Might I go inside to grab other books? Aunt Eloise recently sent some to Father and I want to read them.”

The lady gave her daughter a trying look. “Do you not think they may be above your comprehension level, my love? They were intended for your father, after all.”

“No need,” a looming voice bellowed. “I have them right here.” 

She didn’t need to look up to know who it belonged to. “Benedict, I thought you were spending time in the studio this afternoon.”

“And miss spending time with my darling wife and children?” Benedict grinned, the crooked way she fell in love with. “That seems foolish on my part.”

“Father!” Their eldest exclaimed, running over to the tallest Bridgerton. “You brought the books?”

“Indeed,” Benedict nodded, handing the parcel off to his daughter. “Aunt Eloise thought we may have better use of these than her and Phillip do.”

Their daughter lit up with excitement—ever the reader, she was. It took a village to keep their library stocked with appropriate books for her age, but she was quickly out-reading her entire family’s collection. “Thank you, Father!”

“Well,” Benedict said modestly, “you must write to your Aunt Eloise and thank her, I had little to do with such a gift.”

“What about me, papa?” 

Their son, only a few years younger than their daughter came bounding up past his escaping sister, clearly having been playing in the mud. “Do I have any gifts from auntie?”

(Y/N) opened her arms. “Not this time, sweetheart, but come here, let mama wipe that dirt off of your nose—” 

“No!” He exclaimed, turning from his mother. “Dirt makes me ruggable—like Uncle Colin!”

“Rugged,” Benedict corrected gently. “And, no, dirt makes you dirty. You need to stop spending so much time with Colin…”

“Once baby brother is here I will,” their son nodded, putting both hands on his hips, looking down at his sitting mother.

“Oh darling,” (Y/N) said, trying to raise to her feet. Benedict quickly offered his hands, pulling her up. “Baby will not be here for a few more months.”

“Then more time with Uncle Colin!”

Benedict and (Y/N) sighed, watching their adventurous son run back to the mud. “We must write Colin, tell him of the monster he has created.”

“Our eldest is such an easygoing flower,” Benedict said, noting how she was carefully skimming through the various books on her lap. “Our son tests our patience.”

“And how do you think this one will be?” (Y/N) asked, placing his hand on her swelling stomach. She only had two or so more months until the delivery, if she had been correct on the conception. The latest Bridgerton wedding seemed to be the culprit, stolen kisses and a romantic rendezvous to the greenhouse away from the party—it was a perfect recipe for baby number three. “Calm and collected? Devilish and adventurous?”

“I pray they are just like their mother,” Benedict rubbed her belly affectionately. “And perhaps a bit more behaved than their brother… I suppose I should also write my mother an apology.”

“Whatever for?”

“I reckon my brothers and I acted much like our son,” Benedict said sheepishly. “Acting like Bridgerton boys, I am afraid.”

“As if that is the only explanation,” she giggled, leaning into his side. “But I am sure your mother would appreciate such a gesture. Perhaps you should send her a bouquet from our garden, too?”

“An excellent idea, my love,” Benedict said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “What a brilliant mind you have.��

“Father, Mother!” Their daughter called out, waving them towards her. “Aunt Eloise sent a book by an author I have never heard of before.”

“Oh?” Benedict quirked his brow, walking with his wife over to her. “And what author may that be?”

“A Lord Byron,” she said, showing the book with a deep brown cover to her parents. Benedict scooped the tome quickly from his daughter’s grasp, holding it close to his chest.

“And you shall never read such filth,” Benedict said seriously.

“Oh Benedict,” (Y/N) laughed. “Perhaps we should allow our daughter to expand her mind—come to her own conclusions on the matter? Surely Aunt Eloise meant the gift in kind.”

“Aunt Eloise clearly meant to send it as a cruel prank,” Benedict corrected.

“What is so wrong with that author, Father?”

“A shorter conversation would be what is not wrong with this author,” Benedict said, turning to call his son. The little boy ran over to his father’s side, ever eager. “Take this and bury it, preferably far away from here.” His wife could not stop her laughter, watching their son hurriedly run over to the new rose bushes, making good work at digging a deep enough hole for the book. “You,” Benedict pointed at the girl, “are forbidden to read anything written by that lowly man.”

“Oh Benedict,” (Y/N) admonished, trying hard to stop her laughter, “forbidding her from reading seems silly—”

“Are we not of the same mind on Byron?” Benedict asked. “I rather think that is how we met, is it not, dearest wife?”

She pursed her lips, fighting a smile. “We are.”

“Besides,” Benedict stood a little straighter, “the roses could use a bit more sustenance.”

She could only roll her eyes.

[ohlawsons]

i really miss this level of gritty grimdark fantasy from bioware

i forgot about the part in origins where your dog can pee on a tree and get stat bonuses

[missadangel]

The Heart of Rome (Marcus Acacius x OC)

All Chapters List

VI. The Battle

this is the longest chapter i ever wrote , it was pain in the ass, so please be nice, reblog and hit a like, if you enjoy thank you :)

lupus est homo homini

A man to a man is a wolf. 

T. Hobbes

Temple of Saturn…

Saturnalia was by far the most joyous Roman festival; the Roman poet Catullus famously described it as ‘the best of times’. The festivities were so exuberant that the Roman writer Pliny is said to have had a soundproof room built so that he could work during the raucous celebrations. During Saturnalia, business and commerce would come to a standstill. Schools and courts were closed and normal social practices were suspended. The feast was celebrated with sacrifices and a public banquet in the Temple of Saturn in the Roman Forum.

People decorated their houses with garlands, even the exteriors of official buildings were decorated with greenery. People were dressed in different colours for this day, unlike their daily and official clothes. The streets of Rome were lively and colourful today.

You travelled to the temple with your half-brothers, Caracalla and his mother Julia Domna in the flamboyant carriage in front, and you and Geta - at his insistence - in the carriage behind them. Even though you felt that Geta was treating you more cordially now, you still couldn't be completely sure. But he was certainly different from Caracalla and his mother, they had a ruthless side that never changed, and you were sure that you could not trust them under any circumstances. 

Already the ostentatious temple was crowded with people, the Romans seemed to be enjoying the day of festivities.  They were shouting your names with great enthusiasm as you got out of the carriages and greeted them. One of them was handing you a bouquet of flowers when one of the guards blocked him. You told him to move away and thanked him as you took the flowers, he was so surprised and happy that he started dancing with joy. His mates joined him and chanted your name. Geta gave your arm a gentle but firm grip. 'You have to be a bit more careful. You never know what they'll do.'

'It's just a few flowers,' you replied. 'And why would they hurt me?'

He smiled, but his eyes showed his concern. 'You're so naive, sister. There's so much you have to learn. Let's get these ceremonies over with, I'm dying to get to the banquet.’

As you walked up the stairs of the temple, you noticed that he was still holding your arm. 

'Are you feeling better now?' you asked, trying to pull your arm back, but for some reason he wouldn't let go. It bothered you. 'Could I just ask you to let go of my arm, please?'

He paused and looked at you with his light brown eyes. He looked like he wanted to tell you something, but it was hard to know what emotion he was feeling. All of a sudden, he smiled. "I think the disgusting herbal concoction worked.'" He took his hand away and started up the stairs faster. You tried to keep up with him, but he was too fast, and Caracalla was waiting for him at the top of the steps. '"You're slow," he grumbled. Julia squinted at you and went inside. It seemed like you were going to have to get used to that look.

After the ceremony of sacrificing a young pig in front of the statue of the god Saturn, just between the tall white pillars inside the temple, Geta approached you as you prayed to the great statue then gestured you to outside and walked towards the stairs to leave, followed by Caracalla, who took his mother by the arm. You'd have to get used to walking side by side with them, but it still felt a bit strange. People were coming to the temple to sacrifice, just like you, and they were all turning to look at you and greet you. 

"I want to get to the palace for the banquet as soon as possible," Geta said, sounding a bit impatient.

"You must be hungry. You were busy this morning," he said quietly. 

You looked at him and said, "Yes, you're right, thanks again, by the way, much appreciated, highness."

"Oh, these stairs... Hold out your arm," he said in a commanding tone.

Geta was wearing a white and black toga with gold embroidery and it was very elaborate. He looked like he was struggling and didn't like you looking at him hesitantly. "Aren't you going to help me?"

You forced a smile and held out your arm for him to take. It was starting to feel a little strange that he wanted to touch you all the time, but you didn't object because you wanted to be on good terms as brother and sister.

You noticed an old woman approaching you just after descending the steps. One of the guards pushed her away and she fell to the ground. Geta ignored her, as did Caracalla and his mother. It bothered you so much that you let go of Geta's arm and walked over there.

You ignored the guard's warning and helped the woman off the floor. Her clothes were torn, dirty and old; she must have been a beggar. You felt sorry for her.

'What are you doing?' Geta was upset.

The woman bowed her head. 'My lady, thank you.'

You turned to Geta. 'Could I possibly borrow some coins?’

‘Get away from her, look at the way she's dressed, she's filthy.’ He was looking at her with a disgusted expression.

‘It's festival day and as emperor, shouldn't you embrace all your people?’

He opened his eyes wide. ‘Embrace? I can't even lay a hand on her!’ He balled his hands into fists and pulled them back as if trying to hide them.

‘I meant metaphorically,’ you rolled your eyes at him.

Geta took a moment to compose himself and gestured to one of his slaves, who came running over with a pouch full of coins. You took it from him and presented it to her.

'May the gods bless you, Lady Aurelia!' she said, falling at your feet. You graciously took her by the hand and lifted her up.

‘That is enough,' Geta said, grasping your arm and drawing you closer. As the woman prayed joyfully, the crowd began to murmur. 

“Long live Emperor Geta!” The crowd began to chant, "Long live Lady Aurelia!"

Geta was taken aback not by the fact that they were shouting his name, but rather by the proximity of the crowd. It was the first time he had ever felt so close to the people on the street.

'Please be sure to wash your hands thoroughly when you arrive at the palace,' he muttered.

You giggled and looked around as he greeted the people, but you did not see the general. He had said he was coming to the banquet anyway, so you got into the carriage with Geta, hoping to see him there, and you thought about him the whole way.

Domus Severiana…

As the sun began to set, casting the courtyard and kitchen of Domus Severiana in a golden glow, preparations were underway with great enthusiasm. The slaves were meticulously preparing a selection of exquisite dishes and beverages for the guests who were expected to take their place in the main courtyard. Julia was there to oversee the proceedings, offering guidance and encouragement to ensure everything was just right. Caracalla was already relaxing in one of the armchairs in the courtyard, enjoying an apple. When one of the slaves unfortunately stumbled and dropped the tray, he reacted with amusement, but then proceeded to issue a firm reprimand. While this was taking place in the main courtyard, you were in your room, discussing attire with Decima, when the door to your room suddenly opened. You were startled when Geta rushed in, as you wearing your long, thin tunic.

"Even if you're the emperor, it's always worth being polite, don't you think?"

He smiled. "Watch your tone. Who says I'm interested in your body anyway?" He looked away as a slave girl walked in. The girl was carrying a light turquoise silk cloth in her arms.

"You always wear the same style of dress, your hair the same way, you don't look like a princess. You should take some care of yourself. So this girl, what's her name, what's your name?”

“Nerissa, your highness-”

"Oh, whatever!" he interjected. "Make sure you dress her and do the princess's hair with care." He turned to you. "She's got amazing hands-on skills. You wouldn't believe what she can do. She's really talented," he said with a grin. 

She giggled. “Anything for my emperor.”

‘I'm assuming your whore friend isn't that talented,’ he said, narrowing his eyes, looking at Decima.

‘Please don't call her that,’ you snapped.

‘'Weren't you supposed to take her on my behalf? She's my slave, I can call her whatever I want,’ he said smugly.

It was true anyway as it was his name on the documents.

‘Still, courtesy is a virtue, brother.’‘

"Not for me,’ he said, grinning. ‘Get dressed now,’ he said, clapping his hands. “Join me in the main courtyard when you're done,” he said to his slave, then turned to you. “You too, sister."

You inhaled deeply when he left, you didn't like him barging into your room like that and talked badly about Decima.

He was acting like a naughty little child, as usual. 

'Please excuse him,' you said Decima.

She shook her head. 'Never mind, I'd rather put up with a lot of insults here than there as a whore. I'll always remember what you did for me.’

You gave her a hug. She felt like your real family; you valued her a great deal.

'He was right though, you need to get dressed,' Decima said, and with the help of the other girl they began to dress you. 

Meanwhile, you were thinking about Marcus. You were wondering if he'd arrived already. You hadn't seen him since morning and now you were getting impatient. Your answer to his marriage proposal is already set in your mind. But you were also worried about how Geta and Caracalla would react – it was hard to predict what they'd do.

'You were certainly born to be a princess, my lady,' she said, looking at you. 

Decima smiled. 'Indeed.'

You looked in the mirror and thought you looked pretty good in the turquoise gold embroidered dress and shawl, which matched the gold bracelets on your arms and the necklace around your neck. Geta was right – the girl had done your hair perfectly. One of the braids had gone over the top of your head like a crown and was pinned into the hair at the nape of your neck. 

'You're really talented. My brother was right.’

She gave a shy smile. 'I'm really pleased to be able to help prepare such a beautiful lady as you.'

You smiled back. 'Now, you can go to my brother. He seems to like you.'

Her cheeks flushed a little. It would be a good idea for you to get to know her better, since Geta seems to like her.

'Let me know if he's not feeling well, okay?' 'But you've got to keep it between us, can I trust you?'

'Of course, my lady.' She nodded.

Once she'd left the room, Decima came over to help you with your earrings. She still had bruises on her face.

'Have you been using the ointment I prepared for you?’

‘Yes, thank you, Ay-, my lady.’

‘Call me Aurelia when no one's around.’

‘I suppose, I'll have to get used to it.’

She combed the hair that was falling on your shoulder. 

'You stay in the room and rest for today.’ You said to her.

Although she was a bit reluctant at first, she agreed. It was already a very busy day, so no one would notice.

As you left your room and headed for the stairs, you found that the weight of the fabric made it a bit difficult to move your legs freely. You made your way down the stairs, grabbed hold of the gold-embroidered railing for support. As you strolled towards the main courtyard, your heart started to beat faster when you heard the sounds of masculine laughter coming from inside. Geta and Caracalla were sitting at the banqueting hall, enjoying the food and drink that was laid out in front of them. The members of the Senate, the patricians and their wives were already settled in their seats. Julia was sitting next to Caracalla, chatting with an older member of the Senate.

As soon as you entered the hall, you were the focus of everyone's attention, and the murmuring ceased. Even the slaves paused in their activities to observe you, but then they resumed their tasks. Geta stood up and approached you. "Look how gorgeous my sister is. Would you come and take your seat?" He gestured to the seat next to him. You smiled at him and did as he said, the murmuring had returned, now everyone was looking at you and chatting. But the only person you wanted to see, Marcus, was nowhere to be seen, and you looked around with a hint of disappointment. 

"My lady." Your cousin Gaius came over to you. "May I speak to you privately for a moment?" he held out his hand.

"Leave my sister alone and let her eat something, Gaius," Geta said, a little annoyed. He was still chewing the morsel in his mouth, and you pursed your lips to try to keep from laughing. Caracalla already laughed for you.

"That's alright, brother. I'll be right back," you said and stood up. Gaius seemed a little annoyed that you ignored his hand, but he regained his composure quickly. You were not particularly curious about what he was going to say, but it might be a good way to pass the time until the general arrived. As you walked slowly with Gaius from the main courtyard to the one close to the entrance, you realized he was becoming increasingly excited. 

"You look beautiful, Aurelia."

"Thank you," you replied, your gaze fixed on the entrance door. You wonder why he isn't here yet.

"I hope you don't mind me mentioning that I've kept your father's letter for years. I have been eagerly awaiting the opportunity to open it for quite some time. Hoping desperately.”

"Is that so?"

"Yes, it seems that after your mother's passing, your relatives in Leptis Magna were interested in offering you their protection. However, your father, my uncle, felt it was best to take a different approach, sending you away I mean.”

You were unexpectedly touched by the mention of your mother and found yourself standing in front of the statue of your father. "He was hopeful that you would return and reclaim your birthright, and that your brothers would accept you. Given my familiarity with them and the Empress, I believe he gave me this assignment," he said, looking at the statue. "I am truly honored to have been assigned the task of protecting you. I hope you will allow me to be of service to you in the future."

“In the future?”

Gaius smiled. "I would be able to protect you more easily if you would allow me to marry you."

You were momentarily at a loss for words. As you considered how to decline his proposal without offending him, you observed a figure moving across the main courtyard towards the banquet. It appeared to be a man wearing a red shawl over his shoulders. It seemed likely to be him. However, when he soon disappeared between the columns, you couldn't help but frown. You felt a desire to pursue him.

"My lady, will you not answer?" Gaius was waiting hopefully.

"Sir Gaius, I am truly flattered, but I am afraid I am unlikely to accept your offer."

“May I ask why?" His voice betrayed no hint of curiosity. Again, it seemed as though he already had an idea of the answer. You were not interested in engaging in a similar manner.

"I'm obliged to tell you that my heart belongs to someone else. I'm sorry, sir.”

He seemed rather unsurprised, which might give rise to some suspicion.

"I'm just asking you to think a little more, take your time."

"No matter how much I think about it, I'm fairly certain my answer won't change."

Gaius seemed angry.

"I would like to return to my brothers now," you said, your voice calm and measured. 

"As you wish, but I am a very patient man," he said with a smile and accompanied you towards the banquet hall.

You returned to the courtyard, your eyes seeking out his presence. You were relieved to see him right in front of Geta and Caracalla, and your spirits were lifted. Acacius looked quite splendid, wearing a long red shawl over his white tunic embroidered with gold and a large circular brooch pinned to his collar. 

He appeared to be engaged in conversation with the emperors. He was holding a wine glass of a blue hue. When Geta and Caracalla turned their heads towards you, he looked back. When you met his eyes, you smiled. He observed you with great interest.

"My lady," he greeted you.

"General Acacius, welcome," you nodded.

The General's attention was drawn to Gaius as he approached from behind, narrowed his eyes. "Sister, you might be interested to hear what General Acacius said to us." Geta said to you in a slightly louder voice.

”What is it?" You looked at the general and realized he was smiling.

"He wants our permission to marry you, how kind of him!”

“He always is." Caracalla said, leaning back in his chair and grinning. His slaves sitting around him, watching curiously.

Your cheeks were flushed, and you looked at him to explain, but Gaius interjected.

'General Acacius had the opportunity to speak with you first, and it was with the same intention that I wished to speak to your Majesties.'

Geta raised his eyebrows and looked at Caracalla, who seemed to display a certain degree of animosity whenever he saw Gaius. Julia muttered something. Caracalla responded to his mother's words with a lighthearted laugh. 

"I have already given you my answer, Sir Gaius," you said, looking at Geta. You were hoping he would reject him.

Acacius placed a hand to his chin and smiled in a way that seemed to indicate he was trying to suppress his laughter.

"As I told you I'm a patient man, my lady."

"Cut it off! I've had enough of your love intrigues!" Caracalla cried out in frustration. Macrinus was supposed to bring a gladiator. Where is he?"

"This is like a fight, brother. Don't you think? Two gentlemen against each other over a princess. Impressive.” Geta grinned.

The atmosphere was palpably tense as Acacius and Gaius exchanged unpleasant glances.

"I am here, your highness," Macrinus declared, appearing behind you. He was flanked by the gladiator slave you had seen earlier at his villa.

He gave Gaius a quick glance, then came to stand beside Geta.

‘My lady, please have a seat,’ the General said, gesturing towards the chair.

You smiled at him and did as he suggested, and he stood beside you. One of the slaves handed you some wine. You would have liked to talk to Marcus, but there were too many people around. Besides, he seemed to be watching Macrinus' gladiator with some unease. Geta and Caracalla, on the contrary, looked excited.

"So this is your gladiator?" Geta asked. 

‘It is.’

‘Very well, let's see what he can do.’ Caracalla grinned. 

At Macrinus' signal, the gladiator made his way to the center, and the people around him shifted slightly to give him space. 

Both men saluted the emperors and promptly drew their swords and advanced towards the gladiator, but he was swift and agile, evading their attacks and seizing one of the men by the elbow. He then disarmed him and struck him forcefully in the face with the back of his elbow. As the man was momentarily disoriented, the gladiator swiftly retrieved the sword and advanced towards the other man. The sound of swords clashing echoed through the hall, and a sword fight commenced between the two. The other man approached from behind, but the gladiator was able to avoid both the sword blow and the man's attack. He then grabbed the man by the waist, threw him to the ground, and hit him repeatedly in the face. 

Your entire body was visibly tense, your hands firmly grasping the fabric of your dress. Caracalla sat up in his chair and watched intently, so something like this could only excite him.

When the man collapsed, bloodied and unconscious, the gladiator managed to overpower the other man with his sword and quick footwork. Unfortunately, this left them both without swords. The man was more physically fit and appeared to be more determined than the gladiator. He advanced towards him and grabbed him by the belt and then by the waist and threw him backwards with some force to the ground, which resulted in one of the tables full of food being knocked over. You felt yourself becoming increasingly tense as the food and drinks were scattered around, and you saw the general moving in front of you. Guests were murmuring and applauding, but they continued to watch with interest.

The gladiator was covered in blood, but he was smiling. He quickly wiped the blood off his face with the back of his hand and waited for the man to make a move. When the man made a sudden advance, shouting, the gladiator responded by moving swiftly to strike at his leg. When the man faltered, the gladiator took the opportunity to strike him several times in the face with his chin, attempting to knock him to the ground. However, the man remained standing. At that moment, the gladiator took the sword from the ground and, in a swift and decisive move, drove it through the man's stomach. You were taken aback as blood spattered everywhere from the man's abdomen. Some of the people in the hall expressed their shock and dismay, while others were visibly excited.  Geta and Caracalla expressed their admiration for his performance, and their slaves joined in the applause. The gladiator respectfully placed his sword on the ground and bowed his head in deference to them. The air was filled with a distinctive, pungent odor of blood. You felt a queasy sensation in your stomach, not due to the smell of blood, but because the blood was still flowing from the cut in the abdomen of the man lying lifeless on the ground. While the majority of the people present were expressing their approval with cheers and whistles, you and the general were the only ones who did not join in. 

Geta stood up and gave a little clap. "That's fantastic!" "I love it!"

"I'm really looking forward to the new games," Caracalla said.

"Whenever you wish, Your Majesty," said Macrinus with a smile.

"Tomorrow!" Geta piped in excitedly.

"Your Majesty, shouldn't we wait until the festival is over?" Julia came over to him.

"No, it'd be too long. How about the last day of the Saturnalia?" "It would be a great way to end the festival," Caracalla said with a grin.

"My brother always has great ideas," he said, grinning at him.

You turned your head to look away as the guards pulled the bodies of the men out of the ground. Macrinus and Gaius went over to the gladiator and started talking to him about something. The general had noticed your nervousness.

"My lady, would you like to go for a walk?"

“Your face has gone white, sister.” Geta was looking at you with a grin. Caracalla laughed, “As a Medicus, shouldn't you be used to see blood?”

You stood up. “I need to get some air,” you said and looked at the general. “General Acacius, accompany me, please.”

He nodded and bowed to the emperors before following you.

There was still blood on the ground outside, so you decided to walk the other way. Soon the General came up to you.

“Are you alright?” there was concern in his voice.

“Yes,” you lied. “I'm not used to this and I don't think I want to get used to it.”

"Perhaps you would like to hold my hand?" he enquired, holding out his big hand towards you.

His eyes were warm, looking at them, you felt a sense of relief from the tension you had been feeling.

The only other people in the courtyard were the slaves, who were enjoying the day. The sounds of musical instruments soon filled the main courtyard, creating a festive atmosphere. When you held Acacius' hand, you felt your skin warm, touching his skin always gives you a reassuring warmth. "So you mentioned to my brothers that you wished to marry me," you said as you walked through the garden in the east courtyard. 

"That is correct," he said with a smile. “But, I would like to hear your answer before they say anything."

As you strolled past the garden fountain, the soothing sound of the flowing water was a welcome respite from the slightly more vibrant melody playing in the courtyard.

You moved to stand in front of Acacius, holding both hands and looking into his eyes.

"I would be honored to be your wife, General."

The brown of his eyes shone brightly, and as he took a step towards you, you involuntarily stepped back, for some reason his devastating gaze had that effect on you. He couldn't help but seem to like it, he raised his hands and cupped your face in his palms. Your cheeks blessed by his touch. 

"I should be the happiest man on this auspicious day," he said softly, brushing his lips against yours. Then he kissed you gently. 

Your lips were pleased to meet his lips again, and a heat spread through your body under his lips. Marcus lowered his arms and took hold of you around the waist, pulling you closer to him. You brought your arms up and wrapped them around his neck, and the kiss became more passionate. You both yearned for each other's bodies, whispering your desire through your lips. Marcus forced to stop himself when his hand reached your shoulder, his lips stilling under yours and turning into a smile, his moustache tickling your upper lip. Breathless, opened your eyes to met his eyes, his hands still on your waist, yours still on his thick neck.

"Perhaps we should save the rest for our wedding night, my lady." He said with a hint of mischief in his voice. He was gently running his fingers through your hair with one hand. "Patience is my best friend yet my worst enemy." He kissed a strand of your hair in the palm of his hand. You slid your hands to his broad shoulders.

"My enemy for sure," you said, frowning. He laughed merrily, caressed your nose with his nose, and kissed your forehead. "You always manage to cheer me up, my lady." The music from the main courtyard was getting louder. Marcus took a step back and held out his arm.

"Maybe we should head back to the banquet?"

You gave a slight nod and took his arm. The music evoked memories of your time in Egypt.

Vicius, your uncle, was mindful of the fact that festival days were not the ideal time for you to be out and about, but he was ultimately swayed by your persistent requests. Even if you were unable to fully observe the other girls dancing through your large black cloak, you still enjoyed being there. As you observed the girls dancing in the main courtyard, a young slave approached you at a brisk pace.

"General Acacius, the Emperors want to see you."

Marcus nodded and turned to you. "I'll see what they want. Would you like to come?”

Shaking your head. ”I'm not quite ready to go in there yet.”

"As you please, my lady.” He agreed.

You watched him as he took his leave of you, releasing your hand and entering the banquet hall. You were curious as to whether this was a decision about marriage, but you felt it would be best to wait until Macrinus and his gladiator had left. 

As you made your way towards the slave girls, who were dancing with evident joy, you came to realise how happy they were. Today was a day of freedom for them, as they were able to enjoy the same food and drinks. They were not expected to do much work today. Geta's slave, the one who dressed you, approached and respectfully inquired, "Lady Aurelia, would you like to join us?"

"Dancing? I've never danced before."

"It's really quite simple. Just allow yourself to become absorbed in the rhythm of the music.”

You noticed she was taking her time deciding whether to take your hand, so you smiled and grasped it. "Then go ahead and teach me."

She giggled, pulling you towards the others.

When you approached them the slaves stopped dancing and looked at you, a little unsure and curious.

"Why did you stop?" "Go on, I want to dance," you said with a encouraging smile.

They looked at each other, smiled back, and started dancing again. Another girl took your other hand, and you all formed a circle. Then they stood facing each other and guided you as you passed through each other. The girl who was Geta's slave was right—it was easy to dance when you let yourself go to the rhythm of the music. It felt great to experience something you'd wanted for so long but hadn't had the chance.  

"You're doing great, my lady." The girl replied with a smile.

"It's so much fun," you said with a smile.

When you switched places with the girl, dancing again, you suddenly noticed that people were gathering around you. 

"It looks like our sister is enjoying herself," Geta said, coming up behind you. You stopped and looked at him with embarrassment. Gaius and the others were standing next to him, smiling and observing you. But you found yourself glancing at the general standing behind them. He was smiling, but it seemed like he was lost in thought. The joy he had when he was with you was gone. Something bad is definitely going on, you thought.

"Our ideas of fun and yours are quite different," Caracalla muttered.

What was the fun in watching people cutting each other?

"Yes, I think it is," you replied.

"Then I'm afraid you're not going to like what I'm about to say," Geta said, coming up to you. 

Your eyebrows arched, seeking clarification on his meaning.

"As a family, we have been pondering the matter of two marriage proposals and have reached a decision." He gazed at Caracalla.

Caracalla laughed, which was a pretty clear sign that whatever he had to say wasn't going to be something you would like. 

"Two candidates, two rivals, one fight and the winner gets the girl. How does that sound?”

"It's a real battle.” Geta grinned.

You swallowed hard, your ears were betraying you. You couldn't make sense of what you were hearing.

“What is the meaning of this?"

Geta placed his hand gently on your shoulder. "Of course, our cousin Gaius is not a warrior. He is, after all, a politician, so it seems that Macrinus' gladiator will stand for him. General Acacius is a formidable opponent, as you may know.”

You felt your whole body go numb in shock. 

"That man's rage is more than enough to rival the General," Caracalla snapped.

"We'll see." Geta replied.

"There's got to be another way," you said, your voice trembling a little.

"The decision has been made. What are you worried about?" I'm sure it'll be a great game.

"Please, brother," you said, looking at Geta with pleading eyes, but he seemed determined. He made you walk a little away from them, with Caracalla accompanying you.

“Come now, sister, don't you trust the General's great fighting skills?”

The general's expression was solemn when you looked up at him from afar.

"If you choose Gaius, you might find yourself widowed pretty quickly. I'll take him out before he gets to Leptis Magna," Caracalla whispered, cruel smile appeared on his face.

Geta snickered. “Of course she won't choose that cunt,” he said, looking at you.

"If you are certain of my choice, why do you play this game? Does my decision not matter at all?"

Before Geta could reply, Caracalla spoke up. "You have accepted us as your family. Decisions like this are made between family. You should show some respect to us.”

"Besides, they should be worthy of you. You're not just any person. You're a Roman princess. Let them fight for you." Geta chuckled.

This made you even angrier. You wanted to slap them both. Everything was a game to them. But you hated that you had to risk losing Marcus because of their childish but dangerous games. You felt your chest hurt.

The festival was over for you, there was no more joy, no more fun. For the rest of the night all the laughter and music did nothing but torture you. Marcus was also silent and his face was expressionless as he looked at you from a distance.

The city was enjoying a well-deserved rest on the first night of the festival. It seemed that everyone and everything had decided to sleep, except you. Your mind was preoccupied with a particular thought. Marcus. The thought of losing him for such a silly pastime felt so wrong.  From your position on the bed, you gazed upwards at the moonlight that was gently filtering through the long window of the spacious room. The gold-embroidered part of the curtain caught your eye when it came into contact with the reflected light, as it shone gently in the moonlight. You decided to get out of bed, as you felt you couldn't sleep anyway. You thought it might be a good idea to get some fresh air. You exited the room and proceeded towards the balcony within. The view from the balcony at night was quite amazing. The Circus Maximus, the hippodrome where horse races were held during the day, appeared to be resting peacefully. The Tiber River, which flows into the sea between Palatine Hill and Aventine Hill, appeared to shine brightly in the night darkness, as though bathed in moonlight. Just beyond the river was a dirt road, the very same road you had traveled many times in a carriage towards the General's villa. 

You prayed to Jupiter, hoping that he might consider allowing you to live there as his wife when he won this fight and married you. Then your gaze shifted to the silhouette of the Colosseum, the imposing structure that had previously inspired a certain ambivalence in you. Now, it seemed to stand before you as an adversary. All the battles and games that were fought in it were not enough to take the warriors who died in all the battles and games. It also seemed to want to take away the most valuable person in your life.

You were startled as you heard footsteps approaching behind you.

"I wonder what could have disturbed our princess's sleep?”

Turning your head, you noticed Julia standing beside you, clad only in her long tunic, a style of dress you were not previously accustomed to seeing her in.

Without making eye contact, she approached and placed her arms on the balustrade. You felt a certain degree of nervousness each time you saw her, and the fact that you were alone with her at this late hour only served to heighten your unease. Her long black hair was waving with the light wind of the night. She was a beautiful woman, though her eyes and lips showed a few wrinkles. Cruel beauty.

"You must be thinking about him," she murmured before you could answer.

It was pretty clear to her, even without you telling her. She was a smart woman, so you were sure she realized it the first time she saw you and the General.

"Are they taking revenge on him?" you asked.

“Because he hid you in his villa? Perhaps, but for my sons, a game is a game. Now he's part of it. Things would have turned out differently had you chosen Gaius. But the General decided his own fate from the moment he asked their permission to marry you.”

You didn't answer, despite all the feelings growing within you. 

"Tiberis (Tiber River),' she murmured. You don't know how happy I was when I found out you had drowned in that river. All my worries were gone."

You remained unresponsive, a shiver ran down your spine, but it was not from the sudden wind.

“But one day you appeared, with your golden hair, the same cheeks that my husband couldn't get enough of kissing, and those innocent hazel eyes, just like the way you looked at me when you were a child, like a stupid, poor kitten. I don't know how I didn't notice the first time I saw you, I must have been so sure you were dead. I must be getting old, I suppose,” she said with a laugh. 

It was as if she was having a friendly chat, which made you more nervous. As your eyes roamed the dark silhouette of the Colosseum, you realised that your real enemy was right next to you.

“Are you sure you won't regret rejecting Gaius and not going to Leptis Magna with him?” She looked at you with a hint of mockery in her eyes, but her voice was almost pleading. 'If you're smart, that's what you should do.’

You closed your eyes tightly, took a deep breath and suppressed all the curses that rushed to your tongue. ‘You wish the General to lose? I thought you trusted him?’

‘There are many soldiers in the Legates with his potential, he's not irreplaceable.’

She approached you as you were trying to control your anger. "You are the one who made him a target. You are responsible for what has happened to him and what will happen to him. Remember that, Aurelia." You could hear the hint of a threat in her voice as she said your name.

Tears rolled down your cheeks as she walked back the way she came. You were already blaming yourself. Hearing the same words from her mouth, as if from your own conscience, increased your pain even more.

Marcus... You didn't even want to consider what you'd do if something happened to him. You thought about your uncle and how he handled it when his wife passed away. He was really dedicated to his work. He felt that his only purpose in life was to try to save more people. But you weren't like him. You were sure your body couldn't handle that kind of pain. You didn't feel as strong as he did. You shook your head and tried to push these thoughts out of your mind. 

You needed to be strong for him. But how could you possibly do that? How were you going to watch him out there fighting for his life when the very thought of it was enough to make your heart ache?  You'd never seen him fight before, but you'd heard so much about him that you had some hope. Still, your worries held your hopes captive and not releasing them. You let your thoughts torture you for a while longer, accompanied by the sound of crickets echoing in the silence of the night, and finally you walked to your room to try to sleep.

Temple of Mars…

The day of the fight.

The temple was relatively quiet when you arrived with Decima in the early hours of the morning. You had come here to sacrifice five pigs to Mars, the god of war. You bowed down in front of the great statue of Mars, which stood in all its majesty in the corner between the protruding tall columns inside, and joined your hands in prayer.

"My Lord, Mars, I beg you to bestow upon me the life of your son Marcus, the man I love, and grant him a victorious outcome today. Juno, the goddess of marriage, I implore you to remove all obstacles that stand in the way of me marrying the man I love. Venus, the goddess of love, I ask for your strength to fight for my love and to guide me to make it stronger. Fortuna, I ask that your fortune favour us today. Jupiter, the god of gods, I beseech you, my lord, to sharpen his sword, to give strength and power to his hands and arms, and to grant him victory. And bring him back to me safe and sound.”

You opened your eyes and saw your tears dripping on your hands, which you'd clasped together on your chest. Decima touched your shoulder and wiped your tears with her thumb.

'The gods will help him, don't you worry anymore.'

You nodded, feeling certain your prayer would be answered, now all that remained was to wait, and time was your worst enemy.

The last person you wanted to see was coming up the steps of the temple. Gaius noticed you and approached you, his smug smile infuriating you.

'My lady, I believe you've come to pray.'

'That's right, that's why I'm here, but I wonder if I might ask why you are here? I thought you weren't going to fight for yourself?" you asked sarcastically.

"I'm the one who has the advantage with the power of thought. Physical strength is of no consequence against it."

"Then perhaps you've come to the wrong temple. You should go to the temple of Mercury."

"My lady, I am in the right place because I have come here to ask Mars to grant General Acacius absolute defeat.”

You clenched your hands into fists, your whole body filled with rage.

‘Once he's out of the way, there'll be no more obstacles between us. It'll be easy to get rid of Caracalla and Geta. Their names will be forgotten. Think of the power you and I will have if we marry.’

After a long period of frustration, you finally lost your temper and slapped him in anger. Gaius wasn't upset. In fact, he seemed amused as he touched the spot where you had slapped him. The imperial guard who had been protecting you interposed himself between the two of you. 

‘I'll never marry you, sir, don't even dream of it.’

‘It was your father's wish, I was with him when he wrote the letter-’ This time his eyes were sharp as he looked at you.

‘I'm not my father!’ The people praying on the steps of the temple turned to you when they realised your loud voice.

‘And he's not here, I'm Aurelia, and I decide my own life. Don't you ever threaten me again. Or my brothers. Especially the man I love.’

The imperial guard stepped forward nervously noticing people approaching you.

‘Princess Aurelia!’ 

You turned your head when someone called out your name. They quickly gathered around you, looking at you with sincerity and admiration. Gaius seemed uncomfortable with them.

One woman approached you and said, "My lady, we've heard that the General Acacius will fight for you, so we pray for his safety and survival.”

They had come here with the same intention as you, which made you very happy.

'The General has saved this city many times, we're grateful to him,' someone said.

'We're still breathing thanks to him!' another shouted. You looked at Gaius with a smile, a smile he knew the meaning of ‘Suck it’.

‘I think you’re done here, Sir Gaius.’

The crowd regarded him with a certain degree of displeasure, and some of them advanced towards him. Gaius retreated, nearly losing his footing on the stairs in the process. As he made his way out of the area, the crowd turned their attention to you. 

“Thanks to your prayers, General Acacius will hopefully achieve a victory today at the Colosseum.”

The crowd responded with joyous shouts. They were now shouting his name. As you smiled at them and descended the stairs, you noticed a familiar face ahead. Octavius was standing by his horse and, upon recognising you, approached you with haste.

‘My lady, you summoned me. 

You asked for him before you came to the temple because you wanted to speak to him about something.

'Yes, thank you for coming by.'

'Of course, my lady,' he bowed his head respectfully.

You gave him a smile. 'It seems you were right all along.'

He looked at you, surprised. 'I beg your pardon, my lady?'

“You always called me a lady, and you were right. I was. You were always kind to me, Octavius. Even when you knew I was a slave, you were always respectful, and I'm grateful to you for that.”

“The pleasure's mine, my lady. But may I ask why you wanted to see me?’

'As a good friend of the general, I wanted to ask you to take me to him before the fight.’

Octavius’ expression changed. 'My lady, with all due respect, this is no place for women.’

You looked at him with absolute determination. 'Otherwise I wouldn't have asked you to accompany me, would I?'

The Colosseum…

Hours before the battle…

The Colosseum had lots of rooms and underground passages. This was where animals and gladiators were kept, waiting to meet their fate in the arena above. It wasn't a straightforward place to get into, especially not for a woman.

Octavius was pretty nervous about letting you into this underground tunnel. If you'd asked the royal guards to do it, it'd probably have got back to Geta or Caracalla, who'd have wanted to stop or prevent you. But you had to see him before he steps into the arena.

However, your plan was about to be thwarted. The guards at the entrance to the large iron gate were quite big and stopped you. 

'There's no room for women here, so you'd better go back.' 

Even if you wore a cloak, your clothes and hair showed your physical features. So you decided to remove it.

"I'm Princess Aurelia. Let me through, please. I'd like to speak with General Acacius."

The guards looked at each other, unsure of what to do. Did they think you were lying?

'Why would a princess come with only one soldier?' one of the guards asked.

'I'm the general's second-in-command, Octavius. Let us through, now.' Octavius ordered.

'My lady!''

You heard a familiar voice and looked in that direction. It was Macrinus.

His voice came from inside, and soon he appeared at the door.

'How dare you keep the Princess waiting at the gate? Let her through, now!'

The men immediately bowed their heads, apologised and opened the gate.

'My lady, I think you're here to see the General?' His smile made you feel uneasy, as it always did.

Octavius picked up a torch and followed you at a safe distance, each sound echoing off the narrow walls as he travelled through the stone tunnels. 

"I understand your wish to see him for the last time.”

You stopped suddenly, your footsteps echoed through the cave-like walls.

"Sir Macrinus, if I may continue with Sir Octavius for the rest of the way."

Macrinus smiled and said, 'As you wish, my lady. I'm done here anyway. I'll see you upstairs in the stands.' He walked towards the door. You continued on your way, not letting his confident demeanour unnerve you.

'Oh, by the way, don't be scared when you see the tiger ahead, he can smell fear,' he said before walking out the door.

You couldn't believe your ears. Did he mean it metaphorically? You looked at Octavius, who didn't look surprised.

‘It's in a cage, don't worry,’ he explained.

‘Tiger, a real tiger?’ You raised your eyebrow.

‘Yes. There are many animals here, stay close to me, my lady.’

A little later, you came to a roundabout where another iron gate was waiting for you. This time, you could hear lots of voices coming from the corridors. You could hear lots of men, swords being sharpen, doors opening and closing, and a roar. When you saw the corridor where the animals were kept, you had a bit of a shock. The tiger was there, a big one, much bigger than you'd imagined when you'd heard its name. And it was just as scary. You stood there, frozen in fear, locked in its green eyes, as if it was trying to find where the fear was hiding inside you. It was an amazingly beautiful and an extremely dangerous predator. A moment later, it let out a roar as if it had found the fear. Octavius grabbed you by the shoulders as you jumped back, trembling with fear.

'Are you alright, my lady?' Let's head back if you're not feeling well.

You couldn't help but laugh hysterically. 'It's beautiful.’ you swallowed hard.

Octavius confused.

You tried to pull yourself together quickly and concentrate on the reason you had come here, but the tiger was so beautiful that you couldn't take your eyes off him. Before long, one of the guards prodded the tiger's hind leg with a spear. The animal let out a roar in pain but then collapsed and rested its huge head on its front legs.

The guard bowed to you and said, 'It's a dangerous animal, my lady. You shouldn't get too close.'

You nodded at him, but it was hard to believe that such a beautiful and dangerous animal could be so close. You could stare at it for hours.

'My lady, this way,' Octavius said, pointing  the other corridor. There were gladiators and other warriors in this corridor. All waiting to fight resting in dungeons, conditions were unfavourable. As you passed through them, you bowed your head, feeling their curious eyes on you. 

You felt regret taking off your cloak, because you were wearing a elegant dress that left your arms and neck exposed, and revealing that you belonged to the imperial family. You had Geta to thank for that, after all, lately he loved to interfere with your attire. 

“A princess?”

“Look at this beauty.”

“I would gladly die for you, my beautiful lady.”

A few masculine whistles and laughs, murmurs, you could feel your cheeks turning red, your mouth got dry. Hearing a few dirty comments, Octavius kicked the iron bars of the cell where they were being held.

“Shut the hell up!”

You fellt relief to move from this corridor to another, quieter one, where you saw a familiar face. It was Cato, the General's squire.

"My lady, sir." He greeted you. 

Instead of iron bars, there was an iron door and an armoury. It was filled with swords, axes, bows and arrows, shields and many other implements of war. 

"Is the General inside?" Octavius asked.

"Yes, I just helped him put on his armour," he said and knocked on the door.

You were nervous and excited, and when the door opened, Octavius nodded then looked at you.

You walked through the door with quick steps, met his eyes. The eyes you had come all this way for.

His eyes showed surprise and then anger.

“I'll leave you two alone.” Octavius closed the door and left to avoid her harsh gaze.

“What are you doing here,” he came toward you, so attractive even in his anger.

“I needed to see you, before...” you swallowed, unable to finish the sentence.

“It's not appropriate for you to be here, how could you do that?”

The general seemed to be wearing his leather armbands. 

“Let me,” you murmured and approached him. 

He held out his arm for you and waited, all the while keeping his eyes on you.

Once you finished, put your hands on his broad shoulders. Under your hands you felt the material of the leather armor he had just put on. It was the same armor he wore when you first met, with gold detailing on the edges and a medusa on his chest. His expression softened at your touch. 

"You always act without thinking," he said with a hint of disapproval.

"I've heard that before," you replied with a smile.

He placed his hands on your waist and pulled you closer to him, his eyes tracing the outline of your lips. You could feel his gaze on them.

"You are my only weakness, your presence is the only thing that distracts me."

"Perhaps it would be best if I waited here for you? I don't want to watch anyway.”

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I'd like you to sit there and watch me." He cupped your face between his hands, and you could feel your heart beating faster. "Because, my beautiful princess,, it's only you who gives me strength."

Marcus pressed his lips to yours and kissed you gently.

"I prayed in the temple for you to win," you whispered. "Marcus, you have to win. I can't bear to see anything happen to you."

"I will win, my lady. For you, for us." He kissed your forehead and embraced you.

You prayed the gods for the last time as you resting your head on his chest, your body in his arms. Suddenly the sound of drums startled you. Turned your head in the direction of the sound, accompanied by the sound of the crowd and whistles. Marcus pressed his lips to the top of your head and pulled himself back. 

“It's time, you'd better go now.”

You nodded. “I love you, Marcus.” your voice was shaking.

One of his heart-melting smiles appeared on his face.

“I love you more, my beautiful Aurelia.”

Ima Cavea… (tribune that reserved for the Emperor and senates)

“Sister, where were you? You were almost late.” Geta scolded you. You were pleased that Julia was sitting next to Caracalla, while you sat in one of the gold-embroidered seats belonging to the royal family next to Geta. The farther away from her the better it was for you. However, Gaius was sitting right next to you and smiling at you in a way that made you feel uneasy. You turned your head away from him and looked at Geta.

“What happened to your face?”

He rolled his eyes. “War makeup, if you hadn't gone to the temple earlier I would have given you this makeup too, tough luck sister.” he said pursing his lips.

“Good thing I preferred to go to the temple then,” you muttered. 

He laughed. Caracalla whispered something in his ear. Geta leaned toward you with a mischievous expression. “Would you like to give the opening speech?”

You gave him a stink-eye. He grinned with all his teeth at your expression. 

“Okay, I'll do it.”

He stood up and took a step forward, raising his arms in salute as the announcer announced his name to the crowd.

“People of Rome! We are gathered today for an epic closing to the last day of the festival. The day's champions of the auspicious ceremony, incredibly talented gladiators, will fight and stand for our beloved cousin Gaius Septimius Severus Aper!”

“He forgot to mention ‘consul ordinarius’ title of mine.” Gaius said, offended.

“No one cares,” you snapped.

Caracalla laughed hard, Geta joined him in, both looking at you like ‘good one’. You ignored them, not in the mood for jokes.

With the sound of drums and trumpets, the iron gates opened with roar and four gladiators entered the arena. You weren't an expert in fighting and you didn't have a lot of experience as a spectator, but you had a pretty good idea of what to expect. But why were there four gladiators? Caracalla stood up and came to Geta, applauding with excitement and joy. The gladiators stood in position in front of your tribune with their shields and spears and gave the salute.

“Ave Imperatores, morituri te salutant!” Hail Emperors, those who are about to die salute you!”

“In fact, you should salute both us and our sister today,” he beckoned you to him. You opened your eyes wide, not expecting surely. Julia let out a hissing sound, and the senators murmured behind you. As you stood up, the crowd started to cheer louder. You took Geta's hand, tentatively at first.

“Princess Aurelia!” Crowded shouted.

You whispered to Geta as the crowd chanted your name.

“Wasn't there supposed to be a one-on-one fight?”

“That would be boring, wouldn't it, my dear?”

"Clearly you haven't had the opportunity to observe the General in combat before, Caracalla said, leaning towards you behind Geta. “Hurry brother, call him to show up, lets get them started at once,” he whined to him, clapping his hands.

Geta nodded, “And the man who will fight against them is known and respected by all of you, The Glorius General Marcus Acacius, commander of the southern armies, General of the Six Legions and protector of Rooome!”

Geta's loud cry was pretty deafening.

The soldiers who opened the other door for their General greeted him and wished him good fortune. The crowd roared as Marcus, sword in hand shining under the sunlight, the sands of the arena turning to dust beneath his feet as he stepped in front of the gladiators. You experienced a range of emotions simultaneously, including excitement, tension, fear unease. 

Marcus turned towards you, put his sword on his shoulder, nodded. 

“Ave Imperatores, ave Filia Regis, morituri te salutant!” Hail Emperors, hail Princess, who are about to die salute you!”

Even though the word ‘about to die’ hurts, you smiled at him, and he bowed his head in response. 

“Begiiiin!” Geta shouted.

“Gods bear witneeeeess!” Caracalla joined him.

The crowd went wild with excitement, and the beat of the drums grew louder. Since the gladiators were discussing strategy and walking away from him Marcus turned to face the other way, looks very calm. It didn't seem fair that they had spears, swords at their waists and shields in their hands, but Marcus had only a sword. Had he specifically chosen it himself? It didn't make sense, and you were almost angry with Marcus for it. But you were about to be wrong. 

As one of the gladiators ran towards Marcus, he took a defensive stance, kicked the sand off the ground with the tip of his toe and darted towards him. In a swift and decisive move, he dodged his attack by spinning as if he was dancing and struck him hard with his sword from behind. Marcus quickly picked up the shield that had fallen from his hand and turned to the others, your eyes fixed on the sand where blood from the cut spread across the floor of the arena. You stared with your jaw dropped.

Geta and Caracalla looked at each other with laughter. They cursed and commented, their eyes fixed on the action. You observed Gaius, seated next to you, appearing somewhat disgruntled, which prompted a smile to emerge on your face. Yet you tensed again as the three remaining gladiators circling around Marcus. He glanced at each of them, ready for any attack. One of them roared and charged at him, pointing the tip of his spear at him, the long spear jabbed, but Marcus grabbed the tip of his shield, shoved it aside and charged at the gladiator, his great sword flashing. The gladiator swung his spear back, then thrust again. The metal screamed as the tip of the spear slipped from Marcus' shield, cutting the surface and leaving a long, shiny scratch. Another gladiator lunged with his spear, but Marcus turned quickly, allowing it to pierce the shield, but the gladiator could not get it back out and Marcus took advantage of it and swung his sword at him, cutting his exposed leg off. The man let out a cry of pain as blood began to flow from his wound, spreading across the sandy ground. Marcus made one last move and rushed after the other, cutting his neck and the gladiator's lifeless body sprawled on the sandy ground. Other gladiator grunted furiously. He made a ponderous charge to hack at the Marcus's head. He avoided him easily. The crowd roared, whistling and Geta gave a hysterical laugh and clapped. You were uncertain as to how much more nervous you could become. You felt your heart beating in your throat. The two remaining gladiators exchanged glances and signalled to one another. Marcus observed them with his keen gaze, considering the most strategic approach to the upcoming confrontation, taking the movement of their feet into account. One of them made a quick lunge for his stomach, but Marcus was thrown back and it was ineffective. Marcus cut him, but not where he wanted, he missed.

Then, dodging at the last moment as the gladiator lunged for his right breast, he lunged for the tip of the spear. Marcus was close enough to strike suddenly, his sword gleaming in a blur of steel. The crowd screamed as well. As the tip of the spear was useless, the Gladiator threw it away and drew his sword, but Marcus was much faster, grasping quickly the spear that the other gladiator he had just cut down had left on the ground and thrusting it deep into his groin. The gladiator groaned in pain and staggered backwards, struggling to stand and finally collapsing to his knees. The last remaining gladiator, the banquet-show gladiator, Macrinus' and Geta's favourite, lunged angrily at Marcus. Geta stood up excitedly, Caracalla leaned forward to see better, and you put your hands together and began to pray. He was the gladiator you feared the most. 

Metal met metal with an ear-splitting clang, sending the Marcus reeling. Gladiator followed, bellowing. They didn't use words anymore, just animalistic roaring.The gladiator was the first to move, throwing his spear at Marcus as he ran, missing. This time he drew his sword and lunged at him with a roar, throwing his shield at him as well, Marcus paused in the blink of an eye as the pain of the struck shield caused his elbow. But the sword was making several thrusts at him, and Marcus's retreat turned into a flight backwards, only inches in front of the great sword that cut through his chest, arms and wrist. You jumped to your feet, Marcus' cuts weren't very deep, but they were enough to make you cried out. 

Marcus heard you, but he had to pretend he didn't. He was determined to concentrate and get it over with. He ignored the pain of his cuts and looked at the gladiator, who was smiling triumphantly at him. 

Rejoice now while you can, Marcus thought.

He memorised the gladiator's footwork and swiftly planned his attack. The gladiator made the first move, his shiny sword grazing the surface of Marcus' shield with a deafening sound. Marcus seized the opportunity and brought his sword down on the gladiator's head. But it was a ruse. As the gladiator raised his sword to retaliate, Marcus slashed his muscular thigh and kicked him to the ground. The gladiator was dazed by the fall, and Marcus stepped on his hand with his foot, taking the sword from him and hurling it across the arena.The crowd cheered, and Geta gave a standing ovation and shouted with joy.

'What a battle!'

'It's over too soon,' Caracalla grumbled. You were starting to relax a little, but the blood dripping from Marcus's shoulder wasn't helping. When he glanced back at you, you smiled and hoped he saw it.

The crowd suddenly started shouting in unison. 

‘KIll! KIll! KIll!’

Marcus looked at Geta. With his arm outstretched, everyone eagerly awaits his decision. But you could already see it in his honey-coloured eyes. Geta turned his thumb down.

The crowd went wild again, cheering and screaming. Marcus looked down at the gladiator, who was barely breathing, lying on the ground. He raised his sword and the man closed his eyes. Marcus may have fought like a beast, but he was no bloodthirsty villain. He brought the sword down swiftly and it stabbed through the sand right next to the gladiator's head. The crowd fell silent. Murmurs replaced the shouts. Geta frowned. Caracalla leaned down from the balustrade in frustration. 

‘What the hell is he doing?’

‘Kill him!’ Geta shouted. 

You were so moved by Marcus's behavior that your eyes filled with tears. 

Soon the crowd was shouting the chant once used for the great General Maximus. 

‘Marcus the merciful!’

Marcus smiled at them and made a gesture of respect, honouring his former commander.

'That's just like him,' Geta commented.

Caracalla made a face. You were happy and proud of him, you couldn't be more in love with him.

Marcus walked towards to you while the crowd chanting his name and his new nickname. 

'My Emperors, I fought for you and I won, and I believe I have a right to claim what is rightfully mine.' His eyes shifted to you. It was hard not to throw yourself from where you stood into his strong arms.

Geta laughed, applauding him.

"Naturally, our champion will receive what he deserves." He gazed at you and said, "Let us begin preparations for the wedding of General Acacius and our sister Princess Aurelia at once."

You felt a slight blush come over your cheeks as the crowd expressed their enthusiasm by chanting and cheering your names. Caracalla sat back in his throne and appeared to be somewhat disgruntled. Gaius had already departed. Then the iron gates of the arena opened, and the General was surrounded by his soldiers, who embraced him joyfully, including Octavius. Geta was observing you as you smiled at Marcus with joy, and he was surprised to realise that for the first time in his life he was experiencing a sense of happiness for someone else. 

@myownwholewildworld @orcasoul @pedroslut4eva @immyowndefender @lailathepedritofan @screechingchildfury @shinymusicpanda @somedayheaven @ivoryandflame @negrita2345 @music-lover09 @javiismyhsbnd @idontcareihavenoidea @jisungandpedrolover @mmkkzz @ro-nahime-things

if anyone wants me to tag them please comment :) thank you all <3

[wileycap]

Beings Suffering From Extreme Sleep Deprivation Should Not Attempt Turning To The Dark Side

There he was. Anakin Skywalker, the prize jewel of the Sith... even if he did not know it yet. Sitting in the office of his friend, the Supreme Chancellor.

All the pieces were now in place, and the only thing left to do was to reveal his identity to Skywalker and let him break down. The satisfaction that permeated the form of Sheev Palpatine was so great that he nearly forgot that his parents had named him Sheev.

But not for long. Distaste prickled up his spine. Still, they were entering the glorious morning of a Sith Empire that would never see night. Or, rather more accurately, the night would be neverending. And the metaphors would be better - he would hire (and by hire, he meant enslave) the greatest poets to compose endless lamentations for the suffering he was about to unleash.

Skywalker sat in the chair, looking listless. The nightmares Palpatine had sent had done their job well - it seemed like he had hardly slept. His thoughts were sluggish, his resistance gone, and his terror absolute. Terror for his "secret" wife, who he feared would die in childbirth.

And while the "visions" were far from genuine, oh, Palpatine intended to make sure that Padmé Amidala would.

With the death of his wife, Palpatine's control over Anakin Skywalker would be perfect. And, in ten or twenty years, thirty even, the boy would become his new vessel. After all, the plans of the Sith were measured in the millenia, and Sheev Palpatine had no intention of planting trees in whose shade younger generations might sit. No. He intended to sit there himself, chasing off the whippersnappers so they might get sunburnt. (He really needed to consult a poet.)

But the creation of his Empire was a far more immediate goal, and a very worthy stepping stone indeed. And since all it would take was a push, he had better get to administering said push.

"Dear boy, I don't think I've ever seen you look quite this... disturbed," he intoned, perfectly miming the tones of a concerned grandfather. "Not - and I am terribly sorry to bring this up, but I can't help but be concerned - not even... not even when your mother died."

There. Skywalker was an easy instrument to play. A veil of concern, a dash of "you can tell me anything." A hint of his past trauma, which so neatly (almost as if by design) connected to his current fear. Even calling attention to Skywalker's sorry state served to remind him that the structures he could depend on were now shaky and unsure, ravaged by war.

Palpatine briefly entertained himself by wondering what the boy might think of the sheer amount of planning that had been put into his fall.

"Mom?" Skywalker asked, voice groggy and wide eyes betraying his shock.

And said nothing more, just gaped at Palpatine, as if he were about to pull Shmi Skywalker out from under his robes. Idiot boy.

"I'm terribly sorry for shocking you, Anakin," Palpatine said, suffusing the room with his phony concern. "I know it must be horrible to think about, especially in these... present circumstances."

Well, he'd thrown subtlety out the viewport, but that would certainly get the job done.

Skywalker did not respond. He was blearily gazing into middle distance. And Palpatine was running out of time - Skywalker needed to fall now, before Kenobi could return from Utapau and somehow pull him back from the brink, again.

So, subtlety? Subtlety would die the same death it always died in Skywalker's presence: a sudden one.

"Actually, I've called you here on an important matter," he said, injecting some urgency into his tone - no longer a grandfather, but a concerned statesman. "I now have every reason to believe that Senator Amidala and the Delegation of Two Thousand are planning a coup."

"Huh?" Skywalker said, attempting to sit up. "Padmé's planning..."

And then his train of thought appeared to slip away again, and he resumed his vacant staring.

"Yes." Palpatine gritted out. "Padmé Amidala, your wife, is planning a coup."

"Oh. Yeah, she's good at politics," Anakin mumbled, offering Palpatine a tired smile. "I'm sure she'll do a good job."

"A coup against me." When nothing more than a "hmm" was forthcoming, Palpatine continued. "And it appears she has allied with the Jedi Council."

Skywalker suddenly stood up, ramrod straight. Finally, Palpatine thought.

"What?"

"I'm sorry you have to find out this way-"

"No, no, this is great! She's finally hanging out with my work friends! Now she'll know what it feels like!" Skywalker shook his head. "Like, it's only fair, right? I've sat through a ton of formal dinners and stuff. And Bail is okay, I guess, and Mon, and Fang Zhar is kinda funny, but... they're so boring. Treaty this, agreement that, 'what do you think, Master Jedi?'"

Skywalker started pacing. "Yeah, but who's laughing now, Padmé? I hope she tries to take them out for lunch. Then she'll get to see twelve Jedi Masters meditating to discern which restaurant the Force is pulling them towards."

He turned to Palpatine, as if to explain. "And that takes hours. You wanted lunch? Sorry, it's dinnertime and also tomorrow, and the spot they picked, which, by the way, is always the one Yoda wants,-" and, to the Sith Lord's horror, he launched into an imitation, "'mmm, great darkness I sense within the Jundland Buffet, perhaps to Stewcruiser, we should instead go', but when we finally decide to go to Stewcruiser, it's closed on Taungsday, and the whole thing starts all over again!"

And at that, Skywalker sat down with a huff.

"Indeed," Palpatine said, no longer able to keep the coldness out of his voice. "The inefficiencies of the Jedi are... vexing."

"Tell me about it," Skywalker mumbled, rubbing at his eyes.

"But rather more pressingly, they are planning a coup." Palpatine said, rather icily.

"Yeah, right," the boy said, looking a bit shamefaced. "Sorry."

"It is no matter," Palpatine replied, still eyeing the Jedi. Skywalker made no move. "What do you think about the coup?"

"Oh, yeah, uh. Like I said, I'm sure she'll do a great job. Sorry, I don't really... pay attention to politics."

Palpatine opened his mouth. And then closed it again. "A coup is a bad thing, Anakin."

"Uh-huh," Skywalker said, clearly paying no attention, and that was just about the limit of Palpatine's patience. He hadn't set the entire galaxy ablaze to be uh-huhed by the boy.

It was time to go for the throat.

"Anakin, I'm going to kill your wife." He said, enunciating every word as clearly as he could. He needed to provoke the boy into fear and anger, which would feed his guilt and shame, which would lead him to the Dark Si-

"Oh, okay. Good luck."

"What?!" He hissed. "I just threatened to kill your wife!"

"Yeah, but..." Skywalker scratched at the back of his neck. "I mean, she's been in like, twenty battles. She can handle herself."

"She is eight months pregnant!"

Skywalker actually shrugged. "The med droid said she can keep doing her usual activities for as long as she feels able. And no offence, but you're kind of... old."

"Old? I am the Lord of the Sith, young fool! I possess powers your feeble mind can't even comprehend!"

Something had gone blank in Skywalker's eyes, but Palpatine was far too angry to notice. "I orchestrated this entire war! All of this is my doing! I planned for your mother to die, I corrupted the Tuskens myself, I was behind Kenobi faking his death, beh-"

And that's about as far as he got, because a sky blue blade had just passed between the spot his head occupied and the spot that was occupied by his body, and had kindly suggested to the two that it was time to part ways.

"Chancellor, Sith Lords are a specialty at the Jundland Buffet," Anakin muttered, turning off his saber. He tried to hook it back on his belt, but apparently somebody had taken his usual hook, and the handle fell to the ground. Sighing, he called it up with the Force and shoved it into his boot for safekeeping, when a thought struck him. "No, that's not right. How did Obi-Wan say it..."

And then he commed Obi-Wan, because that seemed like the thing to do. After a long wait, a small, blue Obi-Wan appeared, looking harried. Before Anakin could compliment him on his new size and color, Obi-Wan was already talking way too fast, something about killing Grievous.

"Hey, Obi-Wan, uh. I killed the Sith, but I-"

"What?" Obi-Wan's voice had a lot of static in it. He should really get that checked out. "Sorry, Anakin, did you say you killed the Sith Lord?"

"Yeah, anyways, back when we were fighting Dooku, you said something about Sith Lords and a specialty, and, uh, is it a specialty dish somewhere? And can we go there next time the Council has lunch? I'm getting really sick of Stewcruiser."

"Anakin. When was the last time you slept?"

"Oh, uh, two weeks ago or something."

There was a heavy, staticy sigh from the other end of the comlink. "Alright, Anakin. Turn the comlink around and show me the Sith, and then I'll guide you through cleaning up the pieces of the duelling droid you dismantled this time, and - oh Force, is that the Chancellor?!"

"Uh-huh," Anakin nodded, forgetting that he wasn't in view of the receiver.

"Don't uh-huh me, Anakin! Did you kill the Supreme Chancellor?"

"Yeah, he was the Sith?" There weren't any more words coming through the comlink, so Anakin figured it was safe to continue. "He said that he orchestrated the whole war and he was the Sith. Also, for some reason, he moved out here to the desert, and that's weird, because I don't think it's gonna agree with his complexion."

There was more silence from the comlink. Anakin remembered to turn it so he was again visible to Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan appeared to be frozen.

"Are you... disappointed?" Anakin asked, after a while.

"No more than the usual amount," Obi-Wan sighed. "Go take a nap."

"Oh, good," Anakin smiled. And then frowned. "Wait, what do you mean, 'the usual amount?'"

[gregrulzok]

I got kinda poet-ish about it in my last post but I need to be more direct:

Genuinely what the FUCK is wrong with Daniel Molloy.

Like okay, yes, 100+ year old broody vampires with incredibly tragic backstories will be hot and a little bit insane. That's literally a given.

Daniel Molloy is a 30-somethings man with a budding alcohol problem and verging on a midlife crisis, and his response to a world-shattering revelation that vampires are real is to go SO fucking off the rails that his 500 year old millionaire stalker that blends rats for fun, reads 70 books a day at mach speed, and once SEWED A YOUNG GIRL'S HEAD TO AN OLDER WOMAN'S BODY AFTER MURDERING THEM has to be like "Daniel you're being weird again".

Like this man.

- Has no backstory as far as I know? Certainly no tragic tale I've ever heard. He'd literally some dude off the street.

- Is one of the only characters to ever be with Armand and NOT fetishize the fact that he looks 17 (hats off)

- BUT he DOES fetishize him being a literal fucking corpse, direct quote "I like kissing. And snuggling with dead things, yes, hold me." so maybe we should place him on some kind of list anyway

- Is literally ADDICTED to vampire blood, and the reason for it is that it gives him fucked up visions of suffering and torment and he's into that

- (I'm cutting him a lot of slack for also being not dissimilarly addicted to having his blood drunk, because this is Tunglr and I think we can all relate to that, but let the record state for real world purposes that's still fucking weird)

- Yells at and berates his deranged vampire stalker WELL before the time they become Lovers, in the MIDDLE of said deranged vampire stalker having some kind of angry meltdown. ("I WANT YOU TO DIAL PARIS, I WANT TO SEE IF YOU CAN REALLY TALK TO PARIS" [...] "WHAT ARE YOU, AN IMMORTAL IDIOT?" This is during a time period where, for all he knows, the deranged vampire stalker is fully comfortable with and even vaguely planning on killing him.

- Hears OVER AND OVER AGAIN how becoming a vampire is nothing but a terrible irreversible eternal curse, sees how every vampire he meets (all... Two of them, to be fair), longs for humanity, and STILL thinks "Nah. I'm built DIFFERENT."

- Like. Listen. He's aware of the pain and suffering he'd bring to others. He fully knows about it because he drinks Armand's blood. And he WANTS TO DO THAT, like that would NOT be an issue for him.

- At best that's a sacrifice he's willing to make so he gets to cuddle his dead boyfriend for all eternity. At worst, and more probably, that's a fun perk for him.

Like Daniel what is your fucking PROBLEM, man.

[genericpuff]

I find something that annoys me is how people misunderstand why Persephone is considered the goddess of spring.

It’s because Demeter makes it spring when she returns. Not because Persephone has some awesome sick flower powers and she makes it all pretty before returning to her 10000/10 husband.

Agreed! But also, if I can offer up my own food for thought / interpretation: Demeter didn't necessarily create 'winter' as we traditionally perceive it, rather she created famine.

In that same sense, Demeter isn't even necessarily "making it Spring" when Persephone returns - she makes the land fertile again, allowing mortals to harvest their crops and thrive. Thus creating the "seasons" of harvest and drought.

Like many of the myths we've preserved and still read today, The Hymn to Demeter was a story created to explain natural phenomena that we didn't yet know how to explain. In Demeter's case, the story of her separation from her daughter explained the cycle of nature - why the clouds would no longer rain, why the ground would dry and crack, why the soil would become brittle, and why the crops would lose their will to live. It wasn't necessarily because she brought about 'winter', it was simply that she stopped performing her own duties, which were specifically dedicated to the harvest, especially that of wheat and grains (both of which are INCREDIBLY important foods that played their own massive role in the evolution of the human race - they weren't only essential to keeping both humans and livestock fed with their carb-heavy components, but could also be used to make fabrics and tools.)

Just as people prayed to Poseidon for safe travels across still waters, so too would people pray to Demeter for a bountiful harvest. Whenever there were droughts, you could understand it as the period when Persephone would return to the Underworld; or you could even blame it on yourself, or even your own fellow mortals, if you felt that perhaps Demeter had been disrespected in some way so as to bring about a drought as punishment.

This is why The Hymn to Demeter also functions as a foundational story for the founding of The Eleusinian Mysteries - a cult that worshipped Demeter, and other deities attributed to the harvest (ex. Dionysus) whose initiates were sworn to secrecy, never to speak aloud what practices were happening within the cult. And they did a damn good job of it too, because to this day we still don't fully know what went down in those cults. They're mysteries, after all :')

Demeter wasn't the only god who was attributed to the harvest and the weather patterns that would cause drought, but she's certainly one of the most popularly discussed, undoubtedly due to the fact that her story is one of the oldest and most well-preserved, and she was attributed to some of the most essential crops of that era.

But as it would happen to many myths over the centuries, the exact cultural contexts and intentions behind her original story have become either lost, or re-interpreted so many times that we can't even fully trust that Homer's version is "accurate", at least not without any way to retrieve those original oral stories that predated both him and other famous poets whose work we still study and analyze today.

But hey, that's just my own interpretation! One out of the thousands that have existed and the thousands that will undoubtedly go on to exist. I'm sure my own interpretation of it isn't perfect or foolproof, but I hope it offers up some fun food for thought!

[yawping-poets-society]

we don't talk enough about cameron's first real scene, where he talks to neil outside his dorm before todd arrives. in case anyone doesn't know what i'm referring to, here's the dialogue from the scene:

Cameron: Hey, Neil, study group tonight?

Neil: Yeah, sure.

Cameron: Business as usual, huh? [turns to leave, then] Hey, I heard you got the new kid. Looks like a stiff. [laughs at his own joke] [Todd enters] Oops. [Cameron leaves]

so let's talk about it!!

cameron opens with the study group question. this is pretty straightforward to me-he knows he's none of the poets' favorite, and certainly not charlie's. neil is his foremost supporter, pretty much the only one who sticks up for him, so this makes sense. he's checking with neil, his 'in' to the group, to make sure he can hang with these guys. he wants to be part of their circle so badly, and that's pretty clear from the get-go.

and then he hits us with this whole "stiff" business. this is a major thing i've seen people use to justify their hate of cameron and i really struggle with that.

because, well...this is SO undeniably awkward. neil tells todd just a moment later not to mind cameron because he was "born with his foot in his mouth." so off the bat, that's not something you say about someone who's consistently rude or who you don't like. that's neil sticking up for cameron. he's saying, sorry todd, he means well, or at least, he doesn't have any ill intentions. cameron's just not got the best grasp of social cues, that's how he is. this is a pretty valid explanation in and of itself, but if you'll walk with me a little further, i've got a deeper theory about why cameron makes this comment.

more than just it being awkward, this casual friendliness, haha, new kid, a mild insult said with much bravado...this isn't really cameron as we see him for the rest of the movie. though he does remain relatively awkward, it doesn't really match his character of being cautious and trying to not stand out, to fit into the group (as we see in his first line). so how to explain this action (because i don't believe the explanation is just: cameron is being an asshole/being awkward)?

to me? this is what cameron thought charlie would say. isn't that almost exactly how charlie always talks about cameron, after all? for a great example, see later in the same scene:

Charlie, about Cameron: What's his specialty, bootlicking?

so maybe cameron believes that this is how friends treat each other. or at least, how they talk about other people to entertain their friends. charlie, while not a stellar student and clearly not liked by the administration, is the class clown, which makes him popular with students at welton. thus, cameron is probably jealous of charlie. he probably wishes he was more like charlie-confident, funny, well-liked, etc. and again, he clearly wants to be friends with neil, and part of their larger group, very, very badly. all of this to say:

i don't think cameron meant what he said about todd.

he's trying to get a laugh out of neil. so what does he do? he does what he thinks charlie-neil's funny best friend-would do. it's not a nice thing to say, but to me, it really just reads as someone who is trying to guess what the appropriate, funny thing to say in a situation is, but doesn't actually know. cameron might not have even really thought the 'stiff' joke was funny. but he thought neil would find it funny, which is really the whole point. cameron is, at the most fundamental level, an unpopular kid who wishes he was well-liked, and is fumbling around blindly trying to find his way there.

[goooofy-goooober1121]

Viktor and His Inability to Rest

Based on this ask: "what about a lil request of reader taking care of viktor when he's too injured to work?"

Ask Box is open! Please feel free to request!

Reblogs always appreciated <3

Tags: gn!Reader, roommate!reader, roommate!Viktor, Viktor is Tired, descriptions of pain, Viktor has mixed feelings about being cared for, can be read as platonic or romantic! I'm going with the femoral anteversion + scoliosis combo for him :P

W/C: 1534

Please correct me if anything represented here about disabilities is inaccurate because I myself am able bodied and am going off of what I have read and researched!

Sick Days

Sick days were not in Viktor’s vocabulary.

Day after day, night after night, he was a busy man. When he wasn’t working on Hextech, he was assisting Heimerdinger with the everyday processes of the Academy. When he wasn’t doing that, he was hunched over his desk in the laboratory, poring over calculations and calibrations as though he were a poet and they his poetry. And when he wasn’t doing that-- well, he supposed he could fit four or five hours of sleep. 

To Viktor, it was just the way things were. Like the intricate parts of the machines he so painstakingly built, he worked best when every part was in place and at full capacity. It had been like that his whole life, and only intensified once he made it to the Academy. In Zaun, there hadn’t been much support for children like him; not that he blamed anyone for it. Zaun barely had the capacity to open schools, much less hospitals. It was because of this that Viktor learned to always give himself wholly and determinedly to his endeavors-- whether it be walking, learning, or simply getting out of bed.

All because for his whole life, he consistently had to work twice as hard as everybody else. 

First due to his disability, and then compounded by his admission to the Academy. He could not afford to fall behind or perform below par compared to his privileged peers. He knew what they thought of him, what they whispered; the poor Zaunite boy with a limp is what he once heard someone refer to him as in passing. It was a succinct summary of his perception amongst the student body. He was a charity case, a show of pity, notable only for his origins and the cane that supported his weight. 

He did not toil away his teenage years just to be written off like that, and he most certainly did not do so just to stop then. It would do no good to Zaun, and it would most certainly do worse to him. 

So he labored endlessly. Top marks in every class. Glowing reviews from his teachers. Independent research. All-nighters. A caffeine addiction he was sure would catch up to him someday. Even recognition from the headmaster himself. Sick days were not in Viktor’s vocabulary-- he could not afford them. Not when he was so self-assured of what he was capable of, and not when he knew everyone was watching and waiting for him to slip up like a starved wolf waits for a rabbit to turn its back. 

Which is why, when he woke up mere minutes before his alarm clock went off, he was so deeply insistent on getting up out of bed-- even when his shoulders felt more unevenly weighted than usual and his hip clicked with every movement, and even when his leg-- inverted as if to point itself at its front-facing twin-- debated very painfully that no, I don’t want to get up today when he tried to stand. 

He cursed his body for deciding that it would decide to get its revenge for the copious amounts of caffeine he had pumped into it and his abysmal, near-nonexistent sleep schedule on a school day. Similarly, he cursed aloud when his cane slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the floor at the fresh hour of five in the morning like it was trying to challenge his still-ticking alarm clock to a ‘who can be more disruptive’ contest. 

He was convinced the universe was playing a cruel joke on him when his clock seemingly accepted, its hammer smashing into the double bells and letting out a shrill 'Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!' in the form of incessant pealing. He had been so focused on glaring at his traitorous cane that the noise nearly had his skeleton leaping from his flesh; his scramble to shut off the alarm was ineffective, however, at avoiding rousing his roommate.

Truthfully, you had first been perturbed from your sleep when Viktor’s cane fell and he quietly cursed at it like it murdered his family. You were nearly asleep again when the alarm clock yanked you from the cradling arms of slumber, and deciding that you might as well wake up and get ready for the day, you yawned and sat up in bed. Drowsily rubbing your sleep-crusted eyes, you spared a glance over at Viktor’s side of the room, only to find him struggling to stand even after he picked up his cane. 

“Viktor?” You mumbled.

Viktor froze in place. “Go back to bed. I am fine,” he answered, words clipped and terse. He tried to stand once more, winced, and fell right back into bed.

Throwing the covers off of yourself, you swung your legs over the side of your mattress. “You are not fine,” you answered, frowning, “you look like you’re regretting being born. I told you those energy shots were a bad idea--”

“I am fine,” he snapped.

You paused halfway to your feet. Viktor immediately regretted his tone, watching you deflate in real time. He cleared his throat, his voice a bit softer. “That is-- I am only experiencing a little trouble. Some more pain than usual, that is all.”

You were quiet for a moment, then tilted your head skeptically. “Don’t tell me you’re planning on walking around all day in this condition.”

“I can do it well enough.” He huffed, cane wobbling beneath his grip.

“Viktor, you have to climb three flights of stairs just to get to your office.” You motioned vaguely in his direction. “You can’t even get out of bed.”

“This is a momentary lapse. Work takes precedence.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

Viktor stared at you. You stared at him. 

“I’ll get you an ice pack,” you said, rising to your feet and putting on your slippers. They were a gag gift from a friend for your birthday; fuzzy and white with beady black eyes and big pink noses. A tiny air pump embedded in the heels of the slippers caused their rabbit ears to pop up with each step you took towards the door. They were glorious, you reasoned. Viktor pretended to hate them. “You stay there.” 

Viktor only grunted in response, watching you grab the ice bucket beside the door. 

Off you went on your valiant quest for ice from the machine down the hall-- hair sticking up in all sorts of directions, pajamas crumpled from sleep, and bunny slippers playing peekaboo all the way there.

Viktor hadn’t moved from his sitting position once in the two minutes that you left. Poorly masked weariness stared up at you when you insisted he lay back while you filled an ice bag with the ice you’d retrieved. He obeyed without all that much protest, only partially insisting that he could have done everything himself. 

You didn’t take it to heart. If you were in constant pain, you figured you’d be pretty agitated, too. Carefully, you placed the ice bag beneath his lower back, where he once described to you that most of the pain flared, and a pillow beneath his hips to relieve the pressure of his own body on them.

“...Those are ridiculous,” he mumbles, staring down at your slippers. His words, however, are without venom, and his lips betray a smile.

“But they’re cheering you up,” you answer, grinning. “Want your blankets?”

He scoffs, averting his gaze, but his smile does not fade. “Yes, please.”

That was the thing about you. Usually, Viktor would have been utterly mortified at the thought of being cared for by someone. It more often than not felt more like a violation of autonomy and forceful infantilization than anything else.

It’s my leg that gives me trouble, he would always say, not my brain.

But not with you. You always asked. You always had the patience to listen. He supposed it wasn’t so bad to be cared for by you.

You pulled his blankets up to his shoulders and set his cane to lean on the side of his bed. Perfectly in reach, in case he wanted to try again later. You brought him his pain medication and a glass of water. 

“You do not have to do this,” he told you, swallowing down a pill the size of a quarter.

“Nobody has to do anything,” you answer, “but it’s still important to make the choice to act.”

Viktor blinked, amber eyes peering up at you as if you’d spoken to him in another tongue. “...You sound like a righteous novel protagonist.”

“Thanks. I’ve been reading.”

“You reminded me.” He smiled weakly at you. “Could you fetch a book for me? If I’m to be laid up all day, I would appreciate some entertainment.”

You nodded, taking one more look at him to ensure everything was in its place before turning off to the bookshelf in the far corner of your shared room. “Which do you want? We’ve got Theory of Quantum Mechanics; The Roots of Medicine: a Guide to Medicinal Herbs; The Glory of Life and Evolution…”

You paused, waiting for his insight. It didn’t come. Turning to glance at him to ask if he’s alright, you quickly silence yourself when you see his eyes shut and his lips parted, soft snores permeating the otherwise quiet space.

Sick days were not in Viktor’s vocabulary, but maybe, just this once, he could allow it if it was spent with you.

----

A/N: does anyone else remember those slippers from the 2010s that had the ears that flipped up every time you walked or was that a fever dream

[studentinpursuitofclouds]

Hi! So, I was wondering if you could come up with some headcanons for how the main bachelors and the wizard would help the farmer in the mines? I'm not sure if that makes 100% sense, but I had this idea yesterday that if Elliot were to end up in the mines he'd probably try and act all chivalrous, but he wouldn't be much help with combat 🤷‍♀️

Hey hey👋 That's a pretty funny scenario, and you described Elliott pretty much how I imagine our poet in that situation 😄

Thank you for the ask, and enjoy! ❤️

_____________________________

SDV bachelors (+ The Wizard) as Farmer's helpers on the Mines trip

Elliott:

Elliott will walk ahead of Farmer, unarmed but full of courage and thirst for adventure, loudly proclaiming that "he will protect a friend/partner!"

Admittedly, the writer's bravado will last until a large monster fly lands on his shoulder. A soul-crushing scream in three, two, one...

Not the best helper to carry the items needed for survival. He can certainly carry a couple elixirs and a first aid kit, but giving him a bag with loot or a steel sword won't work - too heavy.

In administering first aid to an injured Farmer... uh, not so good either. Sorry, Elliott.

But what a morale booster! Elliott will definitely brighten up their adventure with some his new poems!

And what a great story Elliott will write about his adventures with Farmer! (Maybe embellish the story a bit that he was the one standing bravely with sword, heh...)

Sam:

Sam can be someone who can play cheerful music on the guitar during a trip to the Mines, and with the same guitar to give a monster a bash on the head (he has enough strength).

He doesn't want to ruin a musical instrument though, and it's not as effective as a sword and dagger anyway. Fortunately, he has no problem carrying around relatively light weapons.

Sammy is quite capable of covering his friend/lover's back, lest there be an ambush.

Although, Sam will often be distracted ("ooh, look at the gems on the wall!", "oh, a real slime", "wow, a shadow man- woah! and with a crossbow!")

But he also feel bad attacking some monsters, especially shadow people.

Farmer doesn't have to worry about provisions, as the guitarist always carries snacks and goodies (usually it's mini pizzas or chocolate bars, but oh well, it's better than nothing.)

Harvey:

Harvey is still in complete shock at how he ended up with Farmer in the Mines, in this dangerous place. And yet here he is - with a huge first-aid kit in his hands and trembling knees.

The doctor is perfect in the healer role, and will instantly give first aid to Farmer, whether it's a serious wound or not.

But to defend Farmer, or even himself, with a dagger... I'm sorry, but Harvey doesn't have the guts.

And to be honest, the constant stress and fear of being attacked by a slime or something worse can prevent him from helping Farmer as a doctor too.

What Harvey definitely succeeds at is grabbing Farmer by the arm so they can both get the hell out of the place!

Hopefully, Farmer will compensate his friend for this "adventure," because Harvey is going to need a lot of sedation after this. And a vacation.

Sebastian:

Surprisingly, Sebastian had made himself an obsidian dagger not just to have a beautiful thing - he had practiced defending himself because he wanted to return to the Mines.

Yes, to return, but after that incident with the stone crab emo realized that there was no way to do it without a weapon. And since it just so happened that his friend/lover also wanted to go to Mines, why not together.

Farmer will definitely be surprised that Sebby can defend himself quite well against weak monsters without their help. With the ice levels starting, though, the local emo will definitely have a hard time.

Not the most athletic, but can carry a small bag of loot and a couple of elixirs.

For someone who isn't adventurous, Sebastian is quite a nice sidekick to Farmer's adventures.

Alex:

Considering how athletic and strong Alex is, he can hold even a hammer without much difficulty and drive monsters away from Farmer with his weapon.... it would seem at first glance.

In fact, when the athlete and Farmer met their first opponent in the Mines, Alex doesn't know how to use weapons properly and used... his bare hands. A couple right hooks and the monster fly is defeated!

Yeah, except it doesn't work with other monsters.

But Alex is the perfect candidate to help Farmer carry all the loot, if there is no more room for ore or gems in their backpack. However, in this case Alex will have his hands full of bags of loot, and even self-defense is out of the question. It all depends on Farmer now.

The inhabitants of the Mines are scary, but Alex won't be so easily scared. Moreover, he won't leave his friend/partner here alone.

Shane:

"We're fucked," were Shane's first thoughts as he and Farmer arrived.

Chicken man had agreed to become Farmer's assistant, as they promised good pay, and he thought it couldn't get any worse than his job working for a Joja.co. Wrong.

Shane, as it turns out, is surprisingly good with a sword. Though that had more to do with his desire not to die here and trying to survive. Don't expect much in the way of first aid either - Shane knows some basic rules, like dealing with scratches, that's all.

Carrying a bag of loot... What is he, a mule for Farmer?

Shane was torn between wanting to get out of here as soon as possible and not wanting to leave his friend alone, even though that idiot Farmer was the reason Shane was in this hellhole.

He'll take some of the loot as a reward and never go to the Mines again, nope. Yeah, not a really good helper...

The Wizard:

Rasmodius is perfect for the role of Farmer's partner during their adventures in the Mines.

The Wizard is able to cast fireballs at enemies, heal all of Farmer's wounds, and teleport them and himself back outside if their quest is over.

There is one small nuance though.... Rasmodius won't work for free.

Yes, you heard him right, because he's wasting his time here in the dark Mines, even though he should be in his tower making elixirs from solar essences.

What? "His duty to protect the Valley"? He's doing it - keeping monsters out of the Pelican Town. The Mines are the responsibility of the Guild, and so is Farmer's.

For his services as a battle wizard, Rasmodius will ask for some gems and monster loot that he and Farmer will find in their adventures - it will definitely be needed for his spells and potions. Quite expensive, but it's worth it.