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just-some-random-blogger · 6 months ago

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Tormented Spirit | 8

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 3k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, smut (piv, morning sex, come marking?, cock warming) DOWN BAD!DAEMON, DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: this chapter became 6k+ words so i had to split it T_T. at least that means i'll be updating relatively faster lol. i hope you enjoy since all the fluff is here HAHAHAH and if you do, please leave a comment/reblog to let me know <3 <3 <3. once again, the high valyrian is internet translated, so it might be wrong. | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching

Otto nods as he passes a group of clergy members. He makes his way down the otherwise empty temple, eyes forward as he clutches a firm figurine in his hand. He grunts as he gets down on his knees in front of a fresco of the seven pointed star.

He lights three candles in front of him, saying three different names each time. He places the figurine he brought with him beside them. Of course, it wasn't a figurine but a woolen doll. He says another name, your name, then starts this prayers.

"Father, guard my family through this trying time, my son, my daughters... my daughter," he brushes the face of the doll then closes his eyes. "Stranger, put the souls of the departed Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon to rest.

"Warrior, strengthen my daughter and spare her and her unborn child from succumbing the same fate. Mother, grant her comfort and good health through her journey to motherhood. Crone, guide her and grant her good discernment, so that she may not fear the unknown. Maiden, preserve her beauty, her light."

He opens his eyes and stares at the point that represented the Smith. He grits his teeth before sighing in defeat, "Smith, fortifier... mender... I beg," he sighs, "mend her heart. Mend her body. I beseech you. Let not my prayer fall deaf on your ears any longer."

The candlelight before him glows as he waits another day for the answer to his decade old prayer.

Meanwhile, the candles in your room have long been put out, including the one you normally keep lit by your bed. You are first to rouse today, and yet you could not rise from bed, as you were pressed beneath the body of your husband. Daemon sighed contentedly on your chest, one arm and leg draped over you. You have never slept together (or so you think) so you figured that Daemon probably moved a lot in his sleep, which is how you both ended up in this position.

You stare at the top of his head, continuing to brush through his silver hair. In truth, you did not want to rise. You wanted to stay in this peace, in this stillness. It would not last long, you knew it— you dreaded it.

Goosebumps form on your skin when you feel your husband's hand brush over your belly before hooking on to your hip. You begin to feel your heart race as you remember what your father told you the night before.

How could you tell him? How could you possibly tell Daemon that you were with child, when you knew he was so diligent in assuring you would not be? Was it even possible to carry his seed when he never finished inside you?

Against yourself, you remember the day you caught Gwayne kissing a lady behind a curtain, and how you attacked him because you thought he had gotten her pregnant. The poor girl ran away as you beat your twin, and Gwyane defended himself, saying that's not how you do it. You did not know any better, so you told him you did not believe him and nearly forced him to go to your father to announce you would be marrying the lady. He, in turn had to explain what he knew, to both your horror.

You were no fool to simply believe the words of your stupid twin, so you made it your mission to find out the truth. After sneaking books from the Citadel itself, you read many a book only to find out your twin was telling you the truth.

That was why dread rippled across your skin, for could there ever be a world where Daemon purposefully pulled out and is not angered by this news, where he does not accuse you of infidelity?

You go between worry and peace as you brush your fingers across the prince's skin. You try to convince yourself that all will be well, but each time you do, another part of your mind raises that nothing's ever been well with you. You decide then, even if just for this moment, you will pretend the calmness of your husband will remain.

But the world is cruel, for at this same moment, Daemon awakens.

He stirs with a groan, face rubbing against your sternum. The robe you had on was no longer covering your chest. Your heart races as he looks up at you, his violet eyes still sleepy, "sȳz ñāqes."

You do not understand, but you assume it means good morning, and so you say, "good morning."

Daemon sighs as he pushes himself up, removing his pants. You tense as he comes atop you and kisses your neck. He nudges your head to the side with his own and soon, he pushes your legs apart with his knees.

Your hands come to his hip bones, where you then dig your nails in, making him groan. You whimper when you feel him grind his groin into yours. He is half-hard.

"Sesīr isse ñuha ēdrugon, jaelan ao." Even in my sleep, I want you.

You whimper yet again when he begins to rock against you, digging your nails deeper into him.

"Gīda ilagon," he mutters as he fully parts your robe, repeating in common tongue, "calm down."

You are taken aback by how he pecks your lips once before kissing your neck again.

"Dreamt about fucking your pretty cunny," he mutters lowly between kisses, "wanna make it real."

His words make you ache and throb. In a way, you were comforted by the thought Daemon wanted you, even if it was just your body. You close your eyes and let yourself relax. You sigh against his ear, nuzzling into his shoulder, and brush your hand up his back. As your hands trail to his biceps, his skin breaks out with gooseflesh and a high pitched whimper leaves his lips.

"Fuuuuuuck," he whines out rather pathetically.

There is a languidness to his movements unlike you've ever experienced. His normally brash and pointed demeanor is soft and gentle, his kisses even more so. There is no sense of urgency whatsoever as he rolls his hips against you. If you didn't know any better, you would have believed that he wanted to savor the moment.

He did. He wanted to savor your body, as dreaming of it had him feeling some indistinguishable way. You would never know this though, for he would never tell you.

By the time you've become shaky and your cunt was absolutely sopping wet because of Daemon's now fully hard cock rubbing up against it, he finally pushes into you, drawing out a deep groan from your throat. You tighten your legs and arms around him and your teeth sink into his shoulder.

Daemon grips your thighs as he thrusts into you. He barely pulls out, seemingly determined to go deeper and deeper each time, wanting— needing to be pressed flush into you. His hands sneak beneath you, fingers raking up your shoulder blades to your nape before tangling into your brown hair. He breathes heavily against your ear as your bodies grow hotter and hotter.

You both remain in this snug position, doing this constricted dance until your bellies begin to burn. He doesn't speed up at all or pull out any more than he already has. You feel your body begin to tense and your climax begin to build, and then, just then, a spirit overcomes Daemon.

The next moment, he has his hand on your jaw, forcing your head back. Just as you reach your peak, he pulls out and thrusts his wet cock on your slick folds, once, twice, until his hard member is soft and twitching. His load shoots out up to your chest and sputters down on your belly, garnering a surprised gasp from you. It's hot and viscous against your skin and you wonder what it would have felt like had he released in you. There's so much of it too.

"Fuck, fuck, fu-" Daemon repeats, thinking the exact same thing you were.

You expect him to roll over, because there is no way he wouldn't after soiling you, but you gasp yet again as he comes crashing down on you, skin sticking with a squelch.

He is arrested by your warmth and wants nothing but to plunge into you again. So, in his greed, he grabs his still twitching cock and pushes it into you, releasing a long and throaty groan as he does so. It makes you tremble and whimper his name. You were not expecting the intrusion, so you brush your cheek against his, hoping he understands to give you a moment of repose before going again.

After a while, though you still felt tender from your orgasm, you brush your cheek against him once more, signaling you were ready for him again.

He does the strangest thing however, and simply brushes his cheek back. He pulls his head back, looking down at you, "litse riña." Pretty girl.

You notice the softness of his violet eyes and knit your brows at it. He is so overwhelming you cannot help but kiss him. There was still remnants of morning breath in your mouths, but neither of you cared.

Daemon is loathe to have you pull away. He leans into your touch as you brush his unruly hair back. You slowly shake your head, "I do not understand, my prince."

"iksā sīr rāpa se bāne," you are so soft and warm. He brushes your noses together, "ñuha ābrazȳrys," my wife.

A line forms between your brows at the foreign tongue. You wait for him to translate as he brings his hand to your cheek. He stares at you for a long moment, thumb brushing your skin.

He makes no attempt to decode the High Valyrian for you, and soon, a knock comes upon your door.

Daemon is instantly irritated as he glares over his shoulder, muttering, "who the fuck is that?"

"My servants. I-"

Before you could even finish, your two servant girls are waking in, and Daemon watches them as they head for your bathroom, horribly and painfully unaware of him. He waits for them to reemerge, and the moment they do, he is instantly screaming, "FUCK OFF, CUNTS! THE DOOR'S CLOSED FOR A REASON."

You hear their gasps, squeals, and apologies before scurrying off, slamming the door behind them as they did.

Instantly, yet again, Daemon relaxes and nuzzles against your neck.

"D-Daemon," you whisper, sinking your fingers into his long hair, "they normally wake me up at-"

"I don't give a fuck," he quips, tightening his hold on you, "they'll know better now."

You clench your jaw and sigh, making mental note to apologize to your girls for the prince's actions.

You begin to doze off, as does Daemon in all his gluttonous glory. The two of you stay in bed until lunch time, which is far longer than you've ever personally stayed.

Arryk, who had been stationed outside your door for a while now, is concerned by this. He raps at the entrance to your room and calls your name. When he receives no response, he peaks inside and inspects the stillness of it all. Unnerved by the idea you were sleeping in, he thinks the worse and walks in, calling your name again. His breath is forced down his throat when he sees the flash of white hair on the bed. He sees a hand rub down a toned back and he immediately reels back, quiet and as quick as he possibly can.

You wake the second time because of the growling of your stomach. It is loud and painful, so much so, it wakes your husband.

He groans, brushing his nose against you, "hungry?"

You huff, craning your neck to look at him, finding his closed eyes, "clearly, I'm starving."

A rich chuckle rumbles from his chest. He opens his eyes and they twinkle with mischief, "I could feed you something meaty."

Your face contorts, "I do not think you'd want me to bite your cock, my prince."

Daemon laughs, hard enough to fully awaken him. He wheezes, and rolls of your chest, "I did-" sigh, "not say it was-" wheeze, "my cock."

You hum, "oh, of course not. Apologies."

Your sarcasm only maddens him further into amusement.

You take this as a chance to wriggle away from him, and so you do. The semen still on your skin is tepid and pasty as it smears against your chests. Your robe is completely lose as you come to a stand. You decide not to dirty your garment with Daemon's seed by covering yourself, so you head for the bathroom with your robe open.

You gasp at the swiftness of how your are grabbed and pulled back. Your body collides into Daemon's chest. Your care for your satin robe if for naught, because it sticks on his come anyway. Daemon's is hypnotized by your scent. He is quick to brush your hair over shoulder and mumble against your nape, "you wound me with your eagerness to flee me, wife."

His hands come to squeeze your breasts and you whimper as you turn to him. You knit your brows and pout, "that is not true."

"No?" he says a little louder than he ought as his emotions slightly get ahead of him, "are you not running from me this moment?"

You frown and fully face him, having to peel your robe off his chest as you do, "I'm simply going to bathe." You stare at his chest, "you've made a mess of me."

Daemon tilts his head, "not nearly enough, in my opinion."

You find the self-satisfied grin on his face, "you should too bathe with me."

"Mmm, well then," he takes your hand, "bathe we shall."

The water that your servants had brought was now cold, but you both made do with what you had. Daemon is simultaneously unsurprised and taken aback by how you tend to him first, he does not know why. You've bathed him once before, and yet it somehow feels different. You scrub his chest with cloth and inspire him to do the same for you. You lean into his touch as he washes you off, and it makes his stomach roll.

He takes a good look at you, your skin, the marks he left on it, your nose, your knees, your hair, everything, and he cannot believe something so... so immaculate, so resplendent could be borne from a man so detestable.

"You are not your father's daughter," he says so casually.

You look up at him, freezing because of his random sentiment.

"You are the gods promise to me. A woman made to sate my fire."

Your brows knit at his words. You tilt your head and it makes him nearly goes mad. How darling you ask, "I sate your fire?"

He hums and pulls you into him, kissing your arm as he did, "stoke, perhaps, is truer."

Your breath hitches when he brings you to his lap. He sighs as he feels your flesh against his, it wont be long until he's hard all over again. He licks a stripe up your left breast, "I am, in fact, insatiable."

Your heart races and he peppers kisses up your neck. You lean your forehead against his after kissing your lips. You whisper in earnest, "I will try."

Daemon pulls back, hands coming to your neck as he looks at you.

"I will try to sate you."

Fuck. The thought should have made him laugh, but it doesn't. It makes him burn. He cannot say anything, for his mouth seeks yours. He kisses your lips and you two sequentially spend another hour or so turning the water warm as it splashes all over the floor.

You're antsy and eager to feast by the end of it all.

You help each other get dressed, and Daemon finds the way you hastily button his doublet ever-so-endearing. When it's his turn to help, he shushes you and rubs your shoulders before securing your corset from behind, "your food will not fly off the window."

You rub your aching stomach, "I pray it flies into my mouth soon."

He snickers as he finishes tying your laces.

You quickly run towards the vanity and hastily begin to brush your still damp hair.

He watches you bounce your leg and the faintest of smiles graces his lips. He watches your chest begin to rise and fall rather quickly, and soon his brows furrow. He walks up behind you, "aeritta run." Restless thing.

He takes your hand and your jaw, but it is unlike most times he does so. His touch is gentle. He does not force you to hand your brush or look forward, but you do. You look at each other from the mirror; your chest continues to heave.

"Paez ilagon," Daemon enunciates, "say it for me, won't you?"

Your brows furrow in slight confusion. You release a breath, "pez ilegon."

"Paez," he corrects.

"Paez."

"Good," he nods, "ilagon."

"Il... Ilagon."

"Rōvēgrior," Daemon leans in and mumbles against your temple, "excellent. Now..." he kisses your temple, "once more: paez ilagon."

You take a breath, doing your best to mimic his accent, "pa...ez i- ... lagon."

"Arlī," again, he motions with his pointer, "speak confidently."

"Daemon."

"You can do it," he tilts his head at your reflection, "paez ilagon."

You sigh and nod your head, "paez ilagon."

His violet eyes twinkle, "rōvēgrior," excellent, he claps his hands, "spoken like a true Valyrian."

You turn to him, breath hitching at the sight of his smile, "wha-"

Daemon takes your face and makes you turn forward.

You look at his reflection and grip your skirt, fearing you'd upset him. But then he begins to style your hair and butterflies overcome your belly. You try to ignore the thump of your heart by clearing your throat, "what d-does it mean?"

"Paez ilagon is slow down."

"Ahhh," your jaw drops in slight embarrassment, "I see."

Daemon points, "hand me your pin."

You get the hair pin on the vanity and hand it over, "and the other one?"

"Hmm?"

"Ro... roz- rovevegregor."

Daemon tilts his head as he chuckles through his nostrils, a soft smile remaining on his face as he finishes securing your hair in a similar manner he does himself.

You witness all of this and your heart skips a beat.

"Rōvēgrior," he repeats, "try to roll your tongue."

"..."

"Go on."

"RRRRozeofoieve-"

He laughs and takes a hair tie from the table. He quickly does his own hair then takes you by the hand. He ushers you to the door as he continues to chuckle, "we should get you something to eat. You sound ill."

You are hypnotized by his melodic laugh. You don't dare interrupt it, so you whisper under your breath, mostly to yourself, "but what does it mean?"

"Excellent," he says, hearing your whisper. He opens the door for you, "it means excellent, gevie."

You do not notice Arryk as you exit your chambers, "but what about that?"

Daemon does not notice him either, "what?"

"Ge- gevie?"

"Gevie?" he repeats.

You nod.

Arryk bows and greets you, "princess."

You turn to him as he bows again, "my prince."

Daemon does not spare him a glance. Beautiful, it meant, but he instead tells you, "it is a secret."

You do not respond to Daemon, but he does not mind. He is fully content to stare at you. You smile at your ward, taking a second to guess who it is, "good morn, ser. Are you... Erryk?"

Arryk examines you, finally breathing a sigh of relief to know you are unharmed. He is also glad to see you are not dressed in attire that... exposes the good works of your husband. In the same second, he notices your said husband, and how keenly is gaze is set upon your beaming form. He clenches his jaw, "nay, your grace. Neither am I my brother, nor is it morning."

"Oh," you purse your lips, "my apologies, dear Arryk."

Daemon quickly pulled out of his haze, raising a brow at dear Arryk, "you may go."

Arryk turns to him.

"I will keep my wife company today," he says, wasting no more time in idle chatter, taking you by the hand.

You both walk off and you offer Arryk a smile and nod in regard.

Arryk clenches his jaw but forces himself to smile back at you. He is uneasy by the prospect, knowing how fickle and volatile Daemon can become regarding you. He stares at your joined hands as you walk away, deciding to trust the prince for your sake.

#daemon fanfic #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon smut #daemon targaryen smut #daemon fluff #daemon targaryen fluff #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon smut #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #daemon angst #daemon targaryen angst #daemon #daemon targeryan #house of the dragon

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regnumveritatis · 16 days ago

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Sacred flowers of Perse Athenide, lady of Loyalty and godmother of demigods. Aka my excuse to post rare or obscure botanical knowledge they're not asking me about at home and then combining it with Athenide lore.

I: The Sea Daffodil/Sand lily/ Minoan lily(Pancratium maritimum).

Yes: you are seeing this correctly. This flower grows on the beach naturally and has since prehistoric times. It was in fact the most coveted plant grown and cultivated on the Island of Crete (though they confused the species with Lilies due to their lily like fragrance hence their archeological denomination of Minoan lilies when discussing Cretan art). Its perfume graced the halls of kings and queens. Physicians used it to soothe pain and reduce fever. Priests infused it with incense for their festivals. As such it is present on much of its artwork be it Pottery:

Kamares crater banquet vessel with decorative lillies, recovered from Phaistos. Old-Palace period (1800-1700 BC)

Frescos:

Sea daffodils in a fresco section of "The House Of The Ladies" in Akrotiri (circa 1500 B.C.)

And most importantly, sea daffodils were also present in the royal amphoras:

Minoan fresco, commonly known as the "Prince of the Lilies," from the Cycladic Town Frescoes in Akrotiri, Thera

That being said, my take on the Athenide having this for a sacred flower would be that Apollo created it as a bridal gift for Perseleia. Of course no wedding ever took place but the flower remains as a sign of Apollo's enduring loyalty towards the lady of demigods. This can work for several reasons.

1) Propagation:

The seeds of the sea daffodil are black as night, imitating Loyalty's lustrous ebony braids. In addition to the seed's first black, they are held together by an outer protective black cover that protects them from scorching hot sand on summer days. When ripe, the seeds simply drop down beneath the plant much like a tress as the pins and ribbons are removed. Whilst the sea daffodil can tolerate temperatures of -5 degrees Celsius, the seeds require a hot summer day to mature. Thus, the seeds are an allegory to the gentle caress of Apollo stroking/braiding her ebony locks, untying them in the privacy of their wedding chamber. A promise of intimacy that will be expressed in divine and mortal planes. It can even work for an Athenide twins au because the golden capsule can represent Arsinoe in the bridal place of honor preparing Perse for their weddings.

2) Shape:

Those of us who had a bell chorus in school or were obsessed with the closing scene of Cinderella will note the fact sea daffodils corona resembles the shape of a bell. Animal bells weren't popularized until the Roman empire and the large cathedral bells that chime on Hollywood weddings wouldn't exist till the middle ages. So what bell would Apollo be thinking if purposely forming his love token to Perse? The answer is this:

The greek kodon (also known as the spartan bell during the Classical period) was used primarily for two reasons: the first was for festivals, and the second was as a votive offering. In fact, the largest collection of ancient greek bells from Sparta consists of votive offerings as the bells are all inscribed to Athena Ergane in a rare show of devotion to the lady of Athens. Here, Apollo has crafted a living bell for Perseleia, meaning he will spend the rest of his life devoted to her as goddess and wife. Truth will lay himself at the altar of Loyalty.

3) Color:

Deliberately, the flower has only six petals. Six in arithmancy (which would later become numerology) being the number of Aphrodite and symbolizing the union between partners. The flower save the pollen is coloured white in recognition of her chtonic duties, which Apollo does not shy away from. A point further emphasized when this flower's buds appear only after its leaves have withered and will reemerge with the blossom. Its gold pollen can also serve as a statement from Apollo saying that he recognizes the sisters are a non-negotiable set, just as he and Artemis are a set. The green of the leaves and stems serves to highlight the fruitfulness of their godly domains. And the curls of the corona are exactly 10, the number of perfection.

4) Blooming Times:

The Sea Daffodil is one of the few flowers that bloom late in the year in the Mediterranean region, although its presence is obvious throughout the year because its long, tough leaves can be found on beaches right up until the plant produces flowers between July and October. This means it will last till after Perseleia has left for her father's domains, and since it grows on the sand, she could technically take it with her to Atlantis should she wish. They can even grow beside the final steps of her temple stairs, which lead into the ocean.

And there you have it, folks: my explanation for why the og simp would create the sea daffodil for his lady love. How do you think she felt after seeing it before the bird race?

#botanicalbeauty #perse athenide #perpollo #athenide au #minoan #ancient greece #athenide twins au #flowers of tumblr

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pastabaguette · 8 months ago

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question as someone looking to make my own mspfa at some point how do ppl make the like. animated gif panels. like what program is that in how do you make those. seek the highblood looking great btw I don't think I've ever seen an au like it before and I'm curious to see where it goes ty

hi! it’s very simple, really: all you need is any program that lets you create frames and export gifs. personally i use adobe fresco on ipad (it is free), but there are many options available.

now, mspfa panels are generally 650 x 450 pixels. i’ll finish up the foreground completely before moving on to the gif part. i always keep the foreground and background on separate layers. then, I’ll take the foreground part, create a duplicate (just in case, so i can keep the original) and merge it all into one layer.

if i have multiple pieces of the foreground that i want to move separately (example below; the leg, head, body, and text move different amounts), i’ll create an individual layer for each of them, to make animating easier.

after i have the foreground merged, i have a static version of the finished product. all that’s left is to make it move.

this is very easy: i just create a duplicate frame of the one i already have, then on that second frame, move whichever piece i’d like to move in the final product a few pixels from its’ original position. now you should have a two frame gif with a sort of “shaking” effect. note: most mspa panels are animated in 20 fps.

for more complicated movements, all you need is a few more frames. equius’s arm uses three frames here, just to make it look more “wobbly.” nepeta spinning uses four frames, two of her facing up, and two of her facing down. this is just so the individual positions are clearer, but to try and keep the crispy kind of mspa animation style.

here’s a helpful page with more information on mspa style animation.

if anyone wants me to clarify anything, let me know! i’ll try my best to answer it.

#ask #animation #mspfa

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greennoobartist · 1 month ago

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AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

YOU GET ME!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!! BSJSOSOSKSKKSJSKJSJ IDK FOR YOU O LITERALLY FORGOT IT'S MAY UNTIL I SAW THE UPDATE ON MY DASH XD

But AAAAAAHH DID YOU SEE TH3SE EXPRESSIONS!??

DAYYUM LIKE LOOOKK!! Twi looks so tired on the last one and Sky is literally D:> on the second one sksnsokdoeoeo

#fresco answers #Fresco's chatterbox #Lu update #Lu update spoilers #AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA SCREAMING OVER THESE NEVER GETS OLD!!!#JOJO'S ART IS IMPROVING AND I LOVE SEEING IT!!!!#BUT EVERY UPDATE IS JUST AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

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bloodmoonmary · 5 days ago

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MEGALOMANIAC, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ better than the best and ⠀⠀⠀harder than the hardest . . . 𓉳

. . . she had always been their dove — white, untouched, luminous with something otherworldly that no one could name, only follow. there were children in the family with sharp tongues and biting laughter, boys who broke windows with stones and girls who vanished into their own anger. but mary dove molloy — no, she was different. her hair always tied with silk ribbons, her voice a soft call at dusk. even when she stole, and she did — chocolates wrapped in gold foil, roses still wet with dew from the corner florist — she did it as if it were poetry, a stanza in motion.

during the school months, she lived inside books. not just read them — lived them. a girl among pages, her fingertips smudged with graphite, her mind trailing sentences as if they were stars behind a curtain. the library was more than a building. it was a sanctuary, a cathedral without gods. she learned the smell of dust and ink, she memorized the quiet pattern of turning pages. and when the seasons shifted and the air grew warm, she vanished into gardens. there were summer houses in provence, lemon groves in sicily, vineyards whose silence wrapped around her like a shawl. it was there her stepfather cooked — not simply meals, but memories. risottos that smelled of childhood, sauces that made her feel safe, full, beloved.

she was the perfect little girl — the family’s favorite, though no one dared to say it aloud. even when she and her cousins tiptoed into trouble, into candy shops and perfume counters and whispered chaos, she somehow remained untouched by blame. mary could lie with the grace of saints. she had eyes that made people forgive.

and then school ended. her handwriting grew neater, her skirts longer. she was not a girl anymore but something finer, quieter — a swan gliding into herself. they moved to rome for her — the whole family, like a small parade of devotion. her father said, we want to be near you for this part. and so for four years she painted shadows, studied frescoes, recited sappho beside fountains where lovers quarreled and children dropped coins. she lived in an apartment where the walls smelled of lavender and old smoke, where her notebooks were stacked like prayers.

because it was always the writing — that was the truth of her. from the beginning, from the moment she first held a pen and saw that it obeyed her. she wrote in the early mornings, half-awake, still in the silk of her dreams. she wrote in lectures, in gardens, in trains, on napkins. and what she wrote was not light. it was heavy, gold-tipped, full of sorrow that did not belong to her, yet pulsed in her veins. sonnets, poems, phrases that looped back like waves.

and so, when the book came — it came like a sigh, or a prayer answered before it was asked. she did not expect success. she expected only to be heard. but her words bloomed across the continent. europe first — france, where critics called her a voice of tragic purity; italy, where her face was printed beside her poems like a saint; and then the americas, where booksellers kept her volume in the window with candles around it, as though she were holy. she was not holy. she was just... mary.

in some far place — new york, or perhaps lisbon — her uncle daniel molloy read her book and wept. he had been a reporter once. now he was something less certain, a man whose past had cracked open and shown its teeth. he had daughters who no longer spoke to him. regrets piled like dead leaves. but mary dove, his niece, his goddaughter — she was the thread that had not broken. she reminded him of something before the ruin, before the fire. and in her success, he found the tremor of his own voice again.

he wrote his own book — the book, some would call it. the confession. the revelation. the fracture line between shadow and light. he told the world about louis de pointe du lac, about blood and memory and the immortal ache of being. and mary — who had grown used to fame, but not numb to it — read his story not with fear but a strange heat in her chest: pride, yes, and also curiosity. there was something calling her back, back to the place she had once stolen chocolate, back to new orleans, back to the garden where her life had first unfolded.

she did not pack much. she did not tell many. she returned almost silently, like a ghost slipping through the veil.

and there — waiting, furious, wounded beyond words — was arun, amadeo, armand. the broken devil.

the vampire who had made her uncle, against will or reason. armand, whose beauty was a blade, whose eyes held centuries of hunger and disdain. he saw her not as mary, not as dove, not as anything she had ever been — but as a symbol. a threat. a spark that should not have been lit. and so, with all the calm of a god bored with mortals, he did to her what he had done to daniel.

he took her life. gave her eternity.

but eternity, as mary would learn, was not a cathedral. it was not a garden. it was not a book.

eternity was a scream held behind the teeth. it was thirst. it was the ache of memory when there is no longer a heart to remember. and yet — even still — there was poetry in her. even undead. even cursed. in the hours before dawn, she still wrote. and her voice, once delicate, now sounded like silver shattered on marble.

she would meet louis, later. soft-eyed, tragic. he would look at her with knowing. he had suffered enough to recognize what she had lost. and lestat, of course — wild, magnetic, full of laughter that could slice you open. he would dance with her before he tried to destroy her. he would kiss her hand and then bite it. armand, her maker, would never quite look at her directly again. their bond too complex to name — was it punishment? protection? a twisted kind of love?

mary dove molloy, once the girl of gardens and libraries, became something else. something not quite monstrous, but quite divine. and still, within her, the ink pulsed. still, she wrote. in the ache of each line, in the hush of each stanza — the world might still remember her, not as a vampire, but as a girl who once lived among roses and wrote the truth as if it could save her. it didn’t, but killed her and sooner or later she would discover that being a vampire was much more being her destiny than ever be human.

inspired by @tvangelique and @girlberrie <3

#desired reality #loa #shifting #dr #manifesting #shiftblr #law of assumption #reality shifting #desired self #dr intro #dr self #manifestation #shifting community #anti shifters dni #shifting blog #shiftingrealities #shifting consciousness

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lafaiette · 8 months ago

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Some spoilers for Veilguard

I'm still convinced Solas was the happiest he had ever been when he was in the Inquisition.

Addressed as a scholar and wise expert of the Fade, asked for advice on magic and lore, surrounded by people who can potentially become dear friends and respected companions, potentially falling in love with Lavellan and being seen by her as simply Solas, and not the rebel god Fen'Harel. Some people consider him a bit odd, yes, and some can't help but refer to him as "messere", after witnessing his wisdom and knowledge, and talent with ancient elven frescoes.

"He wants to give wisdom, not orders", Cole says in Trespasser, and we're all sure he's referring to him, to what really drives him, his true passion: learning and sharing knowledge, asking and answering questions, not planning rebellions, killing, and lying. And for some time, Solas was able to live that simple life, so be what he really wanted to be: a man, not a god.

Now, in Veilguard, he's forced back on the path of rebel and trickster, and he's treated just as the Evanuris treated him during his rebellion.

Everyone in Thedas is looking for him (the Venatori, the Antaam, the ex-Inquisition); everyone is talking about him, everyone knows what he did (the Veil Jumpers in Arlathan say he's "a bastard", "the god of lies", but acknowledge the good reasons behind his rebellion); his agents kill and steal in his name; Rook and their companions explore his main base and peer into all his memories and regrets without permission, because they see him as an adversary, so they feel allowed to do that.

He's not the nondescript, respected hermit mage of the Inquisitor's inner circle anymore - he's a well-known, feared, hated, misunderstood figure once again, forced to constantly flee and hide in dangerous, ruined, forgotten places (in the comic The Missing he sleeps in a small room underground, surrounded by darkspawn!).

He's under the spotlight once again, starting a ritual he doesn't really want to do ("Do you believe that I would do this if there were some other, better option?").

I think he will never be able to be friends with Rook, at least not in the same way he was able to be friends with the Inquisitor and the Inquisition companions, because his full identity is out in the open now - he's too important, too awe-inspiring to be simply seen as Solas the Fade expert. The Inquisitor, Varric, and Harding are the only ties to that innocent time he has left.

So I'm hoping he will be finally allowed to be who he really wants to be at the end of Veilguard: not a feared divine-like figure, but a scholar who wants to spread wisdom and live in peace.

#dragon age #da:i #da:tv #da:tv spoilers #solas #solavellan #dragon age: the veilguard spoilers #dragon age spoilers #i'm still convinced he was a spirit of wisdom or something very similar #summoned by mythal to fight that war that led the evanuris to being seen as gods #his plans never work because they are the farthest thing from his true nature #fighting and rebelling and giving orders and killing and lying: he's just not made for all of this #he tries and tries and it all goes to shit every time #because those actions don't represent what he embodies #knowledge and wisdom and learning are what he's made of

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slaytheusurper · 2 months ago

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⭑ Imperatrix ⭑ (Domina Mea, Chapter Ten)

Masterlist

A/N: Finally it's here, and I hope it's as accurate as I could make it!

Pairing: Emperor Geta & Caracalla x Noble!Reader

Warnings: NSWF, TW for torture methods and graphic violence, graphic religious sacrifice, making out, kissing, face sitting/riding, tongue fucking, dom caracalla, caracalla cumming hands free, sub geta, dom reader, titty sucking, mommy kink, handjob (m receiving)

Summary: Macrinus has been found, announcements have been made, this union and the sacrifice it will incorporate will change Roman history...

Word count: 7.7K

Heavy footsteps strode through the marble halls of Palatine Hill, the lingering scent of oil lamps and myrrh clinging to the air. The torches flickered against the intricate frescoes lining the corridors, their golden light dancing over depictions of gods and warriors, figures of glory, conquest, and divine favor.

The Emperors flanked you on either side, their hands resting protectively on your shoulders, their presence grounding you amidst the turmoil in your mind. The chill of the evening air filtered through the open windows, but the warmth of their touch anchored you, a silent reassurance of your place beside them.

Yet, even as they guided you toward Geta’s bedchamber, your thoughts spun in a storm of uncertainty.

Never did you think a simple visit to celebrate your father’s victory in Numidia would lead to this, into the arms of Rome’s most powerful men. You felt like an entirely different woman, reshaped by the brutal games, by the whispered promises and possessive hands of the Emperors.

The past you had lived, the solitude of the Aurelian Estate, seemed like a distant world now. The echoes of your mother’s absence, the vast, empty halls where only duty had filled your days… could you ever return to that life? More importantly, did you even want to?

The answer came easily.

No.

The grand doors of Geta’s chamber shut behind you, muffling the sounds of the bustling palace beyond. Inside, the chamber was dimly lit, the scent of cedarwood and wine curling through the air, but an eerie silence settled between the three of you. Geta and Caracalla remained close, their gazes fixed on you, but neither spoke.

Then, something in you snapped.

You stepped away from them, your arms crossing over your chest as you struggled to steady your breath. Your mind swirled with everything that had happened, your father’s exile, the blood spilled in the Colosseum, the weight of a crown you never asked for but could no longer refuse. But above all else, one thought burned hotter than the rest.

Macrinus.

That man, that snake, still lived. Even now, he lurked somewhere in the shadows, scheming, waiting. He was the last remnant of this nightmare, the last enemy standing between you and temporary safety.

“I want him dead.”

Your voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. Yet, it carried the force of a command. You lifted your gaze, and though your heart thundered in your chest, your expression did not waver.

“I-” You inhaled sharply, pressing your nails into your palms. “I want Macrinus dead.”

The words hung between you all, thick and heavy.

Geta turned on his heel immediately, his features darkening with resolve. His white tunic rustled as he strode toward the door, the muscles in his jaw tightening as if relishing the taste of victory. He did not need to be told twice.

He was going to hunt Macrinus down like a rabid hound.

The door closed behind him, the finality of the sound reverberating through the chamber. You exhaled, releasing a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. But before you could gather yourself, Caracalla took a step closer.

The shift in the air was palpable.

His hand came to rest on your shoulder again, though this time, there was something else in his touch, hesitation? Concern? Perhaps even guilt. You turned your gaze to him, and he faltered for just a moment, his fingers tightening slightly as if he feared you would slip through them.

“What are you thinking?” His voice was quieter now, softer, yet it still carried that edge of possession.

Your lips parted, but you hesitated, trying to find the words. The truth was, you didn’t want to think anymore. Thinking only led to spiraling questions, to uncertainty, to the gnawing ache in your chest. Instead, you wanted something tangible, something certain.

“I don’t want to think right now,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve done enough of that.”

Something flickered in Caracalla’s dark eyes, something primal and consuming. His grip on you firmed, tilting your chin upward before his lips crashed against yours, desperation laced into every movement.

His hunger for you had only grown, fevered and insatiable. You had become an addiction to him, one he had no intention of giving up.

When he pulled back, his lips were swollen, his breathing unsteady. Yet, instead of returning to you immediately, he smirked, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone.

“Would you like your reward?” he murmured, voice husky, thick with desire.

Your breath hitched. The reminder of Geta’s earlier promise sent a jolt through you, and you found yourself nodding before you could stop yourself.

Caracalla wasted no time. His hands slid down to your hips, guiding you backward until the backs of your knees met the edge of Geta’s bed. A wicked gleam entered his gaze as he towered over you, his body heat seeping into your skin as he leaned down.

Surely Geta wouldn’t mind lending his bed for such a purpose?

You barely had time to process the thought before Caracalla descended, his lips tracing a searing path down your throat, leaving open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin. Your breath came out in shallow gasps, your fingers curling into the soft linens beneath you.

Breathy whimpers left your lips at the anticipation. A heated and exciting swell settling between your thighs. Caracalla must have noticed it too, as his hand now moved down your body.

His lips did not leave your neck as his hand went to tease your cunt over your clothes. You inhaled sharply as his hand cupped you more firmly. He was obviously getting impatient, as you knew him to be. Before he did anything else, he rolled off you.

As he laid on his back, his erection was suddenly much more obvious. He wore a mischievous smile on his face.

“Remove your garments and then do as I say.” He ordered, already panting himself. His eyes dark, pupils swallowing them whole, he watched you intensely.

Ever the obedient lady, you did as you were told. Getting up from the bed before deliberately making a show out of removing your clothes. Once you were fully naked, you dared crawl back to Caracalla.

“Good girl, now get on top of me.” He breathed out heavily.

His hands guided you as you placed yourself on his lap.

“Higher.” Caracalla commanded. You shifted your body until you sat on his chest, confused by his grin.

“Did I say stop? Higher, place your beautiful cunt on my lips.”

You blushed furiously at his words and certainly hesitated, before Carcalla grabbed the back of your thighs and moved you himself. Once you were positioned how he wanted, he lowered you onto his awaiting tongue.

A high pitched gasp left your lips, when his tongue made contact with your clit. Your hands grasping the gilded headboard of Geta’s bed. You knew you would need to hold on, especially when Caracalla began to lap his tongue eagerly against your nub.

“Fuck! Caracalla-”

You shivered when his tongue slid into your hole. He groaned from underneath you, his own cock straining against his undergarments, in desperate need for relief.

He started a steady rhythm, tongue fucking you as he listened to your responses. Your own little moans only made him harder. He barely noticed himself humping the air along with the movements of his tongue, too drunk on the slick of your cunt to focus.

He drank in all your moans as your thighs began to tremble from Caracalla’s movements.

“Please- Please-” You babbled, mind delirious with pleasure. This is exactly what you wanted, to think of nothing as your Emperor fucked you on his tongue.

Sadly Carcalla removed his mouth moments later, catching his breath before delving right back in. This time back to your clit. His hands were now firm on your hips, urging you to move back and forth on his tongue and lips, as if to ride him.

Which was exactly what he planned on. You were in too deep to care about hurting him, you were so close to cumming, nothing else mattered. You humped his face desperately, nails digging into the headboard.

The vibrations from Caracalla’s own moans as he humped the inside of his undergarments, stimulated you even more. With a loud cry your legs spasmed around Caracalla’s face, him speeding up to get you to saviour the pleasure as much as possible.

You were heaving when you climbed off of him, the Emperor himself as well. Having to catch his breath from his hard work.

“How was that for a reward?” Caracalla smiled, his eyes still closed. Heavy breaths still leaving his parted lips.

When you had somewhat calmed down, you were about to suggest riding another part of his body, however, you paused when you noticed the large sticky mess he had made of his clothes.

“My love? Did you- finish already?” You asked carefully, not wanting to in any way offend him.

“Mhm.” Carcalla sighed. Still in heaven it seemed. You were still on a high yourself as a spark of braveness spurred you on to remove his garments.

Working on removing them, Caracalla did not move an inch, nor said anything. When you had done so, he peeked under his lashes at your naked body hovering over him.

You gave him a lazy smile that he could somewhat make out in the now nearly dark bedchamber. He hissed however when he felt your warm tongue lick up his cum. The sensitive skin being stimulated again made him shudder.

He could feel the traces of your tongue along his skin, cleaning him up. He had planned to take you again, but his body would not allow him. Too tired of the events of the day, as well as of his second orgasm.

A surge of happiness bursted within him when he felt your warm body cuddle up to his side. He felt complete, his mind clear and quiet for once in his life. Maybe the gods had started to take a liking to him.

The morning air was thick with the weight of what had been set in motion. You were still tangled in Caracalla’s sheets, the warmth of his body pressed against yours.

The chamber was dim, the only light coming from the smoldering embers in the brazier, casting a soft, flickering glow over the room. The stillness was shattered when Geta’s firm hand shook his brother’s slumbering form.

Caracalla grumbled, stirring slightly, but you were already waking beneath the press of his arm. Your lashes fluttered, sleep still clinging to you, but the sight of Geta standing over the bed, eyes gleaming with a feverish excitement, had you fully awake in an instant.

Geta had not slept. How could he? Not when he had spent the night hunting down Macrinus, driven by a rage that had kept his mind sharp and his body relentless. And he had been successful.

He had only returned once he had personally ensured the traitor was locked away, shackled in the depths of the palace cellars where no light or mercy would reach him. Now, he was eager to share the news, to see the expression on your face when you realized the danger had finally been contained.

It was almost childlike, the giddiness he felt, the thrill of presenting his victory to you. But the feeling dimmed the moment he saw you lying there, curled against his twin.

He had known this was inevitable, after all, they would both be your husbands soon, but still, a sharp pang lanced through his chest. An irrational, possessive part of him bristled at the sight. He pushed the feeling down, forcing himself to focus on the triumph of the moment.

Caracalla groaned, rubbing the sleep from his face as you blinked up at Geta. Your careful smile, though hesitant, sent a new rush of satisfaction through him.

“I have found him,” Geta announced, his voice calm but brimming with pride. “Macrinus is secured in a cell near the cellars.”

At that, you bolted upright, the sheets pooling around your waist. Caracalla sighed beside you, still groggy, but Geta saw the fire in your eyes, the hunger for retribution that burned beneath your composed exterior.

“Will you kill him?” Your voice wavered slightly, betraying your nerves. “Today?”

Geta smiled, slow and deliberate. “Not yet,” he said, savoring the moment. “I want to get everything out of him that I can.” His gaze flicked to you, sharp and knowing. “But I won’t take all the fun. You, my love, get a turn as well.”

You hesitated, and Geta caught the flicker of uncertainty in your expression. But he also saw something else, curiosity, perhaps. A darkness you hadn’t yet acknowledged.

“I won’t force you,” he added smoothly.

Caracalla, now sitting up beside you, cracked his neck and exhaled, his irritation at being woken up now replaced with something more sinister. “We won’t kill him,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly. “Not before I’m done with him.”

A chill ran down your spine at the way he said it, and Geta relished the sight. You wanted Macrinus dead, but not like this. Not in the way they would do it.

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head. “I don’t want to be involved in that,” you admitted.

Neither of them argued. There was no need.

Geta cast one last glance at you before turning on his heel, his stride confident, electric with anticipation. Caracalla followed, stretching out his limbs lazily before dressing himself with a newfound energy. They would not waste time.

They left you behind, still sitting in the warmth of the sheets, but soon, you knew, the halls of the palace would be filled with screams.

Footsteps marched through the dimly lit corridors beneath the palace, the scent of damp stone and lingering blood faintly in the air. Geta moved with a controlled grace, his satisfaction barely concealed beneath a veil of eerie composure.

Caracalla followed close behind, his jaw clenched, fingers flexing restlessly, eager for his turn.

Geta and a now-dressed Caracalla made their way down the disorienting corridors of the cellars, their strides long and purposeful. They were eager for blood. For revenge.

When they arrived, a dozen or so Praetorians stood guard, ensuring Macrinus would never see the light of day again. Geta wore a sick smile on his face once he recognized that sweet look of fear on Macrinus’ darkened features.

"Did you enjoy your last day of freedom? Was it sweet? Was it fleeting? It doesn’t matter now, even the gods will not stop us. Your fate is in our hands," Geta sneered.

Macrinus did not speak. He had nothing to say. He did not want to speak. He would never admit he was afraid. He could only pray for a quick death.

Caracalla lunged forward. "You thought you were so clever, didn’t you? Thought you could play us? Lie to us? You don’t even deserve to die quickly," he seethed.

Geta’s hand shot out to his brother’s arm, holding him back, almost reminding him of why they were here. "He won’t die quickly, remember? No, he will need to live," Geta spoke, eerily calm. That seemed to steady Caracalla slightly.

"Shall I take the first turn? I’ll leave him to you after," Geta added after a few breaths.

Anticipation built in his stomach as Caracalla nodded and took a step back, letting his brother decide what to do first. Geta knew exactly what he was going to do, a Praetorian handed him a freshly sharpened dagger. That very same Praetorian entered the cell alongside Geta.

The guard pulled back Macrinus’ head, forcing his mouth open before clamping a pair of metal tongs onto his tongue, pulling it out as much as possible for the Emperor.

"For every lie you spoke, I shall take your tongue," Geta sneered before slicing the muscle from Macrinus’ mouth.

Gurgled screams and wails filled the cell, Macrinus’ blood painting the stone beneath him as well as Geta’s robes. Geta stepped back, watching as Macrinus tried to breathe.

Macrinus was knelt before them, shackled to the cold stone floor, his body already trembling from the shock of losing his tongue. Blood dribbled from his ruined mouth, pooling beneath him in sickly puddles, but the true horror was yet to begin.

Geta then crouched before him, tilting his head to the side like a curious predator observing its prey. "You still have much to atone for, Macrinus," he murmured, his voice almost gentle. "But don't worry, I will make sure you are given every opportunity to suffer for your sins."

Macrinus' eyes flickered with something between agony and defiance, but he could not speak- not anymore. Geta chuckled, tilting the man's chin upward with two fingers.

"You always had such a silver tongue. Always weaving your lies, whispering poison into the ears of my father, of the Senate, of those who should have been loyal to us. But now?" He clicked his tongue mockingly.

"Now, you are nothing more than a hound who has been muzzled."

Rising to his feet, Geta extended a hand, and a guard quickly placed a heated branding iron into his palm. The sigil of the Imperial family glowed red-hot, shimmering ominously in the dim light.

"You branded us traitors in whispers," Geta continued, his tone still eerily composed. "Let us return the favor."

He pressed the iron against Macrinus’ bare chest, just above his heart. The searing sound of burning flesh was drowned out by a gurgled, choking scream, as Macrinus writhed in his restraints.

Geta held the brand there for just a moment longer than necessary before withdrawing it, admiring the fresh, blistering mark.

His work done, he stepped back, handing the iron to a guard.

"He’s yours now, brother," Geta said, exhaling slowly, as though releasing his tension into the air. He wiped a speck of blood from his sleeve, turning away without another glance at the ruined man before them.

"I have other matters to attend to."

Caracalla did not need to be told twice. His lips curled into a wicked grin as he stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. Macrinus' torment was far from over.

The echoes of Macrinus' silenced protests followed Geta as he ascended back into the palace. He barely heard them, lost in thought, the rush of excitement and triumph still thrumming through his veins.

But as he reached the grand halls above, a different desire overtook him. One that had little to do with pain and everything to do with you.

He had secured justice. He had avenged what had been stolen from them. Now, he wanted his reward.

You exhaled deeply, submerging yourself further into the warm waters of the Imperial baths. The flickering torchlight cast golden reflections across the rippling surface, the scent of fragrant oils mingling with the steam curling around you. The palace was quiet, save for the occasional distant footstep of a servant or guard passing through the halls.

You had come here to escape the horrors unfolding beneath your feet. To drown out the knowledge of what was happening to Macrinus. You had wanted him dead, still did, but knowing and witnessing were two very different things. The screams had stopped a while ago, though whether that was a good or bad sign, you weren’t sure.

Your mind was a whirlwind of emotions, thoughts tangled like vines. What had your life become? Once, you had been the daughter of a noble house, bound by duty, your world carefully constructed within the walls of your father’s estate.

Now, you belonged to Rome itself, to its Emperors. To Geta and Caracalla. And though you told yourself you had embraced it, had relished in the power and passion they offered you, a quiet voice in the back of your mind still whispered doubts.

A shift in the air made your body tense before you even heard the approaching footsteps. You turned just as the doors creaked open, revealing Geta standing at the threshold.

He was still dressed in his robes, though they were slightly disheveled, blood clinging to the fabric. His eyes found yours instantly, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips. "There you are," he murmured.

You swallowed, watching as he stepped closer. The warmth of the water suddenly felt scalding against your skin.

"Is it done?"

"It has only begun." He crouched beside the bath, reaching out to brush his fingers along your damp cheek. His touch was gentle, a stark contrast to the cruelty he had just inflicted below.

"But I have spent enough time with a man who does not deserve my attention. Now, I want to spend time with the woman who does."

A shiver ran through you, whether from the cooling water or the weight of his words, you weren’t sure. Geta’s fingers trailed down, tracing the curve of your neck before dipping lower, his eyes dark with something unreadable.

Today, Macrinus would suffer. But you? You would be worshipped.

The smile on Geta’s face comforted you. The warm water surrounded you, as you watched Geta take off his garments. You did not know if you should be concerned about him already being hard, but you were sure it was the excitement.

Geta only felt his cock harden more once he saw how your breasts sat perfectly above the water. You sat at the further side of the bath, water softly swishing around you.

You smiled as he entered the bath, moving towards you before cusping your face. Kneeling at your side.

“I found him, for you, for us. I found him, the traitor.” Geta whispered, his tone almost hopeful like a childs.

“You did my love, thank you.” You thought for a moment, perhaps he would like to be rewarded now? As you looked at him, you were sure. Sure you could draw that same side out of him as that night. He seemed to badly need it.

Boldness overcame you, and you surged forward to kiss him. To kiss your knight in shining armour, who had saved you from a villain. When you pulled back, Geta let out a soft whine.

“Is Caracalla still with him?” You asked informally, it was just the two of you now.

“He is, he will be for a while…” You caught it, that switch in his tone and in his eyes. The hesitation, the desperation. A smile creeped upon your face when you caught it.

“Mommy-” Geta tried carefully, very quietly as if you wouldn’t hear it then. But you did. Your hand caressed his cheek before giving him an encouraging peck on his lips. Go on, you silently urged.

“Need you. Did so good-” Geta whispered, still holding back. He scared himself with this new side of him, yet it forced itself out of him, like he had no control.

“You did. So so good my love. Saving me- come here.” You whispered back, before planting your lips on his. He kissed you back hungrily, muffled moans leaving his lips when his hard length pressed against you under the water.

His tongue invaded your mouth and you lapped back at him eagerly, urging Geta to fondle your breasts. You wondered if he would be similar to his brother, and relish in sucking your breasts too. The thought spurred you on, and you decided to take a risk.

“Want to suck on mommy’s tits while I take care of you?” You cautiously whispered after you pulled away from his lips. That fully turned Geta.

“Please mommy- need it-” He whimpered, bringing his mouth to your nipple. You inhaled sharply when Geta started to eagerly suck at your breast. You did not expect him to comply so easily, to give in so easily.

You helped Geta somewhat lie down in your lap, his head and shoulders above the water, his lips never leaving your nipple. You positioned him perfectly, to make him comfortable but to also give you access to his flushed cock.

You could feel your own arousal building, seeing this side of Geta made your entire body burn. Geta could feel your hand teasingly move down his thigh, and he squirmed against your body.

He still sucked at your breast, the feeling comforting to him as well as arousing. All he knew was that there was no going back after this, he could never let you go. Geta let out a muffled moan against your tit once your hand grasped his length.

Unable to hold back your own quiet moan at the sight of Geta’s cock, mixed with the feeling and sight of him at your breast. Geta squirmed again, impatient for your hand to finally move.

“Such a good boy, I promise I will make you feel so good my love.” You praised Geta, he sucked harder at your breast in response.

At last you started to tug at his length, moving the skin over his tip, again and again. The water sloshing around your wrist at the movement.

The vibrations of Geta’s moans felt weird but stimulating at the same time. The Emperor felt exposed, however he couldn’t fight the safe and intimate feeling that consumed him. He discovered another side of himself, desperate for affection, your affection.

Geta bucked his hips once you moved your hand faster, trying to fuck up into your fist. The sight of him made you overcome with want yourself, but you needed to focus on Geta. Geta writhed in your lap, all the sensations overwhelming him.

At this point, the entire bath was musked with the scent of sex. The sounds of Geta’s muffled moans, your hushed praises and the sloshing of water only adding to the scene.

Geta let go of your breast for a moment, in desperate need of more air. Panting heavily as you continued to pump his cock.

“So good for me, are you going to cum for me Geta?” You spurred him on.

“Yes- yes- please mommy-” Geta breathed out, before latching himself to your nipple again.

His entire body tensed in your lap, he let out a strangled moan as his cum spurted into the water. He couldn’t stop himself from letting go and whining loudly, a string of begs leaving his lips. He never felt as good as when he was with you. He knew that now.

You continued to jerk him off, watching as his seed spilled in the water. He came a lot, and only stopped after a while. Geta could feel his entire body collapse against yours, fully spent and tired. After having caught his breath, his mouth found its way to your breast again.

It seemed his brother wasn’t the only one who liked it.

The warmth of Geta’s embrace cocooned you as you lay nestled against him, his steady breaths fanning softly against your skin. His arms were possessive even in sleep, as if afraid you might slip away.

The bedchamber was dimly lit, the glow of the dying oil lamps flickering against the heavy drapery, casting shifting shadows along the walls. The faint scent of lavender and lingering incense clung to the air, an odd contrast to the violent reality that had unfolded beneath this very palace.

The door creaked open, and your tired eyes fluttered up just in time to see Caracalla step inside. The faintest sheen of moisture clung to his skin, his damp curls resting against his forehead, he had bathed.

You couldn’t imagine the blood he must have washed away, how much of it had stained his skin before he submerged himself in the warm water.

He said nothing as he approached, his night toga draping over his frame, the fabric catching the dim light as he moved. The heavy silence between you both crackled with unspoken words.

His usual sharpness, the ever-present intensity in his gaze, was softened as he climbed onto the bed beside you. You felt the mattress dip, his warmth pressing into your other side.

Geta stirred faintly but did not wake, his grip around you tightening instinctively in his sleep. His neediness still lingered from earlier, and he clung to you like a man desperate for comfort. Caracalla, however, merely smiled at you, his expression unreadable in the shadows.

Your lips parted, a question hovering at the tip of your tongue, but the words refused to come. You weren’t sure if you truly wanted to know what had transpired in the depths of the cellars.

What had they done to Macrinus? How much of their vengeance had they carved into his flesh?

As if sensing your hesitation, Caracalla leaned in, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, “Don’t worry. He is not dead. Yet.”

A chill ran down your spine.

The way he said it, calm, assured, almost amused- made your stomach turn. There was no doubt Macrinus was suffering, lingering somewhere beneath the palace walls, breathing but barely living. You swallowed thickly, nodding, though the unease coiled tightly in your belly.

But you trusted them. Your Emperors.

You exhaled slowly, letting the tension seep from your limbs. Caracalla closed his eyes, his body melting into the warmth of the bed as sleep beckoned him.

And soon, as you lay between them, one Emperor holding you as if you were his anchor, the other settling into slumber with the satisfaction of a man who had won, you, too, surrendered to the pull of sleep.

The past two days had felt like a blur. The echoes of Macrinus' agony had faded into the cold, marble halls of the Imperial Palace. Despite the lingering weight of that victory, the Emperor's plans had to be set in motion.

You had spent the last few days in seclusion, preparing for what was to come, an announcement that would shake the very foundations of Roman society.

Geta and Caracalla had kept to themselves, their moods a delicate mixture of satisfaction and anticipation. You had caught glimpses of their shared excitement, but their energy felt different now, more calculated. There was little room for error now, not with what they planned to do.

The morning of the announcement arrived with the quiet weight of impending change. The palace felt unusually still, save for the low hum of activity outside. You stood in front of the mirror, running your fingers over the fabric of your gown, its imperial purple and gold stitching reflecting the wealth and power you would soon share with them. It felt almost too much, and yet, it felt right.

You could feel the tension in the air as Geta and Caracalla entered your room, their gazes locking onto you with that same intensity that had drawn you into their world. Geta, as always, seemed calm, cool, and collected.

Caracalla, on the other hand, practically thrummed with a sense of excitement, almost like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

"Are you ready?" Geta asked, his voice smooth, though you could detect a slight edge beneath it. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing your arm in an unspoken reassurance.

You nodded, swallowing the lump that had risen in your throat. "I think so."

Caracalla’s grin appeared then, that sharp, almost mad grin you had grown accustomed to.

"It’s time. We’ve made our plans, and now it’s time to let Rome know what that means."

The Senate chamber was abuzz with the quiet chatter of the most powerful men in the Empire. The tension in the air was palpable. Whispers fluttered around the room like the pages of ancient scrolls.

News of the Emperors’ mysterious announcement had already begun to trickle through the palace, and now, here you were, standing before the most influential men in Rome.

As the Emperor’s arrived, silence fell across the room. Geta and Caracalla strode forward, side by side, their presence enough to silence the murmur of the Senate. Their matching togas, rich with royal insignia, swished as they moved.

You followed behind them, your heart pounding in your chest. The air felt thick, like the weight of history was pressing down on everyone present.

You felt eyes on you, the curious, skeptical, and wary glances of the senators, eyes that took in your every move. The quiet tension was so thick it seemed to vibrate. A strange, cold anticipation hung in the air.

As Geta stood before the Senate, his posture straight and proud, he allowed his gaze to sweep the room, his expression one of calm dominance.

"Senators of Rome," he began, his voice rich with authority, "We stand before you today not as mere rulers, but as the ones who will shape Rome's future. For too long, this Empire has been fractured, weakened by petty politics, betrayal, and division. We have decided that it is time for Rome to have a future that is strong, united, and, above all, stable."

The Senate listened intently, murmurs dying down as Geta continued. "As such, it is our decree that we, Caracalla and I, shall marry the Lady who stands beside us today."

A gasp echoed from several members of the Senate, their eyes widening with disbelief. It was not the idea of marriage that caused the stir- it was the idea of two emperors marrying one woman. A union that was unheard of, dangerous, and entirely unprecedented. Polyamory had no place in Rome's laws, let alone among its rulers.

You felt a cold shiver slide down your spine. The world felt as if it had frozen in place, and yet, Geta’s voice continued to carry, steady and confident, as though he had already won.

"This is not simply a union of men and woman. This is a union of power. A statement of strength. Together, we shall forge a path for Rome that will leave no doubt as to our intentions for the Empire. Our bride shall be the symbol of that unity, that strength."

His eyes met yours for a brief moment, a flash of possessiveness and affection in them. "Our Lady... the future Empress of Rome."

Caracalla stepped forward, his voice as sharp and commanding as ever. "Let it be known that this union will solidify the Empire. Any who question it will answer to us. We will not be swayed by fear, nor by the fragile customs of the old ways. We will break those bonds, and in their place, a new future will rise."

The silence that followed was deafening. The Senate sat motionless, stunned into a temporary stupor. No one spoke. No one dared to voice their objections, yet. A few cleared their throats, some shifted uncomfortably in their seats, but the tension was almost suffocating.

Finally, an older Senator, his voice shaky with age and apprehension, rose to his feet. His eyes flicked nervously between the two emperors, his hands clenched at his sides.

"Emperors," he began, his voice trembling, "What you speak of is... heretical. The people will not stand for this. Rome has never- will never, accept a marriage of… three. You risk-"

"Do not lecture us on what Rome will or will not accept," Geta interjected sharply, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face the man. His voice carried a dangerous undertone, one that made the Senator falter.

"We will do what is best for Rome. And if that means shattering your precious traditions to secure its future, then so be it."

Caracalla stood beside him, watching with an unreadable expression. "Do not mistake our kindness for weakness. You will accept this union. Or you will be swept aside."

You felt your pulse quicken. The words hung in the air like a deadly promise. In that moment, you realized that their words were not merely declarations, they were commands. This was not just a marriage; it was a declaration of war on those who would oppose them.

No man dared to speak, dared to oppose. They could only hope their new Empress could temper the flame.

A month had passed since the public announcement, and the air had grown thick with anticipation- and unease. The preparations for the wedding continued unabated, the grand halls filling with silk, gold, and the scent of sweet perfume.

Yet for all the beauty surrounding you, a shadow lingered. The Senate had not quieted in its disdain for your union, and whispers spread through the streets like wildfire. Still, the Emperors had remained steadfast, your bond growing with each passing day.

The days before the wedding were filled with customary rituals. The high priestess blessed your union, a symbolic gesture that the gods themselves were in agreement. But no one could foresee what would come after, not even the gods.

Caracalla and Geta often remained by your side, afraid more villains were lurking in the shadows, especially after the protests following the announcement. Geta had meant his promise, no one would ever hurt you again.

The Senate’s whispers grew louder with each passing day, their disapproval thickening the air whenever Geta or Caracalla walked by. Yet the Emperors remained unbothered, their eyes fixed only on the future they had promised.

The morning of your wedding had at last arrived, after a month long of waiting, it was here. The day that would officially change your life for good. A part of you was still missing, you had always wanted your father to hand you over to your new husbands. Yet he was not here.

In a way, it comforted you that he somewhat had, given you away.

The light of the morning sun filtered through the grand windows of the bridal chamber, casting long golden streaks across the polished marble floors. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation.

Soft murmurs and the faint rustling of fabric filled the air as the ladies of the court bustled about, preparing for the most sacred of ceremonies. You sat still in the center of the room, your back straight as a dozen hands worked swiftly to transform you into a vision for the Empire’s most infamous union.

Your hair was carefully arranged by a young virgin priestess, ensuring the knot of Hercules was perfect, each strand intricately braided and pinned to perfection, a laurel crown of delicate gold and ivory flowers resting atop your brow. Before a flame coloured veil was placed over your head.

The scent of oils and rosewater filled the air, sweet and intoxicating, as your skin was massaged with fragrant balms, softening every inch of your exposed flesh.

Despite the meticulous care, you could feel a tightness in your chest. A mixture of nerves, anticipation, and something far darker lingered in your mind. The grand day was finally here. It had taken a month of preparing, negotiating, and convincing, but this moment would change everything forever.

Two attendants were at your sides, draping the fine white gown that clung to your body. The fabric was heavy, rich, and adorned with gold embroidery, a symbol of the wealth and power that your union would bring.

“Are you nervous, my lady?” one of the servants asked softly, her fingers deft as they tightened the knot around your waist.

You turned to meet her gaze in the mirror. The reflection staring back at you was unfamiliar. You had become a symbol of something far larger than yourself, and though the life you once knew at the Aurelian Estate seemed a lifetime ago, the fear of what lay ahead still clung to you.

“I do not know what to feel,” you replied honestly, your voice trembling only slightly. “I should be happy… yet, I fear what comes after. What comes from this union.”

The servant's smile was gentle, yet her eyes betrayed an understanding. “You are not alone, my lady. The Empire stands with you. The Emperor's stand with you.”

Did the Empire stand with you?

The second servant worked to fasten the final touches, the intricate jewelry, the sparkling rings adorning your fingers, and the golden necklace that draped across your chest. Lacing your sandals and fastening the bridal knot. Everything was perfect.

A symbol of your transformation into a piece of the Imperial puzzle. You were not just a bride today; you were the bridge between two of the most powerful men in the Empire.

When you had gotten word that the Auspices had taken place and the wedding was indeed blessed, the formalities could proceed.

The Imperial Palace had been prepared in every way, it was holding so many guests within its walls, all ready to witness the ceremony. You were brought to the throne room, now turned into a ceremonial site, after you had made your sacrifices to Lares and Penates, the household gods.

The grand hall was alive with the hum of voices, the senators, nobles, and high-ranking officers of the court all in attendance, their faces a mix of jealousy, and apprehension. The long marble aisle stretched before you, flanked by towering columns adorned with golden banners and the imperial insignia.

At the far end, standing beneath a massive, intricately carved archway, were Geta and Caracalla, their faces stoic and unreadable as they awaited your arrival.

The air was thick with expectation. The delicate scent of incense and myrrh mixed with the faint tang of sweat, and the sounds of soft, rhythmic chanting filled the room as the priest and high dignitaries prepared the sacrificial altar.

Imperial weddings had never been like this. It was not only a union of two Emperors and their bride, it was the ritualistic binding of power, politics, and blood. The crowd fell silent as you stepped forward, your every move a display of grace and purpose. You could feel their eyes on you, every gaze either skeptical or envious.

As you approached the altar, you could see the figure standing beside it. Macrinus. His once-proud posture was now broken. He stood shackled, his dark eyes devoid of defiance, filled instead with a deep, unsettling fear.

His head hung low, the bloodstained rags of his clothing barely covering his body. The sight of him stirred something cold within you, a mix of pity, resentment, and disgust.

The marriage was not the only thing that was to be celebrated today. It was not just the joining of two powerful men, it was a sacrifice to mark the beginning of a new Empire, a new order.

It was then Geta’s, Caracalla’s and your hands were bound together.

The officiant, a high priest of the Imperial Temple, stepped forward and raised his hands to command silence. His voice rang out across the hall, low and resonant, as the sacred words began.

"We gather today in the eyes of the gods to bind this sacred union. In their presence, we join these three souls, Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla, and their bride. A union forged in the fires of power, tempered by blood and sacrifice."

You could feel your heart race in your chest, the weight of the ceremony pressing on your shoulders as the priest continued his incantation.

"May the gods bless this union with strength and prosperity, for the good of the Empire, for the good of Rome. Let it be known that, as the blood is spilled today, so too shall the foundation of this union be marked in sacrifice."

He then turned to face Geta, his eyes solemn.

“Emperor Geta, do you take this woman, and by her, all that she represents, to be your wife, your partner in the eyes of the gods and the Empire?”

Geta’s gaze did not waver as he stood tall, his posture perfect as always. His voice was strong and unwavering.

“I do.”

The priest then turned to Caracalla, repeating the same question.

“Emperor Caracalla, do you take this woman, and by her, all that she represents, to be your wife, your partner in the eyes of the gods and the Empire?” Caracalla's reply came with a slight edge of something darker, something possessive in his tone.

“I do.”

The priest turned to you next. Your heart pounded in your chest, and for a moment, the weight of the moment nearly overwhelmed you. This was more than a wedding; it was a declaration to the Empire. A declaration of power and dominance.

The priest's gaze hardened for a moment, a flicker of restraint passing through his eyes.

“And you, lady of the Empire, do you take both of these men to be your husbands, to walk beside them as they rule and lead, in love and in blood?”

Your breath caught in your throat. You could feel all eyes on you, the court, the gods, the senators who would whisper your name for years to come. You took a steadying breath and, looking both Geta and Caracalla in the eyes, you spoke your vow.

“I do.”

The man then waited for your next words, as did the Emperors.

“Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.” With that the union was sealed.

The crowd seemed to hold its breath as the priest raised his arms high above the three of you.

“Then, in the eyes of the gods and the Empire, I now declare you husband, wife, and husband. May your union bring prosperity to Rome, may it rule with strength, and may it forever be marked by sacrifice.”

As your hands were unbound, the wheat cake was brought, for the sacrifice to Jupiter so that he might sanctify this uncommon union. That was the palpable sacrifice.

As the final moment of the ceremony arrived, the officiant stepped aside, signaling the beginning of the ritual sacrifice. Macrinus was dragged forward, his body trembling with fear.

The daggers gleamed in the torchlight, a cruel reminder of what was about to happen. You could feel the tension building as Caracalla took the dagger in his hand, stepping forward to perform the final act.

With a sharp, fluid motion, Caracalla plunged the blade into Macrinus’s chest. The sound of the blow echoed throughout the hall, and the body fell limp, blood pooling around the altar. His life had been extinguished, and with it, the final piece of your past.

The crowd watched in reverent silence as Macrinus’s blood stained the floor, the sacrifice complete.

Geta’s voice broke the stillness, low and commanding.

“This is our beginning.”

And in that moment, you understood. This was no mere wedding. It was the start of something far darker, far more powerful. You were not only bound to Geta and Caracalla, you were bound to the Empire, its blood-soaked past, and its uncertain future. But you were ready for it.

Taglist: @boywivlove , @delicioushottubpeanut , @littlemissholy , @lindsayjoy444 , @ohmeg

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idkwhylou · 5 hours ago

Text

The other woman pt.2

Summary : Since your marriage, the distance between you and Marcus has only grown wider. Doubt settles in, hand in hand with your growing loneliness. But during a conversation with Lucilla, you come to realize something far heavier—you are even more alone than you thought.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings : arranged marriage, mentions of suicidal thoughts (blink and you'll miss it, it's like just one sentence), cold behavior, age gap ? (not mentioned), infidelity (towards reader), secret relationship, no y/n

Words : 5,9K

A/N : this one was so hard to write, idk why. Sorry if it’s not perfect

Marcus' masterlist | previous part | next part

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The domus was quieter than you imagined a place of such size could be. Its silence was not peaceful; it was the sound of old stone and restraint, guards who never laughed, courtyards where voices echoed too sharply. Rome, they said, was the center of the world. But for you, it felt more like a stage where everyone played a part, and you were still reading the wrong script. Your new home was beautiful, you could admit that. Even if it never quite felt like yours. The marble glowed ivory in the mornings, and the frescoes caught the changing light like painted memories, but there was something unyielding in the walls, something that did not bend to your presence. The mosaic of Gods watched you wherever you walked, their inlaid eyes judging, as though they knew you did not belong in this place.

And yet, you did what was expected of you. Gods, even more. You learned the names of every servant in the villa, learned where they came from, and tried to address them in their own dialects—poorly at first, but with effort, and with warmth. You oversaw the household ledgers, made notes in elegant Latin, organize the pantry to accommodate both Roman and your homeland’s cuisine—dried figs wrapped in parchment, pickled lemons floating in clay jars and cinnamon sticks tied with string, sent directly from your mother’s kitchen gardens across the sea.

You had meals prepared with quiet hope, always with some small detail meant for him. Lamb seasoned the way his men said he liked, olives pressed into the bread he often reached for first, honey-wine chilled precisely to the hour he returned. You even arranged a private dinner once, beneath the olive trees in the inner courtyard, where hanging lanterns cast golden halos through the leaves and the scent of citrus bloomed in the dusk.

He had thanked you with a nod.

Just a nod.

A simple and quiet nod. How stupid of you.

He never ignored you, and sometimes you wish he would. That would have been easier. Cruelty had shaped, form and texture. But civility ? Civility was airless. He was always courteous, always present in body but never in soul. His answers remained clipped, delivered with military efficiency. You dared to ask once, when you saw the pale edge of a scar disappearing beneath his tunic, if it sometimes still hurt.

“No.” He said. And that was the end of it.

You tried again, weeks later. He had just returned from the Senate, and you met him as he sat, pouring his wine before he even asked. “How was the council ?”

He shrugged, already reaching for a piece of bread. “As expected.”

“Do you often speak on behalf of the Emperor ?”

“When required.” He replied, cutting into the meat without ever looking at you.

“Do you-”

“I had a long day,” he interrupted firmly, glancing sideway to your form. “Please.”

As always, you nodded and lower your gaze, retreating just before his indifference could harden into something sharper. You had learned quickly the quiet line between civility and dismissal. This time, you did not even get the chance to tell him about the meal. How you had spent half the afternoon with the chefs, your sleeves rolled up and helping to cook the roast with spices your mother had insisted you bring from home. “He should taste where you come from.” she had said, tucking the jars into your palms before you could say anything.

But Marcus never asked, never seemed to notice, never paused, never looked at you the way husbands were supposed to look at their wives. His expressions always remained unchanged as he took his place at the table, not even looking at you. You would trace the lines of his profile over and over, trying to find the man everyone else seemed to see. He was never cruel though, never raised his voice or said anything unkind. Just detached. And somehow, that was worse.

His silence and distance stretched on for weeks. You had already gone over it all in your mind, countless times. Was it your fault ? You barely knew each other, why did he not at least try to act like a kind husband ? Maybe he did not see the efforts you made, did not feel the quiet weight of your loneliness. Perhaps it was simply normal here, in Rome—for a man to neglect his wife so thoroughly. After all, it was so easy to hide behind duty, to wear the excuse of responsibility like armor.

And yet, he had not even bothered to do that. He had not even tried to offer you those hollow words. Since your wedding night, he had not deigned to speak to you for more than a few clipped seconds at a time. Surely, he could not imagine what it felt like to live in this constant state of silent dismissal. And so, you tried. You held yourself together with frayed strings and stubborn hope, and each day, you persevered. Secretly, foolishly, you hoped that maybe he might change. But deep down you knew. You were not meant to except anything in return. Not from him or anyone.

A few days later, you could not take it anymore. It had been two days since you last saw him. Two long, empty days. You wandered through the corridors of his villa like a ghost—alone, disoriented, slowly unraveling. You could not flee, that would be reckless, foolish, and so humiliating for you or your father. But the mere idea of stepping outside made your stomach twist. You could not bear the stares anymore, the judgment etched into every look. Perhaps you were discreet, yes, but not naïve. Or at least, that is what you once believed.

The rare times Marcus allowed you to company him beyond the villa’s walls, you could feel it—the whispers, the mocking smiles, the stinging judgment. Walking beside Rome’s most revered General made you disappear in your own skin. You were not seen as a person anymore, only as a wife. Not even his.

That morning, something inside you broke. You had risen far too late, long past the moment you always cherished: sunrise. The one constant in your days, the only faithful presence left to greet you. And even that, now, had passed you by. That day, your mother arrived at the domus unannounced, as if she felt that broken feeling from where she was. It was late in the afternoon when a servant came to your room, wide-eyed and breathless. “Domina… Your mother… She is here.”

You did not believe it until you saw her. She stood in your chamber like a mirage; her cloak dusty from travel, her hair twisted in the same thick braid she wore the day you left, the faint scent of jasmine clinging to her skin like a memory.

“I was not supposed to come.” She said as soon as you closed the doors behind her. You fell into her arms without a word, breathing her in like air after drowning. “I had to see you with my own eyes,” she whispered, cupping your face, her thumb brushing your cheek. “Letters do not hold truth. Not the kind I needed.”

Yes, the letters. It was clear you could not speak the truth in them, not fully. You could not lay bare the reality of your new life: its silence, its coldness, its invisible grief. You reminded yourself that in some strange way, you were still lucky. While you suffered in loneliness, others died in agony. That thought haunted you, shamed you even. And yet… there were moments when the weight of it became too much. Moments when you would have gladly traded places with those lives lost. When you would have offered yourself in exchange, just to be freed from this beautiful prison gilded in gold. But you could not write that—not to your mother.

You both sat near the brazier, heads close together like the nights of your girlhood, when you had listened to the ocean wind rattling through the shutters and believed the world would always be kind to you. You felt her eyes study your face. She could see it, surely, the fatigue carved into your skin, the fine line that had deepened between your brows, born from confusion and sleepless worry. You could not let her grow more concerned than she already was, and so you spoke.

“I just did not sleep well, mother. I am fine.” But even as the words left your lips, you could not convince yourself.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then softly, with the heaviness of someone who already knew the answer, she asked, “He sleeps elsewhere ?”

You hesitated. Then nodded.

“I thought it might be… a slow beginning,” you said, though even the words felt thin now. “I thought if I gave him peace, he would give me trust.”

She looked at you with a gaze you had never seen in her before, something almost sacred. There was no use in lying anymore. Not when her eyes saw through every wall you had built. Not when they refused to let you hide anymore. “I tried, mother. Every day, I try. I make this house a home. I speak his tongue, follow his customs. But I think… I think I am only another one of his duties.”

Your mother exhaled through her nose, not sharply, but in sorrow. She reached for your hand, her fingers soft and warm against yours. “There are men,” she said gently, “who wear armor inside their skin. Even when there is no more war to fight.”

You looked at her completely lost, your voice a whisper. “But am I not enough reason to take it off ?”

She did not answer immediately. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the rooftops of Rome caught the last rays of sun, burnished gold and cruelly beautiful.

“He may learn,” she said at last. “Or he may not. But you, my daughter, are not here to be small.”

You pressed your forehead to her shoulder and stayed there, unmoving, wrapped in her quiet warmth. For a moment, you let yourself forget the silence of the halls, the weight of your own unanswered questions. She said nothing because she did not need to. Her presence alone was enough, like a balm laid gently over skin that had long since learned to ache in silence. You breathed her in, that faint familiar scent of crushed herbs and something maternal you could never name, and clung—not to her exactly, but to the feeling she brought. The reminder that there was still softness in this world. That someone, somewhere, still saw you.

She left before nightfall, as if she feared to overstay in a home that was never truly yours to begin with. Or maybe she was too furious to risk running into Marcus. You walked her to the threshold, fingers reluctant to let go, your mouth forming the barest thank-you that did not even touch what you wanted to say. Her departure felt like waking from a dream you were already mourning, like the kind you chase back into your pillow, only to find it slipping further each time.

That evening, you sat at the long marble table once more. Alone. Again. The light from the candles trembled faintly along the gold detailing of the walls, too bright for the mood that clung to the air like fog. His chair remained untouched, the embroidery on its cushion undented, preserved in its quiet defiance. The food cooled slowly on the plates, but you could not bring yourself to lift the fork. You stared down at your wine—red, still, and full—as though it might hold some answer at the bottom of the cup. But it did not. It never did actually.

There was no anger in you. Not that night. Just a familiar hollowness, settling in again like an old companion. You sat there, in the vastness of a home that had never felt like yours, and wondered how long it would take for the sound of your own thoughts to drown you.

You would try again tomorrow, you promised yourself.

And the next day.

And the next.

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But there were patterns you could no longer ignore. The day Marcus finally decided to make his grand return, he gave no explanation for his strange and prolonged absence. Nothing. Not a word. And in the days that followed, nothing changed. The same distance. The same evasive glances. He slipped right back into his silence, as though he had never been gone.

As thought you had never waited

He left earlier in the mornings. Returned later. Sometimes did not come home at all until the moon hung low and pale, and even then, he would pass your chambers without a word, smelling faintly of perfume that was not yours. The scent so faint it might have been imagined. But it was not. And yet, it clung to him like smoke after flame, unsettlingly familiar. You tried to place it once, standing alone by the doorway long after he had gone—that note of crushed rose and some darker resin beneath—but your memory gave you nothing. Just unease.

You could not let the weight of it settle without resistance. You owed yourself the truth, or at the very least, the effort to seek it. So, you began to watch, to listen, to gather the pieces one by one as the days unfolded. And yet, something refused to align. As if a part of the puzzle had been carved to deceive, beautiful on the surface but wrong in its shape.

You began to see things with new eyes. The way certain hours of the day were always unaccounted for. The way Lucilla began to arrive unannounced. The way she never glanced at you directly, but smiled as if she knew a secret you did not. The way the servants went silent in her presence, and even more silent in yours after she left.

That evening, a dinner had been arranged. Not grand enough to warrant togas stiff with ceremony, nor quiet enough to be dismissed as informal. A gathering, modest in size but laced with the kind of expectation that only Rome could dress in such refined stillness. You had prepared for it without thought, your fingers guiding the clasp of your dress, smoothing the folds, pinning your hair—motions you had long since stopped attaching meaning to.

The seat at Marcus’s left awaited you, as it always did, and you sat there before the others arrived, your hands folded gently in your lap, your spine held by an invisible thread of composure. He was beside you already, not late for once, but silent, cloaked in the same guarded stillness he wore as naturally as his mantle of command.

He had not said much. Well, he rarely did. But for a moment, his eyes had lingered on you simply… observing. As if trying to remember something that refused to take shape. You could feel the weight of his presence more than you could feel the shape of it. And when you dared glance toward him, there was nothing in his expression that betrayed thought or feeling. Just distance.

Then she arrived.

Lucilla swept into the atrium with the poise of someone who had once belonged to the place and never truly left. Her dress was a muted gold that caught the light just enough to seem effortless, the shade almost the same as the skin at her throat. Her hair was gathered with a kind of calculated ease, too graceful to be accidental, too loose to be innocent. Her voice followed her, soft and warm, full of the kind of charm that made people lean in just slightly, as if wanting to catch a secret they knew she would not give.

You felt Marcus shifting beside you, so subtly it might have been nothing. But you knew his silences well by now. You knew the way his body tensed, not from danger, but recognition. His gaze moved—past the servants, past the senators already halfway rising in greeting—and settled on her. Not with shock. Not with longing. But with that heavy pause, the kind that stretched a single moment wide enough to fit years inside.

He looked at her as one looks at a place they have once been and both long for and regret.

It was not dramatic. No drawn breath, no visible stiffening. But it was enough. Enough for your own gaze to falter, your stomach to dip, your throat to tighten. And when at last he turned to you, his greeting quiet and courteous, it did not matter what he said. The pain lay not in the words, but in the ease with which he spoke them, as though you were no more than any other guest at his side.

Dinner passed like mist. The roasted duck, crisped with honey and thyme, the jeweled lentils, the pine nuts glistening with oil. You registered none of it. Their voices moved around you, threading together with the practiced smoothness of people who had spoken many times before in places you had not been invited. Lucilla never raised her voice, never pressed, well she did not need to. Her control was in the softness of it, in the practiced pauses, in the way her laughter folded at the edges of his words as if they had rehearsed the timing in another life. And Marcus… Marcus responded with a familiarity that asked for no explanation. One that told you enough.

You smiled when you had to. You answered when spoken to. But each movement felt like wading through something thick, something that clung to your skin. The wine was too warm. The candlelight too bright. The scent of pomegranate and spiced oils made your chest tighten. And when Lucilla laughed—that delicate, curved laugh—it was not jealousy that came. It was the confirmation of a quiet truth; one you had tried to ignore. That you were sitting beside him, but he was somewhere else entirely.

You excused yourself before the final course, fingers trembling slightly as you set your napkin down. No one stopped you. Marcus did not even turn, his shoulder already leaning, just slightly, toward hers. His hand rested near his cup, fingers curled in a way that invited the space between them to narrow. You stood slowly, brushing your fingers once more along the cool edge of the table before turning away to the gardens.

The night clung to your skin like silk, warm despite the breeze, the air heavy with something darker and unspoken. You did not look back as you crossed the peristyle, just moved, half-guided by the rhythm of your breath and the dull ache that now lived beneath your ribs, quieter than before but no less present.

Inside, the murmur of conversation spilled gently from the triclinium. You did not return to it. Instead, you lingered in the antechamber, half-shadowed beneath a tall candle, where the flickering light painted gold across the stone floor. Here, the house felt quieter. Removed. As though you had stepped just slightly outside the world everyone else still inhabited.

Then you saw her.

She rose from her seat with the same fluid elegance she wore like a second skin—unhurried, unannounced. There was no drama to it, no glance cast around the room. Only the subtle gathering of her shawl, the way her hand trailed for the briefest moment across the back of Marcus’s chair, and then—

She moved.

Out into the corridor, past the columns, toward the garden. You hesitated. There was no reason to follow her. No purpose, no justification. But your feet had already begun to move before your thoughts could intervene. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe it was the simple, awful need to understand—her, him, or yourself. You did not knew anymore.

You told yourself that you only stepped into the garden because the air inside felt too thick, because your thoughts screamed too loudly within the echoing silence of your own restraint. So, then, you wandered past the stone columns, past the still water of the fountain, trying to find a breath that did not burn. At least, that is what you tried to convince yourself.

You caught her beneath the laurel arch—the same one you used to stand under at dawn, waiting for the first light—and it hit you all at once. The scent. Not the sweetness of garden herbs or fresh linen, but something richer. A fragrance you had noticed once on Marcus’s cloak, faint and persistent, clinging where your hands had never touched. At the time, you had told yourself it was a stranger’s, a passing trace from a crowded room.

But now, in the dark, under the stars, it wrapped around you again—and this time it had a name.

Suddenly, everything snapped back into place.

It was her perfume you scent on Marcus’ shadow.

The one she had worn the night you first met her, when she leaned in too close with a smile that was too sweet. You remembered it—the way it clung to her skin, expensive and deliberate, a scent that marked territory without needing words. She belonged in this house more than you did.

The garden exhaled cool air around her as she stepped into the night. Silver light softened the sharpness of her shoulders, catching in her hair like it had been placed there on purpose. You felt invisible, walking behind her. Like a ghost in someone else’s story. She reached the edge of the walkway and turned. Slowly. Not startled. Not surprised. As though she had already known you were there. Her eyes met yours, and she offered you a smile.

That smile—soft and polished, serene as temple marble. It held no suspicion, no tension. You had seen her offer that same expression to Marcus, across the atrium, when she thought no one was looking. Now, that same look was yours. Somehow that made it worse.

“You walk like someone carrying a secret,” she said gently, almost amused, but without cruelty. “Do you need something from me ?” Her voice was so gentle, and she looked at you with such tenderness. There was something kind, something genuinely good that seemed to radiate from her presence.

And yet, you did not know how to answer. Your mouth was dry. Your thoughts rushed forward too fast and tripped over themselves. Lucilla waited. She always waited—not with impatience, but with the calm of someone who had already played this scene before.

“I did not mean to follow you.” You murmured eventually.

“But you did.” There was no bite in it. Just a simple truth spoken without judgment.

You dropped your eyes to the stone floor and nodded, heat crawling up your throat. She turned slightly, looking toward the laurel trees that danced softly in the breeze. “It is quiet here at night,” she said, voice distant. “I like to walk when the house sleeps.”

“I do too.” You replied. “But tonight, I could not.”

Lucilla glanced sideway at you. “Why not ?”

You did not answer. You could not, at least not without unraveling. Instead, you asked the question you had not dared until now. “How long have you known him ?”

A pause. Just long enough to feel measured. “A long time,” she said eventually. “Before the wars. Before he learned how to wield silence like a weapon.” Lucilla kept her gaze fixed straight ahead when you finally reached her side. Her back was straight, her hands clasped neatly behind her, as if she was reciting something she had long since committed to memory.

The answer struck something in you. A note of truth so resonant it almost hurt. “He acts different with you,” you confessed. “Not soft, but… closer.”

Lucilla tilted her head without looking at you, as if she had not anticipated this. Suddenly, there was nothing soft left in her voice. Her brows drew together in a sharp frown, and even before she spoke, you could feel the irritation radiating from her, pulsing off her body like heat from sunbaked stone. “He knows I am not asking for more than he is ready to give.”

The honesty of it stung more than you excepted. “So you think he is cold with me because I expect something real ?” The words came out sharper than you intended. Not because you wanted to wound her, but because you no longer knew how to ask gently for something that kept slipping through your fingers.

She did not flinch, of course she did not. She titled, once again, her head slightly, like someone measuring a fragile object for cracks. Her voice, when it came, was smooth but laced with that certain knowing that made your spine straighten in defense.

“I think Marcus fears depth,” she said carefully, each word placed like a stone. “Not because he lacks it. But because he gave it once, and what he gave was lost. That kind of wound does not bleed anymore. It calcifies. It teaches you to guard what you love by never letting it be loved again.”

You stood very still.

She had been kind to you when you arrived—warm, even. The only one who had offered you a true smile, a soft touch of welcome when everything else had felt like ceremony and silence. You remembered how gently she spoke that first night, how it had made you feel seen for the first time since your arrival. But, that memory now flared like a sting against your skin, the contrast unbearable.

“So he lets you in,” you said, and it came out colder than you meant. “That is how you know.”

Her eyes narrowed, just a little. Not enough to seem angry, but just enough to make it clear she had heard what you were really saying. “I have known Marcus longer than anyone in this house,” she said, and though her tone was soft, it carried an unmistakable edge. “I have seen what he is like when no one is watching. What he hides from even himself. That sort of knowledge does not come from title or proximity. It comes from surviving with someone.”

You felt your stomach twist. “But you, are not his wife.” You replied, and your voice wavered between defiance and desperation.

Something flickered in her gaze then. Something proud, something ancient. But her smile did not falter. If anything, it grew fainter. Sadder. “No,” she said. “I am not. Which is why I can afford to be honest with him.”

You scoffed, unable to stop yourself, “Honesty… You two seem to treat it with a luxury, not a principle.”

The words settled like ice between you.

“Are you implying something ?” She asked quietly.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. When Lucilla finally took a step back, it was not with the grace of a victor. It was slower, smaller, measured perfectly to make you feel as though you had struck first.

“I did not realize that you thought so little of me.” Her voice trembled just slightly, just enough.

You opened your mouth—whether to apologize or defend yourself, you did not even know yourself—but she was already turning away, her posture tense with something between pride and sorrow. Her eyes did not narrow, and neither she raised her voice.

“I have only ever been kind to you,” she said, and her voice was maddeningly calm. “Even when I did not have to be. Even when others would not.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but no words came fast enough. She went on, her gaze never breaking from yours. “From the moment you arrived, I treated you with warmth. I welcomed you into a world that is colder than you realize. And still-” she shook her head lightly, not in anger, but something quieter. “Still, you speak to me like I am your rival. Worse—your enemy.”

There was no venom in her tone. That made it worse. Your pulse had risen seconds ago, chest tight with something sharp and defensive. But now that heat began to dull, giving way to something heavier. Shame crept in, slow and low, curling around the anger like a vine around stone.

“I did not mean to…” You started, your voice thin.

She stepped back half a pace—not retreating, just drawing a boundary.

“I have lived long enough to recognize fear when it wears the mask of cruelty,” she said, softer now. “You are not the first woman to feel lost in his silence. But you might be the first to take it out on someone who is only ever offered you understanding.”

It landed with the weight of truth. No accusations. Just… quiet disappointment. Your throat tightened. You had not expected kindness to be a weapon, and now it was turned inward, piercing something you did not know was vulnerable. All the words you had flung like stones—suspicion, jealousy, hurt—suddenly felt childish, small.

“I did not mean to-” You said, barely audible.

But Lucilla did not wait for you to finish. She turned, not in fury but in sorrow, and walked away with the silence of someone who no longer needed to defend herself. And as her figure slipped between the marble pillars and into the night, your anger left with her. Replaced by a quiet ache, dull and sinking. You stood there, hands clenched at your sides, and felt it bloom behind your ribs: you had wounded the only person who had offered you kindness in this house.

And somehow, that hurt more than any of the silence Marcus had ever given you.

And you hated yourself a little for it.

You breathed out slowly, the tension in your shoulders beginning to unravel, even as your chest remained tight. You had let suspicion get the better of you. Gods, you had followed her like a shadow, had spoken too sharply, had thrown barbed questions like someone preparing for betrayal. And she had not met you with cruelty. Now, in the silence of the empty courtyard, it was not anger you felt anymore. It was shame.

What had you done ?

Lucilla had smiled at you. That soft, slow smile she always wore like a veil, neither warm nor cold, simply practiced. And still you had doubted her. She was his friend. His oldest companion, maybe the only person who had known him before the walls went up. Of course they were close. And yet you had questioned it. Accused her, even if you had not meant to. Your voice had been edged with fear, your words too pointed, too raw.

She must think you are fragile, insecure, a jealous child playing dress-up in a home too grand for you. You sat down slowly on the fountain’s edge, fingertips brushing the cold marble. The night felt softer now. The air cooler, clearer. You told yourself it was relief. Still, something gnawed at you. Not doubt in Lucilla’s words… but in yourself. You had let that perfume, that glance, that silence turn into something else in your mind. You had let yourself spin shadows into stories. And now you were left with the sour taste of regret.

You stayed in the garden, head tilted to the stars you could not name, trying to gather yourself. You had wanted truth, but now that it was offered, it felt heavier than you expected.

You did not hear the steps at first.

The garden held too many sounds; the wind threading through the laurels, the soft ripple of the fountain in the dark, your own breath, shallow and uneven in your chest. But when the footsteps stopped behind you, not heavy, not urgent, just there. You felt it before you turned. A shift in the night air. A stillness pressing in.

Marcus.

Standing just beyond reach.

“Why are you still out here ?” His voice was quiet. Careful like a blade turned flat so as not to cut.

You did not turn to face him yet. Your fingers brushed the edge of the marble, grounding yourself. “I needed air,” you said softly. “To clear my head.”

A pause followed. Not long, but long enough to carry weight. You could almost hear him choosing his next words. “Lucilla seemed… upset.”

You winced. You hated how easily your body betrayed your guilt, how quickly the shame surfaced. “That is my fault.” You said before you could stop yourself.

He waited.

But you did not elaborate.

You could not. The words burned in your throat, too tangled to set free.

“I thought…” You shook your head, staring out at the dark curve of the garden. “It does not matter anymore.”

“I see.”

You turned to him then. Slowly. You did not know what you were looking for in his face, a crack in the calm, perhaps. A glimpse of something real. Or maybe just permission to say what needed to be said.

“She told me there is nothing between the two of you,” you said, your voice barely more than breath. “That she only knows the shape of your silences.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. Not surprise. Not guilt. Just the faintest withdrawal, like a man pulling his hand from a fire he had not realized was lit. “She is been a part of my life a long time.” He replied, and his voice held nothing but truth. Clean, uncomplicated. The kind that did not defend, but did not deny.

“I know.” You whispered.

And now you did. You should have the moment you saw them together; the familiarity that ran deeper than words. The ease of shared pain. There was nothing seductive in it, only something private. That was what stung.

“I think I was unkind,” you admitted. The words tasted strange in your mouth, raw and half-formed. “I let fear turn me into something cruel. I made her feel unwelcome. And she is been… kind to me. From the beginning.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Not like someone observing, or assessing, or simply fulfilling the role of husband. But like a man seeing the ache that had no name. The hollow behind the eyes. The tired slope of your shoulders. You did not look away.

“You were not cruel,” he said, after a pause long enough for the wind to shift. “Just hurt.”

The word landed softly. Hurt. No embellishment. No dismissal. And somehow, it was worse than blame. Because it was true. Something inside you gave. Not entirely, not visibly, but enough to feel it: a slow loosening of the knot you had been carrying behind your ribs for weeks. Your throat tightened. For a moment, you thought you might cry. Not from sorrow, but from the unbearable relief of being seen.

But you did not.

Instead, you stood up. Your voice was steadier now when you said, “I am going to bed.”

He nodded once. You moved past him, your steps slow, your breath measured. But this time—this time—you felt it as you passed:

He turned.

Not to stop you. Not yet. But to watch. To follow not with his body, but with something else. With thought. With attention. And though nothing was spoken, you carried the echo of it with you into the darkness. Only when they stopped behind you did you sense him. Marcus, standing just beyond reach.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

Marcus' masterlist | previous part | next part

Tag-list : @negrita2345 @aretha170 @immyowndefender @suzysface @isabella-rose-trastamara @simpingforjoel @unmagically

#pedro pascal #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius #gladiator ll #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #general marcus acacius #arranged marriage #pedro pascal characters

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amalthea-abstractions · 1 year ago

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Manifesting more Solavellan Banter in Da4

/Part 1/

Rook: Soooo… the “dread wolf” huh? Is that literal?

Solas: I can manifest as a wolf if necessary, yes.

Rook: So, do you have anything to do with that wolf the Inquisitor keeps seeing in her dreams, perchance?

Solas: … if you have any questions that pertain to the mission at hand, I would be happy to answer those.

Rook: Solas, tell me— is the Inquisitor as beautiful as she is depicted in the paintings?

Solas: That depends. Which paintings do you refer to?

Rook: uuuuh. Yours I guess?

Solas: Hm.

Solas: No. Despite my best attempts, I could not come close to replicating her beauty. My frescos are mere candles to a blazing fire by comparison.

Rook: aww, that’s actually so sweet.

Varric: Hey, Is Chuckles there right now?

Rook: Yeah, why?

Varric: He can hear me?

Rook: Yes..?

Varric: Good. I just want him to know that, to celebrate defeating Corypheus, the Inquisitor had some special frilly cakes ordered. And they went cold and stale.

Solas: …

Rook: Um, okay???

Solas: To see a live griffon… What an incredible and magnificent creature. I wonder what it would be like to mount one.

Rook: I bet that’s not the only thing you wonder about mounting ¬‿¬

Solas: *Sighs* I suppose I should have seen that one coming.

Varric: Hey, Fen’Harel! Question for you.

Rook: He’s listening.

Solas: *Sighs* I suspect this is not going to be related to our progress, nor the veilguard.

Varric: Does time feel different to you than it does for all us mortals? Because for us, two years is a long time.

Rook: What’s he talking about?

Solas: I suspect the fact that I did not see anyone from the Inquisition for a period of two years after the fall of Corypheus.

Varric: And yet, she waited. All. That. Time. She deserved some kind of answer. And instead, all she got was another broken promise, and lost a limb.

Solas. …ah. I see what this is about.

Rook: Care to fill me in??

Solas: …Another one of my many, many mistakes.

Rook: So, Solas, you were at the Winter Palace with the Inquisition, right?

Solas: Indeed, the Inner Circle assisted *insert user choice result of Wicked Eyes Wicked Hearts*

Rook: Right, that. I’ve seen paintings of that night, and there’s always an elf…

Solas: *sighs*

Rook: …wearing a funny hat….

Solas: … What is your question?

Rook: That WAS you? Ha!! What was up with the hat??

Rook: Solas? Solas! Hey! This is an important question!!

If you want more Solavellan banter @lillotte17 has some here :)

#dragon age veilguard #solavellan #dragon age the veilguard #solasmancer #I love writing solas as a guy who just needs a hug ok #the last ones I guess don’t have to be Solavellan exclusively #lol

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themuseumofwitchcraftandpaganism · 6 months ago

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Did Christianity Steal From Paganism? Yes... No... It's Complicated. Part 1: Rome

Tis the season so I figured I'd talk about the topic that's been the subject of debate for a long time, most recently with the 2024 Olympics. I will be discussing the visual aspect of these religions, not the theological aspects.

Short answer: Yes

Long answer: No

Let's get into it: It took about a hundred years after the death of Christ for Christianity to start gaining popularity in the Roman Empire. At around 100 AD the first congregations secretly started meeting in basements and had to be very subtle with their worship. Being Christian at this time was a crime; they refused to pay the federal taxes that exalted the emperor as a god. At this point, after the Roman Emperor died, the Senate would vote to either add them to the pantheon or erase their legacy from public consciousness. Some emperors weren't very lucky but most of them got deified. The Christian citizens of Rome refused to offer sacrifices to the emperor because it broke the first of the Ten Commandments, "Thou shalt not have no other gods before me." There isn't much Christian art from this time, and they were definitely the religious minority.

Skip forward to 306 AD, there's yet another civil war over the throne of the Empire. The two men fighting for it were Constantine I and Maxentius. In addition to battles, the two of them funded public projects to gain the approval of the people. They both built baths, aqueducts, and basilicas. Basilicas were the Roman equivalent of city halls: the local government operated out of them, trials and town meetings were held there, and there were small niches in the walls dedicated to different gods. Maxentius built the basilica on the left (below) and Constantine built the one on the right (below). Constatine's basilica, Aula Palatina, is still the largest remaining Roman structure that's a single room.

Maxentius' basilica was bigger but in 310 AD Constatine beat him and took the throne, partly because of the support he got from the Christian citizens. In 312 AD, Constatine converted to Christianity and enacted the Edict of Milan which made Christianity legal.

But look at Aula Palatina. It looks like our modern idea of a church. It has rows of benches, which would've been used for town meetings, and a semicircular niche at the end called an apse. In a Christian church, the apse is where the altar goes just like the niches in the Roman Pagan basilicas where different gods would be worshiped. Constantine didn't change the design from a Pagan basilica at all --because why fix what isn't broken? -- and just placed it into a Christian context.

For the next hundred years, Roman citizens started to mix Christian and Pagan imagery.

Families would bury both Christian and Pagan members in the same catacomb and decorated it accordingly. The fresco below (320-340 AD) is from the Catacombs of Priscilla (200-400 AD). It has an image of Christ as the Good Shepard in the middle, but the birds along the outside represent the four seasons; an image that featured commonly in Pagan catacomb frescos. Christ's clothing and contrapposto posing is also reminiscent of Pagan statues, particularly of the god Apollo.

The fresco on the left (below) from the Catacombs of Saints Marcellinus and Peter (~300 AD), is visually similar to the last one fresco we looked at. Christ is in the middle and around him are the four Evangelists and Bible stories like Jonah and the whale. In the four corners again, there are personifications of the four seasons. Elsewhere in the Catacomb, there's a depiction of Christ as Orpheus (right, below), again combining these Pagan and Christian icons. In the Bible, it says that Christ will tame all the wild animals, and the artist is likening that to the Roman Pagan story of Orpheus taming animals with his music.

If you look at the middle of this complex fresco on the left (below) from the Catacomb of Commodilla (100-800 AD), it has a depiction of Jesus and three of the apostles dressed like Roman senators (300-400 AD). On the right is a depiction of St. Paul as a Roman philosopher from the same Catacomb.

But this interest in combining artistic traditions extended to the sarcophagi that people were buried in too. Roman Pagans usually opted to be cremated rather than buried but when they did choose to be buried, they liked to carve scenes of their gods into their sarcophagi. Roman Christians, who almost always chose to be buried, did the same. The sarcophagus on the left (below) belonged to a woman named Arria (b.~350 -- d.~400 AD) and depicts a story about the Roman Pagan moon goddess Selene. The one on the right (below) belonged to a Senator named Junius Bassus (b. 317 -- d.359 AD) depicts difference scenes from the Bible like Adam and Eve and Jesus entering Jerusalem. Do you see the visual similarities? Both sarcophagi are also carved from marble.

The mosaic below is perhaps the best example of how Christian and Pagan imagery and theologies were mixed. It used to be the floor in a wealthy Roman's villa and was found in Hinton St Mary, Dorset, England; it's the furthest north Roman mosaic ever found. The bottom panel depicts a beardless Christ with a chi-rho behind his head. (The chi-rho, XP, came from the first two letters of Christ's name in Latin. It's a Christian symbol that's still used to denote that a figure is Christ.) On either side of him is a pomegranate. Pomegranates were sacred to the goddess Persephone; Roman Pagan religion taught that she went down to the Underworld for half the year and then up to the mortal world for half the year, fueling the changing seasons. Persephone and Christ are both gods that went to the afterlife and then came back to bring new life to humans; it's not hard to see how they got conflated on this mosaic. In the corners around Christ there are four men. Their imagery is reminiscent of both the four Evangelists and the gods of the four winds, again doubling Pagan and Christian imagery. In the upper panel, there's a scene portraying the Pagan story of Bellerophon spearing the Chimæra while flying on Pegasus. That story is frequently understood to be the "Good triumphing over Evil" story archetype, much like the story of Christ triumphing over death/sin is. Whoever owned this villa literally mixing both the visual and theological elements of both Paganism and Christianity.

In the late 300s, the Emperors (who were all Christian now) started introducing laws that made it harder for Pagans to practice. They banned animal sacrifices eventually Christianity was officially declared the religion of Rome in the late 400s. However, the enforcement of these laws wasn't applied very well and people continued to practice Roman Paganism until the fall of the Empire.

But even after the fall of Rome, Roman Pagan imagery persisted in a Christian context. In the West, Emperor Charlemagne of the Holy Roman Empire, which was Christian, purposely copied the imagery of the Roman Emperors. He used equestrian statues and coinage of him wearing a Roman laurel to demonstrate his power. The top two images below are of the Chrisitan Emperor Charlemagne and the bottom two are of the Pagan Emperor Marcus Aurelius.

In the East, the early Byzantine Empire were still interested in Roman drapery and architecture. Below is Archangel Michael (left) as well as Emperor Justinian and Theodora (right) preparing the Eucharist. Both images display Roman architecture and drapery. Byzantine would eventually move away from Roman influences but in its early days, they were definitely inspired by it.

So, the answer everyone is looking for is NO.

The Christians didn't steal anything from the Pagans, they made an association. They produced art in the style that was popular and followed the artistic trends of the time. Christian and Pagan imagery was produced in the same medium and combined until Paganism was phased out over hundreds of years. They saw similar gods and iconography and combined them to make a message that was understandable to all audiences.

Happy Yule! Happy Winter Solstice!