Arthur w/ a cartoonist s/o HeadCanons : You are an independent cartoonist and have a lot of work, you often finish in the middle of the night. Arthur wants to participate your project, and shows you his gratitude.
Ideological Disability // Arthur's Opinion! //, pt. 1 , pt.2 , pt.3 : What if Arthur found the courage to face Thomas Wayne in a very very cynical way? Maybe teasing Thomas’s “cultural” side, that side that he shows with so much vanity? Maybe the citizens may be way more cultured than him.
Arthur w/ dom s/o - request
Don't Leave Me (ff on AO3) [deleted, will re-write it]
Arthur flirting with Y/N - request
Age gap with Arthur - request
Arthur/Joker dating headcanons - request
SHORT - A kiss so desperate that the two wind around each other, refusing to let go until they are finished - request
Arthur x gn green eyes reader - request
Arthur and Joker's turn on's/off's - request
ABBÉ DE COULMIER
Abbé de Coulmier x Reader // Childhood friends HCs : Madeleine doesn’t appreciate it, but you’ve been known the Abbé for a very long time.
Maybe you're right. (Abbé x Best Friend!Reader): The Abbé is tired of the Marquis’s writings and you cheer him up.
Riddle of Time, pt.1 , pt.2 , pt.3 , pt.4 , pt.5 : Charenton hides hundreds of secret, and so every person in there do.
Protège-moi (Fluff / Abbé de Coulmier x Reader), pt.1 , pt.2 : You are the betrothed of a man that you don’t even know, and the Abbé has a fit of weird and passionate jealousy for you. He sees you as someone to protect at all costs.
The Prince and the Rascal, pt.1 , pt.2 , pt.3, pt.4 : The Abbé is the victim of a fugitive’s insistent attention, and he's not the best at handling his avances.
Abbé w/ pregnant reader - request
Crazy Abbé x Director!Reader - request (pt.1 , pt.2)
Abbe x gender questioning reader - request
JIMMY EMMETT
Turn-ons for Jimmy Emmett, Max California and Willie Gutierrez - request
Jimmy and Reader to the prom - request
SHORT - A kiss that lasts so long, they are sharing each other's breath - request
MAX CALIFORNIA
Turn-ons for Jimmy Emmett, Max California and Willie Gutierrez - request
Max helps his the reader with studying - request
COMMODUS
Commodus enjoys being a sub - request
WILLIE GUTIERREZ
Be my secret Valentine - request
Turn-ons for Jimmy Emmett, Max California and Willie Gutierrez - request
Willie being jealous of his s/o - request
SHORT - Tucking their hands beneath the other person's shirt, just to see them break the kiss and gasp in surprise at the sensation of cold/warm hands on their skin - request
WADE WILSON
Was it planned? - request
VIRGIL OLDMAN
The Best Chance, Prologue/Ch 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12- Virgil Oldman starts questioning himself completely at the tender age of 63.
Summary: An old man's icy heart is slowly melting. part 11 here
TW: cursing, drunkenness, sexual tension
12 - A FAINT SIGNAL
“You lied to me!!”
Ange jolted, startled at the auctioneer’s voice piercing his ears all of a sudden. The old man burst the door of his host’s bedroom open with all the fury only a whole night of frantic research combined with weeks of anxiety for Claire Ibbetson’s mental and physical wellbeing could give.
“W-What?!”, the tattoo artist stuttered, still half-naked, covering himself up with a blanket on his bed full of plushies. Virgil wasn’t paying attention to anything but the other’s face, studying every angle and wrinkle of the frown on it to find an ounce of guilt.
Virgil didn’t speak: showing the young man his own phone screen, still open on the chat with that guy, “Andrea”, was more than enough of an answer to him. Ange frowned more, this time not out of worry, but out of puzzlement. It took half a second for his eyes to fill with something other than tears and surprise: a thin layer of disappointment.
“You went through my phone?”, he asked, his voice staying low to hold himself back.
Oldman scoffed. “I did, fortunately. You lied to me the whole time!”
“About what?!”, Ange yelled back, tearing up already. He was almost refusing to land eyes on the screen, too focused on the sheer rage and disappointment on the auctioneer’s face.
“You knew Claire the entire time! You lied about everything, even about your sexuality!”, Virgil kept roaring.
“What?!!”
“Stop repeating it, Jesus Christ!”, the old man yelled even louder. He was practically towering over him, one hand tightly clenched into a fist while the other held the device right at Ange’s face, who was crouched on his bed. “Look at this and confess, if you have the balls!”
The blond boy just snatched his own phone out of the bid caller’s hand and went through that chat. Memes, tasteless jokes, stickers and pics didn’t quite catch his attention until he connected the dots with what Virgil accused him of.
He opened the last photo “Andrea” sent him.
“This… this is her…?”, he asked with a quiet, shaky voice, turning the screen back at the auctioneer who was fuming above him. He watched the photo again:
A party at a club, a numerous herd of youngsters having fun, some visibly drunk and dancing. In the middle of the scene, literally as if it were taken with the sole purpose of spiting the old man, Ange had been photographed kissing and groping a girl, both wasted and with drinks in their hands.
Younger than him. Long, blonde hair, maybe darker than his. Pale skin. A “fading beauty” that lost every inhibition and pureness in one picture.
Virgil’s silence was more than enough of a confirmation for Ange, who collected his courage back while his eyes were still wet. “This is Claire Ibbetson?!”
“Ah, cut the act, y-you knew it’s her”, he snarled, “or else, you wouldn’t have been so certain and insisted she was lying to me.”
“Just admit you’re a fucking idiot who fell for her act!”, the boy blurted out, tears kept flowing down his cheeks. He immediately got up to march into the bathroom, locking himself in before Virgil could stop him.
The auctioneer scoffed out of the bathroom door. “Do you really think you can escape this? You all lied to me, and I demand explanations!”, he kept roaring, his voice louder and louder as he banged his fist on the door.
“I didn’t! Believe me!”
Oldman resisted the urge to cave in and leave the boy alone on the matter the moment he heard him sobbing. But the phone was still on, lying on the bed and waiting for something to evolve in that situation. That oblivious device had just broken months and months of illusions.
Claire Ibbetson had lied to him. Ange Chagall had lied to him.
They were the bold protagonists of that picture, cruelly mocking Virgil Oldman in the face for naïvely believing someone in the world was still worthy of his trust.
“Virgil…”
The auctioneer let out a soft gasp, hearing now Ange sobbing louder, hyperventilating closer to the door. He could hear him lower, maybe crouched on the bathroom floor, a humble plea to have mercy on him.
He didn’t deserve mercy. He lied to me, Virgil thought.
“I’m leaving. Thank you for the dinner.”
…
The bathroom door unlocked as the auctioneer put his blazer back on in the living room. Ange appeared beneath the threshold that connected the living room to the night area: for the first time, Virgil saw him with no makeup on, which enhanced even more his cheeks and nose heavily dusted with freckles; his upper body was now covered with a white hoodie decorated with faux red kiss marks.
Even in that moment of tension, the auctioneer couldn’t ignore how incredibly attractive the young man was to him.
“I know you took your decision…”
“I certainly did.”
“I didn’t lie to you”, Ange insisted, stepping closer to him. “Please, believe me.”
Oldman’s frustration came back stronger than before. He turned his whole body towards the boy, rejecting the enticement with all the mental strength a sleepless, stressful night could allow. “Your audacity is incredible. Almost admirable, I dare to say.”
“Vir…”, the tattoo artist caught his tongue. “Monsieur… I’ve never been more honest in my life. I could never lie to you.”
A louder scoff escaped the old man’s lips. “Oh, yeah? Why, what’s the deal with me?”
Ange didn’t dare to answer: his immediately flushed face was enough of a clue. And Virgil was starting to put two and two together, even if a part of his brain was firmly refusing to accept that solution.
He shook his head, more disappointed as he buttoned his blazer. “Please, Chagall, stop embarrassing yourself. It’s painful to watch.”
“It was Andrea’s birthday party. She told me her name was Cynthia, or… Sylvia, or whatever. I was too drunk to remember, and she was too”, the boy let out, his voice struggling to be steady. A fling of hope sparkled in his eyes as he watched Virgil slow down in his gestures, his greyish-blue eyes stuck on the white heart-shaped record player and the countless vinyls beside it.
“I want to make this right, monsieur. Please.”
Mr Oldman’s eyes rose on the boy’s splendidly hurt face; new tears shone from the corners of his eyes, threatening to break down Oldman’s fortress. “I demand explanations.”
“Of course…!”, Ange immediately let out, approaching more, but stopped at the bid caller’s halting hand.
“And no. Crying”, which led the blond man to quickly wipe his fresh tears with the edges of his hoodie sleeves, such a sweet and childish gesture that managed to soften the auctioneer’s irritation.
As soon as the tension and nervousness quieted down in that shoebox apartment, Virgil’s blood pressure dropped, pushing him to sit on the sofa for the first time; a turtle-shaped plushie bounced on his lap, and instead of pushing it away, the man held it in his arms.
Ange noticed quite the tension in his guest and tilted his head. “Can I do something else for you, monsieur?”
“Yes, actually. Do you perchance have something to drink?”, he asked.
“I was going to make some tea…”
Virgil sighed. “Anything stronger?”, he asked, his relaxed voice masking his actual need for alcohol. The boy eagerly nodded. “I have wine or whisky if you prefer. I don’t drink much at home, but Matthew gifted it to me after a uh… voyage to visit his grandparents in Dundee.”
“A trip, you mean”, the auctioneer scoffed. He slowly nodded, looking at his host. “I’m not much of a drinker either, but… Whisky sounds perfect.”
Ange didn’t care about hiding his joy: his full lips spread in a beaming smile as he walked to get the bottle of golden liquid with two glasses.
Despite both of them “not being much of a drinker”, as they said, more than half a bottle was gone. And Virgil was the one always going for more: his glass was glued in his hand as he kept rambling and blabbering about Claire and her fake condition.
Ange was heavily tipsy, too, hugging a teddy bear as he barely listened and fighting to stay awake.
“I swear to God, I’m so mad at her… she- how- how could she lie to me?! I thought we had a connection!”, the auctioneer complained, too drunk to care about his usual composure. “My God, Claire… I’m such a moron…”
As he whined, he casually noticed Ange was dozing off, and strongly hit his chest with the turtle plush he was still holding to wake him up. “Listen to me!”
“Listenin’…!”, the younger one gasped, sitting up to stay awake. “Well…”, he yawned, “I warned you ‘bout her, but you were all like ‘noooo, she’s the love of my life, I’d do everything for her, you’re saying that she’s a liar because you’re jealous of her’...”
Oldman deeply frowned at those words. “You’re saying this, not me”, he shrugged and turned his head towards Ange: he was tearing up, his lower lip quivering. “You do cry a lot, don’t you, crybaby?”, he asked.
His tone showed no malice in his question, but his drunkenness was weakening his filter of good manners. As long as he could say he had a decent one.
A high-pitched whimper escaped the boy’s throat. “You’re an asshole!”, he sobbed, hitting the auctioneer back with the teddy bear to the point of ripping its arm. He took advantage of Virgil’s disorientation to wobble towards the door and open it, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs.
“L-leave…”
The bewilderment on the old man’s face slowly transformed into a scowl. He stretched his long and thin legs and crossed his arms. “No.”
“Leave, I said!”
“Not until you spit it all out, I’m not!”, Virgil protested. “I still want to know how the hell you met with Claire!, or whatever her name is! I want the whole truth!”
“I told you, at Andrea’s party! I met her there, and we had too many drinks! And-and kissed with tongue while we were drunk as fuck! She doesn’t told me who she was, she probably don’t even told me her real name!”
“But…!”, the bid caller got up and yelped when he risked slipping back on the sofa because of his precarious balance. “But why was she there in the first place?!”
“Because it was a fucking discoteque! And Andrea is Lulu’s bandmate- I mean, one of her bandmates, and they were playing that night and lots of people was there to listen to them more from the actual people who got invited to the party!”, Ange was panting at that point, rambling with no pauses as his tears dried out and his anger increased.
That confusing answer somehow was enough for part of Virgil’s fears to dissipate. He finally let himself fall back on the sofa, his hand flew to hold his forehead. “Oh, gosh… I drank too much…”, he exhaled, his lids fluttering shut as he tried to take back control of his speech and thought. Ange was panting, closing the door and leaning against it to stay balanced the best he could.
“You… need to vomit?”
The auctioneer slowly shook his head. “Just… I just need to know why you didn’t tell me earlier.”
“How-...!”, the tattoo artist coughed, choking on his own saliva from suddenly inhaling. “How was I supposed to know what ‘Claaaiiire’ is like?”
“I described her earlier in your car!”
“You literally described 50% of my girlfriends”, Ange pointed out, kicking out of his way the arm of the teddy bear that was at his feet. “If anything, she should have told you that! She saw me out of her villa when Pierre attacked me, and she didn’t warn you to keep the act of the poor, ill bitch!"
“Watch your…!”, the auctioneer was getting back on offence, but his throat instantly dried. “...oh.”
“Yeah.”
Mr Oldman’s eyes started itching, a sensation he wasn’t very familiar with. The lump he felt in the car earlier that night returned, tighter than before, choking him. He looked up at Ange: that pretty boy appeared smudged and blurred, like an oil painting the artist didn’t wait for it to dry completely.
“Ange-”
“Fuck off.”
The immediate rejection tightened the lump even more, making the auctioneer’s breath painfully hitch. The man readily covered his face with his hands, trapping his shy tears in the fabric of his loyal gloves.
Ange didn’t take much to notice Virgil’s state. He quickly forgot his anger towards the man and rushed beside him, whining. “Monsieur…”
Virgil held his breath for 10-ish seconds; his thinner shoulders shook twice before he could almost completely suppress his urge. The first thing his eyes landed on when his lids rose was the fifth half-full glass of whisky, which he didn’t hesitate to grab and chug.
That definitely helped him better.
With the corner of his eye, he could spot the way Ange was leaning closer to him, a hand gently clenching the fabric of his wrinkly, white shirt. “You’ve never lied to me, have you, Chagall…?”
Ange quickly shook his head. “I would never. I promise…”, which made Virgil genuinely smile for the first time after weeks of tension: the boy’s bona fide devotion warmed his heart more than the first times he got to speak directly with Claire.
His mind quickly rewound every interaction he ever had with her, recognising each time some kind of flattering that now felt so fake.
Human emotions are like works of art that can be forged; Billy Whistler warned him of that. How ironic that his sentence was so fitting for his sad situation.
“Never never?”, he tenderly asked. He didn’t expect the boy to rest his head on his shoulder, which made him completely blush and freeze in his seat.
“Never never never never…” Ange childishly whined, planting a kiss on the auctioneer’s cheek. Then two. Then he kept kissing the old man’s cheek again and again.
Alcohol was hitting stronger in the boy’s veins, and in Virgil’s too, hence he didn’t hate it at all; if anything, it drove the blood south of his body equator.
Virgil found himself leaning into those kisses, smiling, chuckling even; drinking in the warmth they gave him in his heart and lower belly. An arm snaked around his waist to pull him closer, gaining a contented hum from that big boy as he kept kissing his face. The more time passed, the more Ange’s lips moved closer and closer to Virgil’s.
The auctioneer was drifting in that sweet, sweet cloud Ange’s affection was closing them in. He felt something was changing between them, but couldn’t quite catch it: he loathed how much he was loving being so close to that angel, to the point of scaring him. Never in his life had he been so close to someone, and the fact that it was another man was a thrill his body, maybe, wasn’t ready to face yet.
His breath hitched when his nose bumped against Ange’s: their panting breaths mingled; their arms tangled around each other. They had no way out.
Virgil's growing arousal risked making him pass out at any moment; his mind was already picturing what was going to happen, which worsened his already indecorous current state. On the other hand, Ange was enjoying that sight: that sweetly grumpy auctioneer, now so flustered and excited, with quite the hunger shining in his eyes that gave him chills of adrenaline, too.
They admired each other's lips in complete silence, collecting enough courage to close that burning gap and leave everything behind all the consequences of what was going to happen next.
“Virgil…”, the young man softly called as he approached. He was dying to have more, his own heart hammering in his chest as he cupped the auctioneer’s face.
The stalemate shattered by the tattoo artist's directness, which frightened the old man, urging him to stop the other. A tad of reasoning was still present in his foggy head, which froze every other signal to go on and give in to his desire.
The softest whine of protest came out of Ange's throat: “Something’s wrong?”, he gasped out, tenderly caressing the auctioneer’s face; his voice shaking already at the thought of having done something wrong.
Virgil just shook his head, moved by that boy’s sweetness. “I just…”, he stopped to think. “I need to vomit.”
He didn’t, but hiding himself in the bathroom felt safer than dealing with whatever was happening in his heart. Feeling like a pathetic coward was the least of his problems that night.
All he knew was that Ange was dangerous and needed to be avoided at all costs.
when he stuffs you so full of his cum that your poor, aching hole couldn’t possibly hold it all. but he still clicks his tongue as he watches it pathetically leak out of you (tsk, what a waste), pressing meanly down on your belly to force more out while he decides which position to fuck you in next.
SMUT! You've been anxious and overthinking lately, crushed by the expectations of others. You go to the Abbe, the one who gave you a new life, the only one able to make your mind quiet. But through unspeakable means.
The halls of Charenton were unnervingly quiet, the usual cacophony of mad shouts and distant weeping having subsided with the late hour. But your own mind was a storm. Another letter from your family lay crumpled in your pocket, its words about duty and expectation searing into your thoughts. You had been pacing in your small room, the walls closing in, the weight of your life pressing down on you until you could barely breathe. You needed something to anchor. You needed him.
Without a clear plan, your feet carried you through the dimly lit corridors. You found yourself outside his study, the light from within spilling into the darkness. The door was slightly ajar. You hesitated, your hand hovering, a tremor running through you. It was late, improper. But the thought of returning to the suffocating solitude of your room was unbearable. You pushed the door open just enough to slip inside.
The Abbe was at his desk, hunched over paper, the scratch of his quill the only sound in the room, he was concentrated. He looked up as the door clicked softly shut behind you, a flicker of surprise in his eyes before it was replaced by a warm, knowing concern.
"I'm sorry, Abbe." you began, your voice barely a whisper. "I shouldn't have troubled you… I can come back." You opened the door again, ready to leave.
"Nonsense." he said, his voice gentle as he slowly put down his quill, his gaze never leaving yours. It was not the gaze of a superior to a subordinate, but of a friend who saw the fracture in your composure. "Close the door."
You obeyed, the click of the latch echoing your own finality. You remained standing awkwardly near the door, unsure of your place.
"What troubles you?" he asked, though it felt as if he was seeing right through you. You couldn't form the words. You just shook your head, your throat tight with unshed tears.
"Another letter?" He stood, moving around the large desk. He didn't approach immediately, giving you space. You nodded, clenching your jaw briefly.
"They don't understand. They think I am wasting my life here. They want me to come home, to marry… to be someone I am not." you replied, your eyes fixed on the floor.
"And what do you want?" he pressed softly.
"I don't know anymore." you confessed, the admission making your eyes humid. "I only know that I am tired. Tired of being strong, tired of fighting, tired of carrying everyone's expectations and my own failures. I feel… I feel like I am disappearing under the weight of it all."
The Abbe was silent for a long moment, letting your words hang in the air between you. He stepped closer, his presence a solid, comforting force.
"You have been fighting battles on all fronts." he said, his voice a low murmur that seemed to vibrate through the very air. "You try to be a dutiful daughter, a diligent worker, a moral woman in an immoral world. You hold yourself to impossible standards, and when you inevitably fail to meet them, you add the weight of that failure to the burden you already carry."
You looked up at him, your eyes wide. He saw everything; he saw the ugly, tangled mess of your anxieties and named them without judgment. And what always surprised you, was how he made it turn beautiful. He was an angel in this world of madness.
"What if you didn't have to fight anymore?" he continued, his gaze holding yours. "What if, for just a little while, you could lay down all your weapons? All your responsibilities, all your worries, all the expectations that crush you from all sides?"
He straightened up and walked to the study door. With a deliberate, almost ceremonial slowness, he turned the heavy iron key. The click of the lock echoing in the silent room was deafening, a sound of finality that sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through you. You knew what was going to happen.
He returned to the center of the room, standing before you. His gaze held yours as his hands rose to his throat. His fingers, long and elegant, worked at the small, white tab of his clerical collar. He unfastened it with the same measured slowness he had locked the door. He pulled the starched linen from his neck and laid it carefully on a stack of books. The sight of his bare throat, vulnerable and exposed, was shockingly intimate. It was the shedding of his public persona, the removal of the symbol that separated him from other men. In its place was just the man, with his raw, unfiltered intensity.
"You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders." he said, his voice thick with a dark, sacred purpose. "A weight not meant for you. What we do here tonight remains between us, and God. I will not have your soul tarnished by worldly stress. I will not have your spirit broken by pressures you were never meant to bear."
He closed the distance between you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb brushed against your skin, and you leaned into the touch with a desperation that shamed you.
"So I will take this burden from you…as I always did." he vowed, his eyes burning into yours. "I will take your anxieties, your fears, your very thoughts upon myself. I will commit this sin so that you may be cleansed. Your release will come through my corruption." His other hand found the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, not gently, but with a firm, possessive grip that sent a wave of heat through your body. He tilted your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.
"You will surrender control to me." he commanded, his voice leaving no room for refusal. "You will not think. You will not worry. You will only feel. And I will be the one who decides what you feel. Do you understand?" He asked with a tenderness that was impossible to oppose.
You could only manage a weak, breathless nod. The knot in your stomach was loosening, not from relief, but from being replaced by a different, more potent tension, anticipation, of dark and thrilling surrender.
"Good." he murmured, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Then let us begin your penance." His grip on your neck was firm, a possessive anchor in the sea of your uncertainty. With his other hand still cupping your cheek, he used his thumb to part your lips, a silent, demanding gesture. Your breath hitched, and you obeyed the unspoken command, your mouth falling open slightly.
"No more thinking." he murmured, his dark eyes scanning your face as if committing it to memory. "Your mind has been your prison. Tonight, it will be quiet."
He leaned in, but he did not kiss you. Instead, he pressed his lips to your forehead, a gesture that was both benediction and brand. It was searingly intimate, a claim being laid upon your very soul. Then, his mouth moved to your temple, his breath hot against your skin.
"Kneel." he whispered, the command a soft puff of air against your ear.
Your body responded before your mind could protest. The grip on your neck guided you down, not forcefully, but with an unyielding pressure that allowed no resistance. Your knees met the thick rug, the plush fibers a soft cushion against the hard floor. You were looking up at him now, at the man who had shed his collar like a serpent shedding its skin. He loomed over you, a figure of shadow and fire, his expression unreadable yet utterly commanding.
"Good girl." he approved, his voice a low rumble. "You see how simple it is? How much lighter you already feel?" The frantic buzzing in your head had quieted, replaced by a singular, thrumming focus on him. The weight of your worries had not vanished, but they had been pushed to the periphery, muted and distant.
He circled you slowly, like a predator assessing its prey. His hand trailed from your neck down your spine, his fingers tracing the line of your shoulder blades through the fabric of your dress. You shivered, your body arching involuntarily into his touch.
"You are so beautifully tense." he observed, his voice laced with a dark appreciation. "Every muscle coiled tight, ready for a fight that will not come. We must unwind you."
He stopped behind you. His hands settled on your shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the knots of muscle there. You let out a soft gasp, a mixture of pain and relief. He began to knead, his touch firm and knowing, finding every point of stress, every hidden ache. You melted under his ministrations, your head bowing forward, your body going pliant.
"That's it." he encouraged, his voice a hypnotic murmur. "Surrender to it. Let me take this from you." His hands moved lower, down your back, his touch becoming more possessive, more exploratory. He found the laces of your dress, his fingers toying with them. He didn't pull, didn't undo them. He simply traced their path, a silent promise of what was to come. The anticipation was a delicious agony that made you forget all worries.
"Every worry, every fear, every expectation," he whispered, his lips close to your ear now. "You will give them all to me. I will be your keeper. Your confessor. Your angel."
His hands moved to your throat, not squeezing, just present and feeling your pulse. The vulnerability of the position sent a fresh wave of heat through you, pooling low in your belly.
"You will not move unless I command it." he stated, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You will not speak unless I ask you a question. Your only purpose is to feel what I give you. Do you understand?"
"Yes." you breathed, the word barely audible.
He released your throat and moved to stand in front of you again. He looked down at you, kneeling before him, and a slow, satisfied smile finally graced his lips. It was a terrifying and beautiful sight. Then, he knelt in front of you, slowly, still taller than you. His proximity a shield against your worries.
“We must break the cage you have built for yourself.” He reached out, his hand steady, the tip of his fingers cold like a blade against the neckline of your dress. You flinched, but his eyes held yours, a silent command to be still. He worked methodically, his expression one of intense concentration, as if performing a sacred rite.
Soon, you were naked before him, kneeling on the rug, the firelight warming your exposed skin. The air was cool on your flesh, raising goosebumps. You felt a moment of profound vulnerability, but it was quickly replaced by a heady sense of freedom. The physical shedding of your clothes felt like a shedding of your burdens.
"Beautiful…" he breathed, his gaze sweeping over you. "Free of worldly burdens.”
He stood and offered you his hand. You took it, and he pulled you to your feet. He led you not towards his bed, but to a plush chaise lounge positioned to face the roaring fire. He guided you to lie on your stomach, your head turned to the side, your hands resting palm-up near your head. The velvet was soft against your skin.
He disappeared for a moment, and you heard the soft clink of glass. When he returned, you felt the sudden, shocking chill of liquid being dribbled onto your back. The oil he usually used to celebrate the mass. It was scented with lavender and something else, something dark and musky. Then his hands were on you, slick with oil.
His touch was sure, strong, and utterly possessive. He began at your shoulders, his thumbs digging deep into the muscle, working out the knots of tension that had been your constant companions for months. You couldn't suppress a moan as a particularly tight bundle of nerves released under his expert touch. His hands glided down your spine, spreading the oil, warming your skin. He kneaded the flesh of your buttocks, his touch possessive and thorough, before moving down the backs of your thighs. Every ache, every point of stress, he found and soothed it into submission.
You were melting, turning into a puddle of sensation under his hands. The frantic thoughts in your head had ceased completely, replaced by the rhythmic slide of his palms, the pressure of his fingers, the scent of the oil and the fire. You were floating, adrift in a sea of pleasure he was creating for you. Surrender felt so good.
He turned you over with surprising ease, his hands still slick. The firelight danced across your bare breasts and stomach. His eyes roamed over you, dark and hungry. He poured more oil into his palms, the liquid catching the light. He started at your collarbones, his thumbs tracing the delicate bones before sweeping down to your breasts. He circled your nipples, avoiding the tight peaks, teasing the sensitive flesh around them until you were arching your back, a silent plea for more.
"Patience." he chided softly, a dark smile playing on his lips. "Take the time to feel.”
Finally, his thumbs brushed over your nipples, and a jolt of pure electricity shot through you. He rolled the sensitive nubs between his slick fingers, pinching just enough to walk the line between pleasure and pain. Your breath hitched, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. His hands continued their downward journey, over your stomach, your hips, your thighs. He bypassed the place between your legs that throbbed with a desperate need, instead massaging your calves, your feet, leaving no part of you untouched, unclaimed.
When he finally finished, your skin was glowing, every nerve ending alive and humming. You were relaxed, yet wound tighter than a violin string with anticipation. He knelt beside the chair, his face close to yours.
"All the negative tension has been washed from your body…" he murmured, his voice a low caress. "Now, we must replace it with bliss. Would you like me to continue?"
"Yes." Your voice was a breathless, whispered but it was the arch of your body, the way you shifted your hips in a silent, desperate plea, that truly answered him. A look of profound, almost scientific fascination crossed his face. He was watching you, studying you, like the Marquis must have studied his own depraved manuscripts, searching for the truth within the sin.
"Fascinating…" he murmured, his gaze fixed on the subtle movement of your thighs. "The body, once freed from the tyranny of the mind, speaks its own language. A language of pure, unadulterated need to be loved." He seemed to be testing the words, finding his footing in this new, uncharted territory. One where he was a novice who ruled by his learning capacities.
"The Marquis wrote that the greatest pleasure is not in the act itself, but in the surrender that precedes it. I see now… he was correct." He stood and moved to the foot of the chair. Instead of joining you, he simply looked down, his eyes sweeping over your oiled, waiting form. He was savoring the sight, the power. He was learning that anticipation was a tool as sharp as any blade. He seemed pleased by your obedience, his confidence visibly bolstered.
He finally moved, he placed his hands on your knees, his grip firm. He pushed your legs wider apart, opening you completely to his gaze. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but the feeling was intoxicating.
"Look at me." he ordered. You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his. They were dark, burning with an intensity that was both terrifying and thrilling. "Your emptiness will be replaced by me. Your aches will be soothed by me. You will think of nothing else. Is that what you want?"
"Yes…!" you cried out, the word torn from your throat. "Please, Abbe." You wanted to be a puppet, no thoughts, just control and the care of your owner.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. He had his answer. He leaned forward, his body hovering over yours, his cassock brushing against your slick skin. He braced himself on one arm beside your head. With his other hand, he reached down, his fingers tracing the slick folds of your sex. You bucked against him, a desperate gasp escaping your lips.
"So responsive." he murmured, his voice thick with wonder and desire. "Every touch, every reaction… it's a revelation." He slid one long finger inside you, and your internal muscles clenched around it instinctively. He groaned, a low, guttural sound. "And so welcoming. So eager to be filled."
He began to move, his finger stroking your inner walls, finding a rhythm that made your toes curl. He watched your face intently, cataloging every flutter of your eyelids, every parting of your lips. He was learning you, mapping your pleasure, and the knowledge was making him bold.
"More…!" you begged, your hips rising to meet his hand.
"Patience." he chided again, though there was a smile in his voice now. He added a second finger, stretching you, filling you more completely. His thumb found the sensitive nub of your desire, circling it with a maddening, deliberate pressure. "We must build the cathedral before we can pray in it." The pressure inside you was building, a coil of tension winding tighter and tighter. Your breaths came in ragged pants. He was watching you, his own breathing growing heavier, his control clearly wavering as he became lost in the power of your response.
"That's it…" he urged, his voice a low growl. "Let go. Surrender to it. Give me your pleasure." With a final, flick of his thumb, the coil inside you snapped. A wave of pure, unadulterated bliss washed over you, so intense it was almost painful. You cried out his name, your body arching off the chair, your hands gripping the velvet. He slowly withdrew his fingers, and you felt a moment of loss at the emptiness. He brought his glistening fingers to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he tasted your essence. It was a scandalous sight, yet how good it made you feel.
"Ambrosia…" he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "The first taste of true creation." He leaned down, his face inches from yours.
Then, he rose slowly, his movements fluid and deliberate. With his eyes locked on yours, he began to undo the buttons of his cassock. His fingers, still slick with your essence, fumbled with the first few, a rare betray of his own escalating desire. He noticed your gaze on his hands, and a flicker of something, pride, perhaps, or a renewed sense of control, hardened his features. He finished the rest with a steady, practiced grace.
The heavy black garment pooled at his feet, leaving him in his simple linen trousers and a loose, untucked shirt. The sight of him, disrobed from his clerical vestments, was more potent than if he were fully naked. He was no longer the Abbe, the holy man. He was just a man. He was the man who had read the Marquis and understood, the man who was now making those words his own reality.
He stepped out of the puddle of black cloth and came on top of you once again. He placed his hands on your hips, his grip firm, grounding. He leaned over you, his hair brushing against your forehead.
"The Marquis wrote of the body as a vessel for sensation." he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you. "A temple to be desecrated in the name of a higher truth. I understand now. He was not writing of debauchery. He was writing of worship."
He shifted his position, aligning his hips with yours. You could feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against your thigh through the thin fabric of his trousers. The anticipation was a physical ache, a desperate need that eclipsed all thought. He reached down, undoing the tie of his trousers. He freed himself, and your eyes widened at the sight of him, thick and heavy in his hand. He gave himself a slow, deliberate stroke, his gaze never leaving yours, a silent, arrogant display of his power.
"Look at me." he commanded again, his voice a raw whisper. "Watch as I claim you…as I fill you." He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your slick, sensitive folds. He didn't enter immediately. He teased you, sliding himself through your wetness, coating himself in your arousal. He was watching your face, drinking in your reactions, the way your lips parted, the way your hips rose to meet him.
"Please…" you whimpered, the word a desperate, broken sound. A slow, triumphant smile touched his lips. He had you, surrendered fully to his care. He positioned himself at your opening and, with one slow, inexorable thrust, buried himself inside you.
The sensation was overwhelming. A sharp, intense stretch that bordered on pain, followed by a profound, bone-deep sense of rightness. He filled you completely, stretching you to your limits, erasing the emptiness that had plagued you for so long. You cried out, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his shirt.
He stilled, buried to the hilt, his body trembling slightly with the effort of holding back. He closed his eyes for a moment, his jaw clenched. When he opened them, they were burning with an intensity that stole your breath.
"All of you…" he growled, his voice a low, possessive claim. "You are mine now." He began to move, his thrusts slow and deep at first, a deliberate, punishing rhythm that was designed to claim, to conquer. He was learning your body, finding the angle that made you gasp, the depth that made you moan. He was a scholar, and you were his most fascinating text, and he was determined to read every line, to decipher every secret.
"Tell me…" he panted, his pace increasing slightly. "Tell me what you feel…"
"Full!" you gasped. "So full…it's… it's almost too much…ah…I…you are my salvation…" He shifted his angle, and the head of his cock brushed against a spot deep inside you that made you see stars. A loud, unrestrained cry tore from your throat.
"There…" he breathed, a look of triumph on his face. "There it is…so beautiful…!" He began to target that spot with each thrust, his movements becoming more forceful, more demanding. His words were as potent as his actions, a dark, intoxicating poison that you willingly drank. The pressure inside you was building again, a storm gathering on the horizon. Your hands scratched his back, trying to anchor yourself against the overwhelming pleasure. He leaned down, his mouth finding your ear. "Let go..!" he urged, his voice a rough, desperate command. "Surrender to me… Give me everything..!"
His words were your undoing. With a final, powerful thrust, the storm broke. A blinding, deafening wave of ecstasy washed over you, more intense than the first. Your body convulsed around him, your inner muscles clenching and releasing in a rhythmic, desperate dance. You screamed his name, a raw, primal sound of pure, unadulterated release.
He followed you over the edge with a high pitched moan, his body stiffening as he poured himself into you, his hot seed claiming you. He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing and the crackling of the fire. You were limp, boneless, your mind a blissful, empty void. The weight of your worries, your burdens, your very identity, had been scoured away, replaced by the solid, undeniable reality of him.
He pushed himself up on his elbows, his gaze searching yours. The fire in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a softer, more contemplative light. He reached out, his hand gently stroking your hair, a gesture so tender.
"I see your bliss…" he whispered, his voice husky. "You are free." He remained inside you for a long moment, his weight a comforting anchor in the sea of your satiation. The frantic energy that had driven him had dissipated, replaced by a quiet stillness. He gently brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead, his touch impossibly tender as he murmured gentle prayers.
With a slow, careful withdrawal, he left you, and you couldn't suppress a soft whimper at the sudden emptiness. He heard it, and his expression softened with an emotion that looked remarkably like concern. He stood and, without a word, walked to a small chest of drawers against the far wall. He returned with a soft, clean cloth and a pitcher of water, which he poured into a basin.
Kneeling beside the chair, he dipped the cloth into the cool water and wrung it out gently. "Be still." he murmured, his voice now stripped of all command, leaving only a quiet, caring warmth.
He began to clean you with a reverence that took your breath away. His touch was impossibly gentle, his movements slow and deliberate as he wiped away the evidence of your joining. It was an act of such intimate care, so far removed from the dominant force of moments before, that it brought a fresh sting of tears to your eyes. He wasn't just cleaning your body; he was tending to your soul.
When he was finished, he covered you with a heavy, woolen blanket that had been draped over a nearby chair, tucking it around you with care. He then dressed himself quickly, pulling on his trousers and his shirt, but he left the cassock where it lay, a dark pool on the floor. He did not retrieve his clerical collar.
He moved to his desk and returned with a glass of water. "Sit up, slowly." he instructed softly. He helped you, his hand supporting your back as you rose, the blanket clutched to your chest. He pressed the glass into your hands. "Drink." You obeyed, the cool water soothing your dry throat. He watched you, his gaze no longer one of a predator or a scholar, but of a friend. A concerned, caring friend.
"Are you… are you alright?" he asked, the question hesitant, as if he were unsure of his own role now. You nodded, setting the glass aside.
"I feel… light." you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "The noise is gone."
A small, genuine smile touched his lips, a smile you had seen many times before, in this very study, over discussions of books and life. "Good. That was… the intention." He sat on the edge of the chair.
"I must confess…" he began, his gaze dropping to his hands, "the Marquis writes of many things. But this… this quiet after. He never speaks of this. I find it… more profound than the act itself." He looked back at you, his eyes open and vulnerable. "To see you at peace. To know I could give you that, even through such a… transgressive means. It changes something in me. I did not expect to feel… tenderness."
You reached out, your fingers finding his. He flinched slightly at the contact, then relaxed, his hand turning to lace his fingers with yours. "You have given me a great gift, Abbe." you said softly. "A relief I desperately needed."
"And you have given me a… revelation." he countered, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "A new understanding of the texts, of the human heart. Of my own heart…"
You sat in comfortable silence for a while, the fire crackling, your hands linked. The power dynamic had shifted, softened, settling into a new, more equitable space. He was still the Abbe, and you were still his friend, but you were now something more, something forged in fire and sin and tenderness.
"You should rest." he said finally, his voice gentle. "The world will intrude soon enough. But for now, you are safe here. With me."
He stood and pulled a heavy armchair closer to the chair. He sat down, not returning to his desk, not resuming his work. He simply watched over you, a silent guardian in the flickering firelight, his collar still discarded on the floor, a symbol of the man he had chosen to become, if only for this one night.
Summary: An old man's icy heart is slowly melting. part 10 here / part 12 here
TW: emetophobia, cursing, 1 (one) slur
11 - SWAMPED
* Calling… BILLY W (+44 7911227816)
No answer.
* Calling… IBBETSON’S CAREGIVER (+44 7914931173)
‘Welcome to the EE voicemail. I'm sorry, but the person you've called is not available. Please leave your message after the tone.’
* Calling… IBBETSON’S CAREGIVER (+44 7914931173)
‘Welcome to the EE voicemail. I'm sorry, but the person you've called is not avail-’
* Calling… ROBERT (+44 7457033782)
No answer.
* Calling… IBBETSON’S CAREGIVER (+44 7914931173)
‘Welcome to the EE voicemail. I'm sorry-’
“So?”, Lucille asked, her voice was softer than usual as she let her head dangle with each curve her brother took in his car. Her hand was distractedly stroking Matthew’s back as he panted out of his window, in a desperate attempt not to throw up. The tension was as thick as polluted air, obstructing everyone’s lungs.
“Absolutely nothing. No one is picking up…”, Virgil sighed, hanging up, his phone quickly returned to his blazer pocket.
“And this girl’s still nowhere to be found, apparently”, Ange spoke, swiftly turning the glitter-covered steering wheel to the left. With that move he gained a frantic groan from the ginger jock sitting behind him, but blatantly ignored him.
“She’s agoraphobic, of course she’s pro at hiding”, the girl muttered, clearly sleepy. Her blue eyes snapped open once her brother’s eyes threw a dagger at her through the rearview mirror. “What?”, she shrugged.
“Laisse tomber”, the tattoo artist huffed, his own eyes evidently red and puffy, too. Virgil didn’t seem to care about that exchange; he kept blankly staring outside his window, too, on the verge of passing out and giving up on slumber. Ange noticed shortly after, softening at how fragile the old man actually was beneath his armour.
“Monsieur…”, he softly called, smiling as the old auctioneer groaned in response. He patted his knee as gently as he could, almost as if he risked getting burned, before pointing at his own backpack nestling at his feet. “Please, don’t fall asleep. There’s Energade and water in my bag. Drink something to catch up.”
Mr Oldman deeply frowned: Ange’s voice was so sweet and muffled that it barely reached his eardrums. However, he still managed to understand, with some seconds of delay, what he had been told. His blurry vision, due to tiredness and a faint but unceasing headache, barely let him glimpse the young man’s face.
He unglued himself from the seat and lazily fished a plastic bottle from that pink backpack, taking deep gulps of water. He felt better, his urge to sleep loosened its grip. “It’s 4 in the morning… where could she be?”
No one had the answer.
“You sure she’s out here? Maybe she’s back at the villa”, Lucille weakly smiled, absentmindedly kicking her own backpack.
The auctioneer shrugged. “Even though that were the case, we have no way to be sure. Her guardian won’t pick up the phone, and we cannot just show up at the villa with no respect for her condition.”
“Can we at least know how the girl is, like, physically? So we know what we’re lookin’ for”, the girl asked, holding her boyfriend’s hand to attempt to soothe him. “Aye… please…” Matthew pleaded, whining and holding his stomach.
“Well…”, Virgil straightened up on his seat and cleared his throat, suddenly feeling heat creeping up his neck. “She’s… young. Younger than your brother. She has long, messy blonde hair, maybe darker than yours, brown-ish eyes and well… a very pale skin. She’s quite frail-looking, a fading beauty of some sort.”
“How cute”, Ange commented with a tone Mr Oldman wasn’t able to code, too mentally drained for further investigation. A thought was forming behind Lucille’s eyes, but she didn’t dare to expose it out loud. Some soft gagging noises came from the backseat, where Matthew was fighting his stomach at each turn of the vehicle.
“Stop being dramatic, Matt, I’m not driving that fast”, the tattoo artist harshly spoke, his grip tightening around the steering wheel. The Scottish boy let out a weak, long whine, mumbling an apology full of agony as he held his toned stomach.
He quickly checked on the auctioneer, quite concerned: he wasn’t paying attention to the two passengers behind them. His focus was solely poured onto what was outside, not missing a single spot of the environment surrounding the car, as if Claire could be hidden somewhere within the trees and buildings, in a window or among the shrubberies.
“I hope she’s fine too, but you can't go crazy after her like this.”
The man’s despair partially turned into spite for those words, and squinted his wrinkly eyes, his head snapped towards him like an old owl. “I don’t need a kid to parent me, Mr Chagall. I’m perfectly able to take care of myself.”
“Like when you went to visit my brother at the hospital for the first time? Dishevelled and smelling like alcohol?”, Lucille immediately stepped in, leaning forward between the driver’s seat and the passenger’s seat to face the auctioneer’s foolery more closely.
Silence.
The auctioneer’s body froze, and his mind emptied in a second. He actually had no good comeback for that, and fumbling for any kind of excuse would definitely appear ridiculous.
Oldman already lived a similar scene, where his job or private life gave him uncomfortable situations that threatened his good image, only for him to excellently get out of it with his wording.
He wisely chose to take his time, lowering his gaze as his cheeks showed his embarrassment.
“That was definitely an exception. I was… eaten by guilt for what I did, and did not pay attention to my person as much as it required”, he explained with a thin voice, for the lie was so thick it suffocated his throat too.
“So you’re occasionally unable to take care of yourself.”
“You’re perfectly aware that it was quite the emergency, Lucille”, he retorted again, forcing his voice out stronger. “And this is, too, hence I have every right to be miffed if someone behaves inappropriately”
Lucille’s mouth hung open. “Is it inappropriate to fucking care for someone?”, she asked, doing her best to keep her cool. Virgil was about to answer, but something else caught his eye: it took him an instant to notice Ange’s hazel eyes were filled with tears, his plump lower lip subtly trembling as he drove.
Was he crying again? For what?! Why was a grown man crying so often?
The sight forced Virgil to acknowledge the growing lump in his chest, and he did not like it.
He deeply inhaled to speak again. “I’m… I’m sorry”, he said. He didn’t know what he was apologising for, but it felt like the fastest way to make him stop crying and dissolve the lump.
Ange just took a deep breath and looked up, retreating his tears before pulling the car over. He rested his elbows on the steering wheel and pressed his face in his palms, his breathing was so slow it subconsciously guided Virgil’s pace to do the opposite. “Ange…”, Lucille softly called, reaching out to touch his shoulder, but he raised his hand to stop her.
“I’m tired. We all are. Just… gimme a couple minutes.”
“Maybe we should go back home”, the girl replied, now ignoring her brother’s halting gesture and resting her hand on his shoulder, before looking at Virgil too. “We’ll keep looking for this girl tomorrow. For now, we need a good sleep, and something in our stomachs.”
She shrugged. “Who knows, maybe she’ll call you in the morning, or text you.”
Mr Oldman nodded, surrendering: they all were on the verge of passing out on the spot, and their wombs were painfully empty. He highly doubted Claire was in danger, or else she would have called him already, he told himself. He was important to her, so she’d definitely have called if something happened, right?
“If you guys stop by, I can make you something quick, and maybe open the sofa bed”, the blond man faintly spoke through his palms, his voice trembling in a way that suggested a plea more than a proposition. It ruthlessly twisted Virgil’s guts, more than he was willing to acknowledge.
“We cannae… whit aboot Fleur…?”, Matthew faintly asked, tugging at his girlfriend’s sleeve. The auctioneer deeply frowned again.
“Our daughter”, the girl smiled.
Oldman was quite astonished. “You’re quite young for a child, aren’t you? And-and I honestly did not exactly picture you as a parent”, he justified, realising too late he showed the same superficial judgment he had for Ange’s backpack. His impeccable wording was betraying him again.
“Says the expert”, Lucille grinned, pulling Matthew’s phone out of his pocket. It had a yellow rubber cover and showed the drawing of a little banana with a face, arms and legs tossing its peel off, the lower part of its body comically censored; somehow, that cover made the auctioneer discover more about the ginger boy’s personality than the whole trip.
It was distracting, but not enough for him to overlook the girl’s answer for long. If he weren’t so spent, he would have protested for her brusque insolence; plus, the sight of the roundest little bundle of joy encapsulated in that tiny screen melted his vex in a matter of seconds: a laughing toddler in Matthew’s arms, with the bluest eyes he had ever seen, her head covered in thin, blond hair. She was laughing while holding and admiring a doggy plush.
“Is this… your daughter?”, He asked her, not taking his eyes off the screen as he gently removed the device from her hands.
Lucille nodded. “Fleur. She’s born last July, right before a concert. My bandmates are obsessed with her and constantly ask for pics and videos”, she chuckled. “She recently learned to stand up.”
Virgil was captivated by all the photos he was avidly consuming of that happy family, the joyous moments the three of them have every day.
He almost envied that baby. Almost.
“I must admit…”, he started, his eyes still glued on the glowing screen, enduring the headache to drink in that joy for a little longer. “I was convinced you were planning on staying child-free. You know, considering the recent trends within the youth…”
“It happened”, Matthew shrugged, glowing with the recovered colour on his face. “She wasnae planned, but we didnae feel like aborting her.”
Mr Oldman’s eyes parted from the screen for half a second to meet the ginger boy’s. His eyes were so blue, bluntly showing who won in the genetics race for their baby’s traits. He nodded, genuinely not knowing what else to say about that whole situation: a punk and a jock had a baby, that’s it.
Was he interested in it? No. Amused? A tad.
A repeated thud resonated through the space of the Fiat 500 Ange was driving, breaking the trance of peacefulness that somehow settled in there.
“Nique ta mère, salope…”, Ange mumbled, abruptly hitting the steering wheel with his palms multiple times.
“What?”, Lucille asked, leaning forward, closer to her brother. He didn’t answer, if not by pointing at the dashboard.
Silence.
“Fuck”, she curtly spoke.
Mr Oldman leaned forward as well, too tired to be irked at that foul language. The car’s tank was almost completely empty.
“That motherfucker emptied your tank, didn’t he?”
Ange nodded.
“Such a whore.”
“And I don't have enough gas to take you all home…”, Ange whined, his face buried in his hands.
“Nae a problem, we’ll take an Uber”, Matthew quickly reassured him, his voice a tad louder than before. Virgil noticed with the corner of his eye how the boy was still massaging his stomach. “Ye want a passage too, Mr Oldman?”
The auctioneer shook his head. “There’s no need, thank you. I’ll call a taxi for myself.”
Matthew slowly nodded, leaving no space for further options regarding how that night was going to proceed.
“Then we better get gaun. See ye next time”, he shyly saluted, quickly opening the door to slide out as delicately as he could, which meant shaking the car with his massive body full of muscles. Lucille was quite confused as to why her partner seemed so rushed all of a sudden, but his loud gagging was an answer she wasn’t really looking for.
Ange pretended he wasn’t listening; Virgil wished he couldn’t.
“Y’know…”, she softly spoke, touching the seat where the auctioneer was. “You can wait for a taxi at Ange’s place. It’s safer than the middle of nowhere, and you can actually have something good for dinner.”
In his dazed state, Oldman didn’t perceive that the tattoo artist froze in his position; his face was pressed into his palms more than before. He just shook his head. “No, thank you.”
“Why not?”
Virgil had plenty of reasons why he didn’t want to go: abandoning his neat, solitary, clean domestic space? For the dungeon of a stranger?
Giving up on his perfectly regulated, clean, repeated routine? To settle into the pace of a man half his age?
Letting go of his clean, simple, cold meal before bed? To accept food from someone who wasn’t wearing gloves?
He didn’t answer. Was he really considering it?
He decided to play his most obvious card in his hand.
“The idea of staying at someone else’s house isn’t exactly… thrilling to me”, he explained. The hesitation within each spoken word hid the will of showing and hiding his condition at the same time. He raised his hands, so his gloves were clearly visible, as if it somehow made things clearer.
“It’s, like, the whole point. It’s meant to be temporary.”
The cramps in his stomach were a noisy plea from his body to accept.
The bidcaller loudly sighed, fighting every reason to say yes in his mind.
Ange’s hands parted enough for him to speak. “I promise I’ll keep it as clean as possible…”. His voice was shaking. “My cat will stay out of the way…”
Virgil’s eyes widened immediately, his head slowly turned towards him. “Your cat?”
The blond man didn’t exactly know how to interpret that behaviour, so he just placed his hands on his lap, staring back at him. “Y-Yeah? Wh-...”
“We can go”, Virgil cut him off, sitting back up on the seat, his dizziness somehow completely disappeared. From the rearview mirror, he noticed the way Lucille smirked at her brother and roughly punched his shoulder before jumping out of the car once the Uber arrived. Then, his focus moved on Ange: the poor man was frozen like a strawberry-flavoured ice lolly.
“Is there any problem?”
Ange snapped out of his trance, his boiling face melted the ice lolly. “Ça va, monsieur…”, he muttered, his hand heavily trembling as he turned the car back on.
The whole ride had been utterly silent, but that wasn’t much of an issue for the auctioneer; if anything, it allowed him to take a quick nap, gently lulled by the soft bumps the car gave. Ange tried to smooth the tension that pinched his stomach by listening to some music, but it made close to no difference.
The vehicle stopped in the garage of a lift, placed in a neighbourhood not that far from Oldman’s office. After turning it off, Ange took the deepest breath he could, ignoring his shaking hands clenching around the steering wheel and turned to the old man napping next to him.
“Monsieur… monsieur, we’re here. Please, wake up…”
Virgil’s body gently jolted in his sleep, his lids were heavy and barely managed to open. As he woke up, he tried to catch as many clues as possible on their current whereabouts.
He noticed a Tesco right next to a smoke shop, and then a pharmacy. That boy really found a powerful source of comfort by living in that lift, he thought.
The time they spent in the lift was relatively short, despite living on the 14th floor. The lobby was light, monochrome, sad grey, blinding white LED lights hung at the ceiling. Ange fished keys out of his iconic baby pink backpack as he lazily marched towards the end of the eerily silent hallway.
Virgil’s eyes analysed each tag on each door, brightly shining under the lights: 14D, 14E, 14F. Ange stopped at 14K.
Right before the blond boy could slide the keys into the lock, another man joined the floor from the stairs. He was visibly tipsy, his hair dishevelled and his shirt messily hanging out of his trousers. He hopped and wobbled towards the 14L door, right after Ange’s flat, and turned his pocket inside out as he grabbed his keys.
“Good morning, Dan”, Ange jested with a little smirk. The other man couldn’t be more than 40 years old, but his pleased expression helped his light wrinkles smooth out even more. He chuckled and jokingly shushed the tattoo artist. “I’m in fuckin’ danger, mate.”
“I don’t envy you at all”, the boy chuckled. “Tell Mary and Charlotte I said hi.”
Dan took more seconds than necessary to register, before choking a wheeze in his throat. “You’re a bastard, Frenchie. Always have been”, he wheezed before getting inside his own flat, his door slipped out of his hand and slammed shut. At that moment, Ange’s smile dropped, meeting Virgil’s puzzled eyes. “He’s more of a bastard for fuckin’ cheating on his wife.”
The auctioneer couldn’t resist and pursed his lips, obediently following him inside. He wasn’t really building any expectation about what the tattoo artist’s flat was like; frankly, he automatically assumed the young man’s living habits to be precisely opposite to his own. He assumed the place the young man called ‘home’ was some kind of filthy lair, full of cat hair, empty boxes, etcetera.
He couldn’t be further from the truth: Ange’s flat was the smallest shoebox, way smaller than any space he had ever lived in, and the available space was unapologetically occupied by plants and pieces of furniture God knows where were found. Aside from the overall size, he didn’t expect such tidiness and sense of style.
His focus got caught by a round coffee table in glass, held up by a faux giant statue hand. It was eccentric, but he couldn’t define it as ‘tacky’.
“Salem, no!”, Ange swiftly moved to Virgil’s feet, startling him, and got up in a matter of seconds. A big, completely black cat was now cradled like a baby in the young man’s muscular arms, meowing in protest as it passively accepted ear scritches.
“Excuse him, monsieur”, he let out, almost breathlessly, his face bright in fluster. The auctioneer was completely captivated by that feline’s cuteness, drinking in his yellow eyes and the tiny fangs affectionately sinking into his human’s fingers.
“He has absolutely nothing to be excused for. Cats are notorious for their mischievous curiosity”, Virgil explained, softer than he had ever spoken that night. He hesitantly reached a hand out to let the cat sniff him, never looking away from him. “I didn’t quite catch his name earlier.”
Ange’s stun didn’t fade immediately, but allowed him to stammer a coy “Salem” as he held his pet closer to his chest. “I didn’t… I didn’t know you liked animals. I thought…”
“Although my condition purposefully avoids situations of contact or proximity with waste and contamination, it doesn’t specifically require me to loathe everything that may cause them.”
Ange’s pretty face deeply frowned, and the auctioneer noticed. He sighed. “Ergo… I like cats even if they’re dirty”, he explained, letting Salem lick and rub his muzzle against his gloved fingers. His stomach’s protest reminded both of why they were there in the first place.
“Oh, right. Dinner”, the tattoo artist chuckled, dropping Salem on the sofa and marching to the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable, Monsieur Oldman. You’d like slippers?”
The old man instinctively shook his head before answering a soft “no, thank you”, taking advantage of that moment to keep exploring that new environment. It got more whimsy than he had first noticed, from the Razzle dazzle rose/Cobalt violet/Byzantium palette, to the coloured LED strips, to the shelves full of books and quirky bookends.
“Do you have any food allergies?”, Ange asked from the kitchen.
The question woke Virgil up. “Uhm… I’m dairy intolerant, and I’m allergic to peanuts.”
He heard no answer: was he that focused on cooking for two?
“I must warn you that my taste in food is quite selective, so please don’t bother cooking for me, too.”
“Too late! It’s ready in ten minutes”, Ange chirped again. He sounded happier than necessary to Virgil, and he couldn’t explain to himself the reason why. Though, honestly, he was too famished to question the young man’s emotions at every sentence as he usually did.
Ten minutes later, Virgil was called to the table to have dinner. The auctioneer couldn’t resist the temptation to take his blazer off, and the tattoo artist noticed.
“Are you sure you don’t want slippers? Or, dunno, maybe something comfier to put on? Maybe you can take a shower-...”
“I’m fine, Chagall”, Oldman reassured as he sat. He found himself a small bowl of a yellowish soft substance, covered in a light brown sauce and spring onion, and proceeded to analyse it.
He couldn’t hide his skepticism as he asked: “What’s this?”
“Chinese steamed eggs. Found the recipe online, great source of proteins and nutrients”, the boy answered, flexing his arm muscles like the peacock he was. Matthew and Lucille warned him about that side of him, but he had to admit he didn’t mind the sight at all.
Right after catching himself with such bizarre thoughts, he focused again on his food. He really didn’t want to eat that, not at all.
“I have nothing else to give you”, the boy scolded Oldman’s mental mistrust with a coy smile. “So, please, give it a chance.”
The boy’s smile twisted Virgil’s guts even more than his feeling of starvation. He damned his being such a picky eater, and grabbed the spoon. He must have looked so ridiculous as he genuinely struggled trying something new, but he didn’t catch judgment in Ange’s face: au contraire, hope filled his eyes to the brim.
He felt such an idiot as he stared at the empty bowl before him, savouring the last moments of such a rich and tasty meal on his tongue. Ange’s smile spread widely at the sight: he didn’t need a vocal validation at all, Virgil’s satisfied expression talked for him.
They had no time to actually think of a conversation before some shouts passed through the walls of the apartment. The tattoo artist scoffed as he got up, collecting Virgil’s bowl too. “Finally, Charlotte’s gonna grow some balls and kick that faggot bouffon out of their house.”
Virgil tilted his head. “You mean…”
“Dan, my neighbour. He keeps cheating on his wife with someone in this condo. He won’t say who, but I bet it’s the twink living downstairs, at 13B”, he apprised with repugnance, placing the dirty plates into the sink.
The auctioneer's interest instantly peaked, pushing him to lean onto the table. “So he’s a homosexual, too!”
The younger man signaled him to stay silent, choking a giggle in his throat at Virgil’s blush in embarrassment. “Pardon me, I lost control of myself”, he justified, a soft smile appeared on his lips as he felt Salem rub against his ankles. “Well, how come you didn't think of, uhm… courting this boy?”
Ange softly frowned again, placing a full kettle on the stove, “Who, the twink?”, before clicking his tongue and shaking his head at the other’s confirmation. “Not my type. I’m into older ones, y’know.”
Somehow, that felt vaguely personal to Virgil, and the subtle smirk on the boy’s soft lips didn’t help. And somehow, those words gave him the same sensations as when the boy bit his finger. The conversation died as quickly as it started, leading to an awkward silence the host was struggling to handle.
“Uhm, Monsieur…”, he cleared his throat. “If that’s not a problem to you, I’d like to put something comfier on, as the water for tea boils. In the meantime, you can, uhm…”
“The taxi!!, yes”, Oldman abruptly let out. “I must admit, it quite slipped out of my mind”, he chuckled and politely waved his hand. “It is no problem at all. I will be on my way any minute, anyway.”
Ange seemed like hesitating on what the auctioneer said, but he just nodded and left the kitchen, clicking his tongue again to call his lovely cat with him. Mr Oldman couldn’t lie to himself, he was quite displeased that the feline had left to follow his human; now, he was alone with his own thoughts again.
A whirl of fear started taking up space, more and more, in his mind. He wasn’t a paranoid man, but he had no trace to start from to understand where Claire might be, nor how she was or what happened to her. The image of Robert and Fred chattering — no, arguing — out of the hospital didn’t help him at all.
His gaze fell on Ange’s phone, unguarded on the table, its pastel-coloured beads and charms shining under the lamp of the kitchen.
Without a second thought, he grabbed it: 011218, his password he somehow clearly remembered. The apps spread before his face, invasive and confusing, unlike his own phone containing just the necessary for professional communication.
Right before he could find the calling feature, a series of notifications popped above the screen, making the device vibrate in his gloved hand.
➥ ANDREA: dude check this out
the photographer caught this lmaooooo
can i post it on my story it looks peak af [PHOTO]
Damning his curiosity, he touched the notification, opening a chat. The sender had the same poor attention to grammar and punctuation as the receiver, yet in his case, it was fully due to laziness.
The photo took no time to fully load, and nearly did Virgil in.
My never ending loyalty- Commodus x Praetorian!reader, Final chapter
Male reader, preatorian’s guard love story with his emperor. Entering at his service when Commodus was facing Maximus. A bond that grew stronger over time but could it resist Rome? previous chapters: Chapter 1; Part 2; chapter 3 , chapter 4 , final chapter
Here is the final chapter! I apologize for taking so long. I suppose I pressured myself too much with this story to the point I was unable to work on it for months even though it's a story I adored at the start but I ended just wanting to finish it. I feel a bit bad for it, I tried to write the best final chapter for you all, and I hope you will enjoy it <3 who knows maybe an extra or HC about them can be written later if you want. Anyway, enjoy loves <3
I had been perhaps naive when I thought I would be the one to save Commodus from the darkness that inhabited him. But could I be blamed? Commodus wasn’t the man I had imagined, yet I still loved him, not just for his beauty but the fire in his eyes as he looked at the Senate, the passion in his voice as he spoke of his projects for the empire; his smile and laughter when we played gladiators together. He was a refreshing young Emperor, groundbreaking, ahead of his time, I found myself thinking. And I was honored to be by his side.
Our relationship, though remaining hidden, grew stronger each day. Most nights I managed to sleep in the Emperor’s room, either for a night of passionate love making or simply to fall asleep while chatting in each other’s arms. I felt blessed, my dreams had come true and I desired nothing else. Nothing else but serving the Emperor and love Commodus. Sometimes I even felt as if we had become a true family. The both of us taking care of Lucius as if he was our son.
I remember an afternoon we escaped the city walls, the three of us on horseback, the Roman countryside sprawling around us in a haze of summer green. Lucius, on a sturdy horse, rode ahead, his laughter echoing as he urged his mount into a gallop. Commodus and I followed at a slower pace, our powerful warhorses ambling side-by-side.
"Tell us a story, Uncle!" Lucius called back, reining his pony in to wait for us. Commodus smiled, a genuine, easy expression that I rarely saw in the palace.
"A story?" he mused, his gaze soft as he looked at the boy. "Very well. Let me tell you of Castor and Pollux. Twin brothers, one mortal, one divine, who shared a single heart between them."
As we rode, he wove the tale, his voice a rich, captivating baritone. He spoke of their adventures, of battles fought side-by-side, of a bond so strong that when the mortal Castor fell, the divine Pollux begged Jupiter to share his own immortality, unwilling to live without his brother. The god, moved by such devotion, granted his wish, placing them together in the heavens as the Gemini constellation. Lucius listened, enraptured, his eyes wide.
"So they are together forever?" he asked as we finally dismounted by a small stream, letting the horses drink.
"Together forever." Commodus confirmed, his hand resting on my saddle as he looked from the boy to me. His eyes held a silent, profound meaning that made my chest ache. We made a small fire, and as the sun began to dip below the hills, we ate bread and cheese, the juice of ripe peaches staining our fingers. There was no talk of Senate edicts or imperial decrees. There was only the crackle of the fire and the comfortable silence of shared contentment.
The boy had grown more peaceful in these months, seeing his uncle in better health by my side. The haunted look in his eyes had been replaced by the bright curiosity of a boy learning to trust again. In the warm glow of the fire, watching Commodus gently wipe a smear of juice from Lucius's cheek, I allowed myself to believe. He would make a great heir to Commodus one day. A ruler who knew both the strength of a sword and the wisdom of a myth, guided by the love of the two men who had shown him what family could be.
However, the first crack in my dream appeared. It was not with a shout or a decree, but with a whisper. It was a name, spoken by Commodus as we stood on the balcony overlooking the Forum, the evening air cool on our faces.
"Senator Aulus Fabius." he said, his voice casual, as if remarking on the weather. "He has been… overly critical of the new grain tax. He calls it 'tyranny dressed as charity'."
"He is a patrician, Commodus. His estates are vast, he can afford the tax. He is simply afraid of a Rome where he is not the sole master of his fortune." I replied as I turned from the view.
"Afraid?" Commodus mused, a faint, dangerous smile playing on his lips. "Or conspiring? I have heard things. Meetings at his villa, men who were loyal to my father. Men who saw Maximus as their true champion." He looked at me then, his eyes searching. "He is a weed, Y/N. In the garden of Rome. If we do not pull it out, it will choke the roses we are trying so hard to grow."
"What are you suggesting?" I asked as my stomach tightened. I felt this wasn’t going to be pleasant.
"I am suggesting we make an example." he said smoothly. "Not with death. No, that is too… final. We will simply… remind him of his place. Confiscate a third of his lands. Redistribute them to the veterans of the Praetorian Guard. The men who bled for us. It serves two purposes: it silences a critic and it rewards the loyalty that keeps us safe." He grinned at me proudly, his smile radiant.
"Is that fair, Commodus? To take a man's property on rumor alone?" I hesitated. It was a punishment without a trial. A seizure of property based on whispers. It was the kind of act I would have once condemned. He stepped closer, his hand finding mine, his thumb stroking my knuckles.
"Is it fair of him to use his wealth to sow dissent against an Emperor who feeds the people? Is it fair for him to plot our downfall while you and I stand here, trying to build a better world from the ashes my father left?" His voice was low, persuasive. "Justice is a luxury for the innocent, my love. We are dealing with men who are anything but. We are not being unjust. We are being pragmatic."
The word hung in the air: pragmatic. It sounded so reasonable, so necessary to protect the world Commodus was building. I looked into his eyes and saw not a tyrant's greed, but a leader's burden. I thought of the families the grain tax would feed. I thought of my guards, who deserved more than a meager pension for their service.
"Alright." I heard myself say, the word feeling foreign in my mouth. "Do it. But make it public. Frame it as a gift to the soldiers, not a punishment for the Senator. Let the people see the generosity, not the force." I advised. Commodus always seeked my counsel and now I gave it to him without waiting for permission. He smiled, a brilliant, triumphant smile. He leaned in and kissed me; I sighed against his lips, all resistance melting.
"See? You are the heart of my reign. You remind me of the man I must be." His words filled me with pride, I was keeping him in the light, bringing balance to prevent unnecessary bloodshed.
Weeks melted into months. We fell into a rhythm of power and passion. There were days of light, days when I felt we were truly making a difference. We commissioned a new aqueduct to bring fresh water to the poorer districts. Commodus, at my suggestion, oversaw its construction personally, wading into the mud with the engineers, his laughter echoing as children splashed in the newly-formed pools. On those days, he was the Emperor I had always dreamed of serving, and my love for him felt pure, untainted. But there were other days. Days of darkness that even I could not prevent.
A playwright had staged a comedy that mocked the Emperor's love for wrestling. It wasn't vicious, just bawdy, the kind of thing Romans had always enjoyed. But Commodus saw it as treason. He saw mockery in every line, betrayal in every laugh from the crowd. He had the man arrested. I found him in his chambers that night, pacing like a caged animal.
"They laugh at me!" he raged, his hands clenched into fists. "They think I am a fool, a gladiator playing at being Emperor!"
"He is a playwright, Commodus.” I said, keeping my voice even. "It is his craft to poke fun at those in power to entertain the masses. It means nothing. Ignore it, and the joke dies. Punish him, and you give his words weight."
"Weight?" he snarled, turning on me. "They already have weight! They are stones being thrown at my image! I will not be a figure of fun in my own city!" He grabbed my arm, his grip tight, desperate. "You don't see it, do you? You don't hear the whispers. They are testing me. Seeing how far they can push. If I let this go, they will keep pushing because they think me weak. And weakness my love, invites wolves." I saw the genuine fear in his eyes, the paranoia that was his constant companion. I saw a fragile boy beneath the purple robes. And that hurt to see him in such a state.
"Then what would you have me do?" I asked, my voice quiet. I couldn’t tell why I really complied. Perhaps I couldn’t bear to see him in such distress, perhaps if I supported him there he would feel reassured and would calm down. I would see my beautiful Achilles smile again.
"He needs to be reminded of the power of the state." he said, his voice calmer now, his hold on my arm loosening. "Not death. But… a public flogging. And his tongue. I want his tongue cut out. So he can never speak ill of me again." He listed, sounding boyish.
My blood ran cold. It was barbaric. It was the act of a monster. I opened my mouth to protest, to tell him he was crossing a line, that this would make him the very thing he claimed to be fighting against. But then I looked at his face. I saw the fragility there, the terror of abandonment. And I thought of the aqueduct. I thought of the fed families. I thought of the good we were doing. Was the soul of one mocking playwright a fair price to pay for the stability of an empire? Was my own moral comfort more important than his security?
"He has a family." I said, my last, weak attempt at a defense.
"Then they will learn to hold their tongues, as well." Commodus said coldly. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, my decision was made.
"I will see to it." I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I will make sure it is done quietly, without spectacle. It will be a matter of state security, not public entertainment. A mercy, of sorts." He looked at me, his relief palpable, complying with my suggestion. He pulled me into an embrace, his body trembling slightly against mine.
"Thank you..." he whispered into my hair. "Thank you for understanding. For protecting me."
I stood there, holding the man I loved, the man whose hands I had just stayed from committing a horrific act, a political wrong, by agreeing to commit it myself. And I felt nothing. No guilt, no shame. Only a profound, hollow sense of victory. I had protected him. I had done my duty.
That night, as he slept beside me, I stared at the ceiling. I thought of the playwright, whose voice would be silenced forever. And for the first time, I didn't feel pity. I felt only a cold, hard certainty. It was necessary. And I would do it again, a thousand times, if it meant keeping this man, this reign, this fragile, beautiful, terrible thing we had built, safe. I was no longer just his guard. I was the hand that held the dagger in the dark, while he slept, dreaming of a better Rome.
The silence in the wake of the playwright's punishment was heavier than any scream. I had carried out the sentence myself, not with my own hands, but with my authority. I stood in the courtyard as the flogging was administered, my face a mask of stoic indifference, my presence lending the brutal act the veneer of state necessity. I watched the man's back become a canvas of raw flesh, and then I watched as the soldier, with a quick, practiced motion, severed his tongue. The sound was a wet, final cough. The man collapsed, a mute, bleeding ruin. I didn't flinch. I told myself it was a mercy. I told myself it was for Rome. I told myself it was for my love.
That night, Commodus was serene. The anxiety that had clawed at him was gone, replaced by a calm, confident energy. He moved through his chambers with an easy grace, pouring us both wine, his touch light, affectionate.
"You did well today." he said, handing me a cup. "We are safe now." He beamed, wrapping an arm around my waist and pressing against me.
"Anything for you, Commodus" I corrected, my voice low. I had always been obssessed with him and I realized I had no control over it.
"You are me." he replied simply, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. His fingers traced the line of my jaw. "When you act, it is my will. When you speak, it is my reason. We are one mind, one heart, one… fist." He smiled, a slow, dangerous smile. "And now, we must show the Senate the strength of that fist."
He led me to a map of the Empire, spread across a polished mahogany table. "Egypt." he said, his finger tracing the long, fertile line of the Nile. "As you know, the grain basket of Rome. But the Prefect there, Gaius Tullius, is an old man. A relic of my father's administration. His reports are late, his tribute is… lacking. He whispers of drought, of bad harvests. But my sources tell me his granaries are full. He is hoarding, waiting for the price to rise, lining his own pockets while the people of Rome wonder if they will eat."
"What do you intend to do?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. He was going to go against the Senate.
"I intend to replace him." Commodus said, his eyes gleaming. "I have a man in mind. A young general from the legions in Germania. Brutal, efficient, utterly loyal. He will squeeze every last grain from that province and ensure not a single ship is delayed." Now, this was more than a punishment. It was a purge. Replacing a high-ranking official on the basis of rumor, installing a hardliner in his place.
"This will anger the Senate." I cautioned. "Tullius has many allies. They will see it as an overreach of your power."
"Let them." Commodus scoffed. "What can they do? Clutch their pearls and whisper in their halls? You control the only army that matters in this city. You command the gates. You are the gatekeeper to my person. They are nothing." He turned to me, his expression softening. "But I will not do it without you. I need your agreement, your strength. When I face them, I need to know you watch my back."
How could I refuse? He had framed it as a partnership, a shared burden. To say no would be to betray him, to weaken him in the face of his enemies. To say no would be to choose the hollow traditions of the Senate over the tangible reality of the man I loved.
"Do it." I said, my voice firm. "Replace Tullius. But send a legionary escort with your new man. Ensure the transition is peaceful. We do not want a rebellion in Egypt on top of a discontented Senate."
“Of course, I thought of it.” He beamed, his pride in me radiating from him. "Always worried my love." he murmured, kissing my forehead. "What would I do without you, my handsome praetorian?" He purred, his fingers tracing the muscles of my chest suggestively.
I took him that night. Again and again until I could no more. Until he was trembling, bearing my marks all over his body and his eyelids heavy. He held me tight, our legs entwinned , whispering fond words about a future golden empire and our rule as equals in front of all. What a beautiful dream. And how much I wanted it to become true.
Still, the question echoed in my mind in the weeks that followed. The transition in Egypt was not peaceful. The new Prefect, a man named Severus, arrived with a contingent of Praetorians under my command. Tullius refused to step down, citing his authority from the late Marcus Aurelius. It ended in a brief, bloody confrontation. Tullius was slain, his staff arrested, and Severus took control, his rule beginning not with diplomacy, but with the sword.
The news sent a shockwave through Rome. The Senate erupted in outrage. They convened an emergency session, demanding an audience with the Emperor. Commodus granted it, but on his terms. He would meet them at his own chosen time, and I would stand at his side.
I stood by the throne, my hand resting on the hilt of my gladius, my face an unreadable mask. The Senate, a sea of indignant white robes, filled the hall. Their leader, a man named Cassius Dio, stepped forward, his voice trembling with fury. "Emperor, you have murdered a loyal servant of the state! You have installed a butcher in his place! You have overstepped your authority and shamed the legacy of your father!" Commodus listened, his expression bored. When Dio was finished, he sighed, a long, theatrical sound.
"Loyal?" he said, his voice dripping with scorn. "He was starving my people to line his own pockets. He was a traitor to the crown. I removed him. As is my right."
"It is not your right to act without the consent of the Senate! Your late father would be ashamed!" Dio roared, supported by the cheers of half the Curia.
"You speak of my father." Commodus laughed, a cold, sharp sound that silenced the hall. He stood, and the room seemed to shrink around him. “You cling to his memory like a shield. But I am his heir, the son born in the purple. Favored by the gods, the only surviving male among my brothers. The gods chose me to save Rome for corruption.” he spoke with confidence, a light purr in his voice, his gaze meeting the eyes of each senator as if daring them to defy him. “I did what I had to do to protect my birthright. To protect Rome from his weakness and make it better. And any man here who thinks to challenge me, who thinks to avenge a man who would have sold this Empire to the highest bidder… will share the same fate." He turned his gaze on me, his eyes burning. "My Praetorian Prefect, the man who stands at my side, knows this. He was there. He knows the truth. And he stands with me. As do all loyal men of Rome."
He had made me an accomplice in the open to his tyranny. I could feel the weight of a hundred stares, the weight of their judgment. I could deny it. I could step away, condemn him, and save myself. Then, I looked at Commodus. He was looking at me fiercely, and afraid. He was daring me. Daring me to choose another side than his. Daring me to betray him, break his heart just like his sister did. His paranoia gnawing at him once again. I stepped forward, my hand leaving my sword and resting over my heart, a gesture of absolute loyalty.
"The Emperor speaks the truth." I said, my voice clear and steady, betraying none of the storm raging in my soul. "My spies reported corruption in Egypt, an attempt to provoke hunger in Rome, to raise the grain prices. The traitor wanted to create revolts. The Emperor saved us all.”
The hall was deathly silent. We were no longer an Emperor and his Praefecto Praetorio, we were rulers. Standing against the world. Commodus didn't look at the Senate. He looked at me, and in his eyes, I saw everything. Relief, adoration. And a terrifying, boundless love. And I had become the most powerful man in the Empire after Commodus. I saw the fear, the anger in the eyes of the Senators. And instead of feeling shame, I felt a need to show my power, to use that fear so I could keep us safe, forever.
As we walked from the hall, the whispers of the senators following us like the cries of ghosts, Commodus leaned close to me. "We suceeded. The Empire will shine brighter tomorrow." he whispered, a note of triumph in his voice. "Just us against the world. Achilles and Patroclus!"
"Yes." I whispered back, my heart clenching in my chest as I thought of their fate "Achilles and Patroclus..."
Time kept passing, and with it, my old self faded into a memory. The man who had once flinched at the thought of unjust punishment was gone, replaced by the man who saw the necessity in every cruelty. I believed in Commodus. I was blinded by love, yes, but it was a love forged in the crucible of power. I shared his dream, a vision of a unique Rome, a Colonia Commodiana, an eternal city forged in his image and protected by our will.
We made it real. The statues of old gods and forgotten senators were torn from their niches, their faces replaced with the serene, powerful likeness of Commodus. The months of the year were renamed, each one a tribute to his victories, his virtues and one received my name. He was no longer just an Emperor; he was the living soul of Rome. And I was his shadow, his fist, his beating heart.
I saw the admiration in the eyes of the people as we passed in the street, their cheers. He was a living god, their Hercules reborn. They loved him. We were safe. We were strong. And we were absolute.
One afternoon, we stood in the Imperial box overlooking the Colosseum. The games were a spectacle unlike any before, a celebration of our reign. The crowd roared, not just for the gladiators, but for us. Commodus, dressed in white and gold, turned to me, his face alight with a joy so pure it was almost divine. In front of thousands, under the blazing sun, he took my face in his hands and kissed me. It was not a chaste peck, but a deep, possessive kiss, a declaration to all of Rome. The crowd's roar swelled, becoming a deafening chant of his name. In that moment, there was no guard and no Emperor. There was only us, the masters of all we surveyed. He was feared. He was respected. And I was his.
That night, the celebrations continued in the palace. But as the wine flowed and the courtiers laughed, I saw the flicker of paranoia return to his eyes. He smiled, but his hands clenched into fists. He accepted their praise, but his gaze kept darting to the shadows in the corners of the room. He was a god surrounded by potential assassins, a king crowned with thorns. The weight of the world was always on his shoulders, and only I could see it.
"Let them have their empty revelry." he murmured to me, his voice low. "I need to feel clean. I need to feel you."
We left the hall, the sounds of the party fading behind us as we walked through the silent, torch-lit corridors to the imperial baths. The air grew warmer, the scent of wine and roasted meats giving way to the clean, steamy smell of heated stone and myrrh. This was our sanctuary. One where all worries left Commodus. Where he was just a man.
The water in the imperial baths was warm enough to turn the marble to silk, steam curling like ghosts around the columns and up into the vaulted ceiling, where painted gods stared down with indifferent eyes. I leaned my head back against the edge of the pool, the water lapping at my shoulders, and watched Commodus. He floated, weightless, his eyes closed, the lines of worry and command finally smoothed away into something resembling peace.
It had been a good day. A productive day. We had passed a new edict, one that increased the grain dole for the poor and levied a heavier tax on the wealthiest patrician families to pay for it. The Senate had grumbled, of course, their whispers like dry leaves skittering across the floor of the throne room, but they had acquiesced. They always did now. I had stood beside Commodus, a silent, armored presence, and watched their forced smiles. Then we had enjoyed the games, loved each other publicly, he had squeezed my hand as we cheer for the green charioteer. In that moment, he wasn't a tyrant; he was a reformer and a man of the people. And I, his steadfast partner, felt a surge of pride that drowned out the faint, lingering whispers of doubt.
"Stop thinking so loud." Commodus murmured, his eyes still closed. A small smile played on his lips. "I can feel you strategizing from over here."
"I was merely admiring the view." I replied, my voice a low rumble in the echoing chamber. And I was. The sight of him like this, unguarded, was a treasure I hoarded. The man who ruled an empire, who had ordered deaths with a flick of his wrist, now looked as harmless as a boy.
He opened his eyes, and they were the color of the sea at dusk, deep and turbulent but calm for now. He swam closer, the water parting before him. He stopped between my legs, his hands resting on my thighs, his touch familiar and electric. "The view is better from here."
He leaned in, and his kiss was slow and deep, tasting of wine and contentment. There was no desperation in it now, no frantic grasping for reassurance. This was the kiss of partners, of equals. It was a language we had perfected, a silent conversation of forgiveness and desire. I wrapped my arms around his waist, pulling him flush against me, feeling the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against my chest.
"Did you see their faces?" he whispered against my lips, a gleam of the old fire in his eyes. "Gaius Valerius looked as if he'd swallowed a live frog."
"He'll survive..." I said, chuckling. "He will have to chew on more laurel leaves to swallow his pride.”
"You see? You understand them. You know just how little their suffering truly costs them!" Commodus laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound that I cherished more than any victory. He pulled back slightly, his gaze searching mine. "And how much it helps those who truly need it. We are doing good, Y/N. We are."
"We are." I agreed, and the conviction in my voice surprised me. It was true. We were. The edicts were just. The roads were safe. The people were fed and entertaine. The Senate was cowed. Was it so wrong if a few ambitious men had to be removed to achieve that? Was it so wrong if the methods were… harsh? Was it so wrong to publicly love the Emperor. I pushed the thought away. In this warm water, with his hands on my skin, the world seemed simple. We were building a better Rome. Our Rome.
"I never could have done this without you." he confessed, his voice soft and his forehead against mine. "Before you, it was all… noise. The Senate, my father's ghost, the fear. You are the silence in the storm, Y/N. You are the only thing that makes sense. You made this life make sense."
"And you..." I whispered, my thumb stroking his wet back "are the reason for it all. All I do is because of you. Because I believe in you and I love you, Commodus." He replied. Months ago I would have believed two men like us couldn’t be such romantics. But we were.
We stayed like that for a long time, a tangled embrace in the steaming water, two men against the world. It was in these moments that I felt most certain. Most righteous. The blood, the fear, the compromises, they all faded away, leaving only the profound, unshakeable certainty that we were meant for this. To rule together. To love each other. To face whatever came, as one.
I should have known that peace, for men like us, was just our enemies gathering their strength before the final, cruel blow.
The doors to the baths, heavy bronze-studded oak, creaked open. I didn't think anything of it at first. Slaves came and went, bringing oils, more wine, fresh linens. I didn't even look up, too lost in the feel of Commodus's hands tracing the scars on my chest. But Commodus tensed. His head lifted, his body going rigid in my arms. I followed his gaze.
It wasn't a slave. It was Marius. One of my own. A man I had personally recruited from the legions, a young, fierce soldier I had trained myself, whose family I had seen fed during the harsh winter. He stood there, in the uniform of the Praetorian Guard. And in his hand, he held his gladius.
"Marius?" I said, my voice laced with confusion as I turned in the bath to face him "What is the meaning of this?"
He didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on Commodus, and they were filled with a cold, dead certainty. Behind him, the shadows in the hallway shifted, and more figures emerged. Other guards, my men. Their swords were drawn.
The air grew cold. The steam seemed to vanish, replaced by an icy, metallic chill. The scent of myrrh and wine was replaced by the sharp, coppery tang of imminent bloodshed.
"Marius." I called again, my voice harder now, a command. "Stand down. That is an order." He finally looked at me, and there was no remorse in his eyes. Only pity.
"I am sorry, Prefect." he said, his voice flat. "The Senate pays better. They gave me the opportunity. You refused their offer to be the next Emperor. So they offered to me and this is something I can’t refuse. Either you step away and you will survive or you will meet the same end as Commodus." Commodus began to laugh, a dry, brittle sound that was more terrifying than any scream.
"Of course." he breathed, his eyes wide with a mad, knowing light. "Of course. It always comes back to gold and power." He looked at me, and in his gaze, I saw not fear, but a profound, heartbreaking resignation. "They can't be bought, you said. They were loyal, you said." My blood ran cold. My life's work, my legacy of loyalty, was a lie.
“They are. I did all that was necessary!” I retorted, I had taken young promising men out of the gutter. Men who approved of Commodus politics, who wanted to be part of it. “Turns out that men of conviction can’t be found today. Only corruptible ones.” I spoke darkly, furious at them. I moved, jumping out of the bath. My instinct taking over. I stood in front Commodus behind me, my body a shield. I was naked, unarmed, but I was still the Praetorian Prefect.
"You will have to go through me." I snarled, my voice echoing in the vast chamber.
"As you wish, my lord." Marius only nodded, as if that was exactly what he had expected.
The first man lunged. I met him, my bare hands closing around his sword arm, twisting, hearing the bone snap with a sickening crack. I wrenched the blade from his grasp and drove it into his throat. But another was already there. And another. I was a whirlwind of desperate, brutal force. I fought for him. For us. For the future we had promised each other in this warm water. I took a slash across my ribs, a searing pain that barely registered. I drove my stolen sword into a belly, kicked another away. But I was one man against many.
I gasped as I felt a sharp, piercing agony in my back. I stumbled forward, my strength flooding out of me. I looked down and saw the tip of a blade protruding from my stomach. Marius. I fell to my knees, the sword clattering from my hand. The world began to tilt, the marble rushing up to meet me. I turned my head towards Commodus. Terrified, who would protect him? Who would look after Lucius?
He was no longer in the bath. He had had jumped out, his face a mask of such pure, unadulterated agony that it broke my heart more than the sword in my back. He looked from my failing body to the men who had betrayed me, and the mask of the Emperor, the god, the tyrant, shattered completely. All that was left was a man who had just lost his only reason to live.
"Y/N…" he whispered, his voice cracking. I tried to speak, to tell him I loved him, to tell him to run, but all that came was a gurgle of blood.
Commodus roared, the sound of a wounded, grieving animal. He launched himself at them, unarmed, naked, fueled by nothing but rage and pain. He tore the sword from the hands of the nearest guard, a man who looked too surprised to resist, and he began to swing.
He was a blur of divine fury. He was Hercules in the flesh or Achilles avenging his fallen Patroclus. He cut down Marius, then another guard, his movements impossibly fast, his face a terrible, beautiful thing to behold. But he was still one man. And they were many.
I watched, my vision blurring, as they surrounded him. A sword entered his side. Another guard locking his arm around his throat to choke him to death. Commodus struggled all he could, but his adversary was stronger. His eyes found mine across the fog of the baths. He fell to his knees, just as I had, his strength gone. He reached for me with tears in his eyes, his fingers stretching out, just inches from my own. Then he collapsed, all air crushed out of his lungs, his body hitting the ground heavily.
The last thing I saw, as darkness took me, was his hand brushing against mine, his lifeless eyes locked onto mine and our blood, mingling together in the warm water of our bath, our haven and our tomb.
We had died together, trying to protect what we had built. Our bodies would probably be discarded like trash and burned. Perhaps thrown in the Tiber or perhaps sealed in an amphora in the Columbarium with the past Emperors. It didn’t matter to me. The only thing that comforted me is that our ashes mingled together for eternity. We had become one...
Light blinded my eyes, I used my hand to cover them. I felt wind on my face, neither cold or warm. I smelled the sea, it reminded me of Commodus villa by the sea.
“You have taken your time, soldier.” a voice all too familiar called me. I gasped, freeing my eyes to look for the source. I was in a meadow by the sea and in front of me stood Commodus. Peaceful, smiling, wearing a simple white tunic. I laughed in joy, running to him, wrapping my arms around him; this was Elysium. Now we would be together for eternity, safe and free to love without having to choose. And that night, two stars of the same constellation shone brighter than ever.
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it's out of question weather the marquis and the abbe had sex, bc there is no way they hadn't
the true question is - how
i imagine it was quite unexpectedly, since the marquis wanted to bring out the real perversion in their affair. he fucked the abbe, i'm like 98% sure of that. but he didn't do it in a brutal way, not even close to the things he writes and talks about. there were no terribly obscene moments, no painful act, nor any other sadistic act.
no. he knew that there was one thing the abbe would see as the most perverted one; the one that would bring up so much guilt in him. he made love to him, tender and slow. he drew out every thrust, savoured every sound, whispered the abbes name. he held eye contact, ran his fingers of the abbes sweat slick body, he intertwined their hands and took him apart.
he made him desire the touch of a man, over and over again. made him sin. had him believe that he was no better than the marquis himself.
gay ships are so weird. cause why is it like "what in God's name am I to do with you? The... The more I forbid, the more you're provoked! .... Strip" And then we get a scene in which he strips slowly on purpose and then also "your breeches as well" and then he stares at his cock
Oh and the other guy be like "you started this little game... you finish it... Or haven't you the courage?"
And because that's not enough we've also got "It's a potent aphrodisiac... Isn't it - numbling? Having power over another man?"
Commodus the whore of the Empress Final chapter, Commodus x Empress!reader
Thank you all for reading through this story ! it wasn't planned to last so many chapters and once again apologies for how long I took to finish it but I wanted to end it the best way possible and for months I struggle to write an end that felt satisfying to me! I hope you will enjoy it
(link to part 1, 2 ; 3 here chapter 4, 5 )
Previously:
“I am doing you a favor by telling you as a token of our past alliance…” he lied as easily as he breathed, his voice smooth like silk. “If you took power, you would have an heir. You would have everything you desire. What you do with her afterwards is your business. But if you wait too long…?” He detailed him with a hint of a superior air “You should act before it is too late…before that child is born. Before her rule becomes unquestionable…before she no longer needs you?” Falco leaned in, his voice dropping lower, pressing the final dagger of his words
“Before you truly become worthless...”
Commodus told himself he trusted you. And for a time, he believed it. He believed in the silk-soft hush of your voice when you dismissed your advisors to call him in, in the warm weight of your palm, his heart beating so fast it made him forget the world. He believed it when your mouth opened for him, when your thighs parted, when you whispered his name not as an order, but as something sacred. But Falco’s words had a poison all their own, the most effective on Commodus.
“She uses you, Commodus. She keeps you fat and fucked so you don’t see the strings above your head.” he had whispered with faked concern.
“Go fuck yourself. You’re not even worthy of a dog’s attention.” He’d laughed then, sharp and bloody. He was your servant, a faithful one...he wanted to be. But no matter how much he resisted, he had always been weak to paranoia, a victim of his own insecurities.
In the following hours, his reason started to be eaten away, replaced by a deep, growing sorrow. That evening, as he massaged your shoulders by the brazier, he considered confronting you. "My Empr-..." he started, but you glanced back, your expression unreadable, though he felt an aura of tiredness and unrest. He said nothing, not wanting to bother.
Later that night, as you lay draped across his chest, your fingers tracing lazy circles into his skin, his eyes were locked on the ceiling, thoughts knotted like ropes. ‘Did you ever lie to me?’ He was dying to ask, yet he didn’t find the courage. Instead, he buried a hand in your hair and waited for sleep to take you.
But keeping his worries, his doubts to himself had been a bad decision. The distance began to grow. He started to watch you not as a lover, but as a man trying to survive once again. He took mental notes, tried to peek at the scroll you read, sealed in unfamiliar wax, before you burned it in the brazier. His heart sank when a hushed conversation with Falco was severed the moment he entered.
He began to pull away. Just slightly, just enough to give you space and see what you did with it. He began sleeping with his back turned, and when you reached for him in the night, your hand found only empty sheets.
Of course, you felt the distance, it terrified you. You remembered that look from years past, from before he had been stripped of his crown, suspicion masked behind silence, tenderness held hostage by fear. And now, it was back. This wasn't about Rome; this was about you. You saw the way he watched you with calculation, as if trying to see beneath your skin. When he kissed you, it was soft but brief, as if memorizing something he expected to lose.
You began to consider Falco’s proposal. Marriage, legitimacy. Protection for the child, for Rome, for Commodus. But the idea of Falco touching you was unbearable. Could the twisted love you shared with Commodus survive Rome? Could you protect him? The questions were a weight on your heart.
Your belly had begun to swell more, now unmistakable. You no longer drank wine, and you cradled it absently, your fingers unconsciously guarding the life within. You rarely went out of the palace, keeping the news a secret for now. You didn’t speak of the pregnancy with Commodus; it felt too sacred, yet too forbidden. Sometimes, in the dark, you would guide his hand to your stomach, and he would feel the gentle flutter, the promise of something more. But you never spoke of the future, because you both feared it.
One night, you woke to the sound of his breath, uneven and shallow. He sat at the edge of the bed, his shoulders rigid in the moonlight.
"Commodus?" You called, sitting up, the sheet sliding off your chest.
"Do you love me?" he asked, his voice rough. He kept his back turned to you. You felt him deeply wounded.
"What?" you asked. He turned, his eyes wet, glinting with a raw plea.
"Do you love me?" he repeated, quieter this time, his fist clenching at his side.
“You know I do.” you answered. You rarely spoke those words but they were no less true. But they brought him no satisfaction. He laid back down, his back to you. You reached out, but your hand landed on a stranger; he even winced at your touch. Confused and hurt, you wondered what nightmare could have been so bad that your words failed to soothe him.
Weeks passed, the silence between you had become heavier. You had not spoken of your fears, and Commodus, for all his gentleness, carried a silence now that was heavier than chains. But tonight, something shifted. You were reading alone by the fire when you felt it, not a faint flutter, but a clear, insistent kick. Your breath caught.
"Commodus." you called softly, your voice trembling. "Come here." You ordered, looking at your lover. He was nearby, polishing one of your jewels with absent hands. He obeyed, kneeling beside you. You took his hand and guided it to your stomach. A kick. Commodus’ eyes widened. Then another kick followed. For a moment, the years, the conflicts fell away. He was just a man, kneeling beside the woman he loved, feeling the life they had created. He even smiled, his eyes teary with the emotion of having created this baby.
"Commodus..." you spoke after a while, your voice low and firm as you reached to cup his chin. "What is going through your mind?" You asked. He looked at you, and for a breath, you thought he would finally tell you. But instead, he smiled, too quickly, too easily.
"Nothing." he said dismissively "I’m just… nervous. About the baby."
"Commodus-..." He leaned forward and kissed your belly, his lips soft against the place where the child had stirred. He rested his forehead there, hiding his eyes.
"I didn’t think I would ever feel this..." he murmured. "Not like this. Not with you."
You wanted to believe him. You wanted to pull him into your arms and crush the doubt out of his heart. But as he whispered reassurances that felt too smooth, too rehearsed, you felt... a fracture beneath the surface. And still, you said nothing. And neither did he.
The next day, his paranoia, momentarily quieted by the child's kick, roared back to life. It drove him to follow you. He could not stop doubting you; after all it wasn’t the first time you broke his trust, he thought. He stopped outside your study, the door slightly ajar.
"...if you truly want to secure your future..." He heard Falco murmur "you cannot hesitate any longer. You and I both know this is the only way."
"Perhaps you’re right..." You answered after a moment of silence, the back of your fingers brushing over your lip repeatedly, a gesture she had absorbed from Commodus. Your tone was quiet, measured. No, he had misheard, it couldn’t be.
"Good." Falco continued, pleased. "It will be done before the child is born. The moment will pass quickly, clean, decisive. No loose ends."
Commodus’s mind twisted the words. ‘Before the child is born. Clean, decisive. No loose ends.’ You were going to kill him. You had lied. You had fed him love like wine, only to poison the cup. He stepped back, breath ragged, his heart clenching like a thing trying to escape. It had all been a lie. Like his father, like Lucilla, like Rome itself, you would discard him. He turned, vision blurred with heartbreak and fury. He had to act first. Before you struck. Before he lost everything!
You heard a shuffling noise outside. Commodus was spying as he usually did these past weeks. He was building a twisted scenario in his mind and that could not last. It was enough. You would not let the empire crumble from within due to a snake’s whispered poison. You would not lose Commodus to the ghosts that haunted his past.
The thought of Senator Falco’s slick, ingratiating smile made your stomach turn, but his proposal, however repulsive, had been a key. A key to a door you could now lock forever.
“Commodus. Come here, I know you’re there.” you called your voice crisp and leaving no room for questions. “Senator Falco, stay.” You smiled, feeling the unease appear in the senator’s stance.
You felt the shift in the air, the tension growing. Commodus passed the door, his eyes throwing daggers at Falco, then refusing to meet yours, looking at the ground, not respectfully but out of anger. You could see it at the subtle tightening of his shoulders. You ignored it, your resolve hardening. You needed to cut out the infection spreading in the palace, take out the virus before Commodus could not be saved anymore.
“Senator.” you began, your voice devoid of any warmth. “About your proposal. This marriage of… convenience. There are things I would like to discuss.”
“A wise choice, Empress. Marrying me would secure the dynasty and bring stability to the Senate.” Falco’s smile widened, sensing victory, thinking this was another blade the empress wanted to throw on Commodus, wanting to watch him suffer the news. You stood, and stepped closer to the senator, your gaze like flint.
“Let me be perfectly clear. The only thing I would find convenient is seeing your head on a spike outside the city gates. I will not marry you. I will not have you. I will not suffer your presence in my court any longer than is necessary to dismantle the web of influence you think you have spun. You will retire from the Senate on the morrow, citing ill health. If you speak a single word of this to anyone, if I even sense your shadow near the palace again, I will have you crucified upside down along the Appian Way as a warning to all who think they can plot in my house. Do I make myself clear?” your spoke, your voice unflinching. You had let doubt invade you. You were the Empress damn it ! The most powerful man in the world, who had the power of life and death over anyone in this world, you reminded yourself.
Falco’s face went through a series of rapid transformations, from triumph, to confusion, to a pale, slack-jawed terror.
“But your Highness. What about the child?” He stammered, raising the question of the father of the baby.
“Get out.” you snarled. He scrambled backward, bowing and scraping, and fled the atrium like a whipped dog. You stood there for a long moment, a tremor running through you. It was done. You had publicly chosen to protect Commodus. You had chosen him. Now, you just had to make him see it.
But Commodus didn't see it. He saw a performance. He saw you toy with the Senator before dismissing him, a calculated display of power meant to hide your true alliance. He heard Falco’s desperate plea about "the child" and your cold dismissal. In his mind, Falco wasn't asking about legitimacy; he was asking about the obstacle: Commodus. Your threats weren't a rejection; they were a promise to handle the "loose ends" yourself, away from prying eyes. He had heard you say you were considering the proposal, and in his poisoned heart, that was the only truth that mattered. The rest was just theatre for his benefit.
A coldness, vast and absolute, seeped into his bones. The love he had for you curdled into a hard, sharp-edged thing of pure, agonizing betrayal. He would not be a loose end. He would not be a ghost haunting your new reign. He would not be discarded again by those he loved.... he had been a fool to think he could ever be anything else than a nuisance. He quickly turned around and rushed away from your study.
“Commodus! Come here!” you called him, not expecting him to flee from the scene. You went after him, walking as fast as your belly allowed you to.
He led you to the chambers. The room felt cold, even though the braziers were lit. You found Commodus standing by the open balcony doors, a silhouette against the bruised twilight of the Roman sky. He wasn't looking at the view; he was staring into the distance, his posture unnervingly still, like a statue.
“Commodus.” you called, your voice softer than you intended. You wanted to go to him, to tell him you had fought for him, that you had torn down the threat for your love story. But the words felt fragile, and the air between was already thick with unspoken things.
He turned slowly. His face was a mask you had never seen before, not the haunted look of a broken slave, nor the proud glare of a wronged emperor. It was blank, terrifyingly empty.
“I hope he was worth it.” he said. His voice was not a shout, not a hiss, but a calm, quiet blade sliding between your ribs. You froze, the warmth draining from your face.
“What… what are you talking about?” had he not listened? Had he not understood what you just did for him?
“Don’t.” he cut you off, taking a step forward. The placid mask cracked, revealing the raw fury beneath. “Don’t you dare look at me with confusion. Don’t you dare pretend you don’t know.” He took another step, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Was it all just to keep me ‘fat and fucked’ so I wouldn’t see the strings above my head? So I wouldn’t notice you making your arrangements?” The accusation, so close to Falco’s venom, struck you like a physical blow. The fragile hope you’d carried in with you shattered.
“How dare you...” You breathed, your own anger rising to meet his, a hot, defensive wave. “How dare you question me after everything? After I took you into my bed? After I trusted you with my life? after I decided to keep your seed inside me?”
“Trusted me?” he let out a harsh, broken laugh. “You don’t even know the meaning of the word! You whisper your devotion in the dark and then make deals with snakes in the light!” he raised his voice, something he had never done before.
“Deals? I was ending it!” you yelled, your voice echoing in the chamber. “I was protecting you! I was protecting us!”
The word ‘us’ seemed to hang in the air, a mockery. He shook his head, his eyes wild with a pain so deep it looked like madness. “Us? Don’t lie to me! Not about this! You were going to marry him, weren’t you? Legitimize your reign, legitimize our child with his name, and then what? Were you going to have him thank me for the seed before you had me dragged away and executed? ‘Clean, decisive, no loose ends’? what’s your excuse?!” he grinned bitterly. He was quoting Falco but you only heard the depth of his paranoia, the complete conviction of your betrayal.
“He's playing you, you fool! He wants you to kill me so he can take our child!” you said, your voice dropping to a dangerously low whisper. “You are just as broken as your father always said you were.”
The mention of his father was the final, unforgivable blow. It was a wound you knew, a cruelty you had wielded before, but this time it was different. This time it was fueled by your own hurt. He lunged. Not with a weapon, but with his bare hands. He grabbed your arm, and your throat with the other hand, his grip like iron, his face contorted with a lifetime of betrayal.
You just had the time to cry out. It had the effect of bringing him back to his senses and let go. He sank to his knees, forehead at your feet, his body wracked with sobs.
"I'm sorry!" he choked out. "Gods, I'm sorry..." He cried as your praetorians came in, ready to assist you. But with a gesture of your hand, you stopped them.
You stood over him, your own body trembling with adrenaline and a profound, chilling sorrow. You had pushed him to this. You had seen the poison in his veins and had done nothing, waiting until he reached his limits. You had been careless.
Yet you did not kneel to comfort him. You did not pull him into your arms. You were an Empress, and you would not let your empire fall.
“Fetch me the scrolls on my desk.” you ordered the praetorians who obeyed instantly. As soon as they handed you the scrolls, you dismissed them. Ignoring their wariness of leaving you alone with the rebellious slave. You walked to him and unrolled the map of your spy network on the floor before him.
"Look at me." you commanded, your voice cold as steel. He slowly lifted his head, his face a mess of tears and despair. "Falco told you I was going to kill you. He wanted to marry me and use our child as a pawn to legitimize his reign." You pointed to a name on the map. "This is the captain of the Praetorian guard. He has been taking Falco's money for six months and reporting every coin to me." You unrolled another scroll. "This is a confession from a scribe who was paid to forge a marriage contract. He has been in my custody for a week." You looked down at the man you loved, shattered at your feet.
"I am not asking for your forgiveness, Commodus. I am telling you the truth. I am going to destroy him. Not in a back alley, not with poison. I am going to strip him of his power and his life in the full light of day, in front of all of Rome. And you are going to help me." You walked to a chest and pulled out the heavy, iron slave collar. You threw it on the floor between you. "He is right about one thing. Your position is not secure. You are a slave. You are nothing in the eyes of Rome." He flinched, a fresh wave of agony washing over him.
"But..." you continued, your voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "you are my slave. my property. And I will not let a snake like Falco take what is mine."
He stared at you, his breath hitching in ragged sobs. He looked from the cold iron on the floor to your eyes. He saw the ruthlessness, the cunning, the absolute, terrifying power. And for the first time, he saw beneath it all. He saw a desperate, possessive love that mirrored his own. You weren't just protecting a throne; you were protecting your world. Your man. Your family. This was the language he understood better than any other. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the cold iron of the collar. He picked it up and held it out to you, his hands shaking, an offering of absolute, unconditional surrender.
"My Empress..." he breathed, and for the first time in weeks, the words were not hollow. They were a prayer. A prayer to forgive his weak broken spirit and love him. That was all he needed.
******
The day of the “trial” the Colosseum was packed to capacity. The Senate, confused and intrigued, sat in their honored box. Falco, dressed in his finest senatorial robes, was the picture of smug confidence, certain he had you cornered. He was ready to forgive your outburst of the previous day...as long as he had what he wanted.
You sat on the imperial throne, a simple, elegant stola of deep crimson that did little to hide the curve of your belly. Commodus stood behind you, a silent, powerful shadow, his hand resting near the hilt of your ceremonial dagger. He was no longer a ghost; he was a coiled spring, radiating a dangerous energy that silenced any whispers. You raised a hand, and the roar of the crowd died down.
"Citizens of Rome! We are gathered today not for games, but for justice!"
You gave a signal. The massive gates below the imperial box groaned open. The crowd expected gladiators, or perhaps starving beasts. But it was not warriors who marched out. It was a line of men, senators in their togas, wealthy merchants, even a pair of grim-faced Praetorian guards. They formed a line before your throne.
One by one, they stepped forward. A senator accused Falco of embezzlement, producing ledgers. A merchant detailed a campaign of extortion, presenting witnesses. The two guards gave their testimony, their voices echoing across the sand as they recounted Falco's offer to betray you. With each accusation, the crowd's gasps grew louder. Falco's face turned from smugness to confusion, then to panic, as he realized he was not the prosecutor, but the prey. He had been outmaneuvered, outplayed, and utterly cornered.
He looked wildly around the arena, searching for an ally, for an escape route, and found none. The entire Coliseum was a cage of your making. You slowly rose to your feet, your voice echoing across the arena, imbued with the chilling finality of a judge.
"The people have been heard. The evidence is clear. Quintus Pompeianus Falco, you are guilty of treason against the Empire and against your Empress. Justice will be done." Your gaze swept over the arena before settling on the man behind you. You gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. It was time. The final act was about to begin.
Falco's punishment was not an execution. An execution would have been a mercy, a release he did not deserve. No, you declared his fate would be a spectacle, a living fresco of treachery's reward painted for all of Rome to see.
For three days, the Coliseum was your theater of cruelty. On the first day, Falco was stripped of his senatorial robes and dressed in rags. He was forced to scrub the bloodstained sand of the arena with a small brush, on his hands and knees, while the crowd hurled rotten fruit and insults at him. On the second day, he was pitted against a pack of mangy, snarling dogs, not to fight, but to run from, his dignity shredded with each terrified stumble. The final day was the most poetic. He was chained to a post in the center of the arena, and a herald read aloud his every crime, his every betrayal, while the people of Rome turned their backs on him in unison. He was not killed by a gladiator's blade, but by the hand of Commodus. The former prince gladiator making his grand return. His body was dragged through the city before being thrown away, broken, forgotten. It was a ruthlessness that sent a clear, chilling message to every enemy in the Empire.
But in the aftermath, a new legend was born. Not of an Empress's cruelty, but of her champion's prowess. To cement Commodus's place in the public's heart and to give him an outlet for the warrior spirit that still burned within him, you allowed him to fight. Not as a slave, not as a condemned man, but as Rome's greatest entertainer. He became the Lion of the Colosseum, his matches choreographed spectacles of skill and bravery. He fought with a ferocity that thrilled the masses, his victories celebrated with thunderous applause. He was no longer a disgraced emperor, the pleasure lave; he was a hero, a god of the arena, beloved by the people who had once called for his blood.
Months later, the roar of the crowd was different. It was not the bloodthirsty scream of the arena, but the adoring chant of a people celebrating their future. You stood on the imperial balcony, the sun warm on your face, your son cradled in your arms. He was small and perfect, a new dynasty swaddled in silk.
Beside you, a hand rested gently on the small of your back. You looked up at Commodus. He was no longer the gaunt, haunted slave or the desperate, bloody fighter. He was dressed in the white and gold of a ruler, his posture proud, his eyes clear. The Senate, in a move of frantic political pragmatism after you had exposed and executed Falco for treason, had formally rehabilitated him. He was not just your consort; he was Co-Emperor, his Antonine blood legitimizing your son in the eyes of all Rome. He was yours in public, as he had always been in private. You had won. Together.
Later, behind the heavy curtains of the imperial chambers, the weight of the day fell away. The gold and silk of the public triumph were discarded, leaving only the two of you in the flickering firelight. The air was thick with the unspoken, with the memory of blood on sand and a thumb pointed down.
Commodus stood before you, entirely yours. Slowly, deliberately, he sank to his knees, the movement fluid and sure. He pressed his forehead against the soft fabric of your stola, right over your stomach, with deep reverence.
“My Empress.” he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble against your skin.
You buried your fingers in his thick curls, tilting his head back to look at you. His eyes were dark, filled not with fear or doubt, but with a burning, absolute devotion. The public adulation was a heady wine, but this was the only sanctuary that mattered.
“You fought well today, my consort.” you whispered, a slow, wicked smile playing on your lips. A matching grin spread across his face.
“I live only to serve.” he replied, the words a sacred vow. His hands, strong enough to wield a sword and end a life, began a slow, reverent journey up the backs of your legs, tracing the curves of your calves. He nudged the fabric of your stola aside, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “My goddess...”
You gasped, your head falling back as his tongue traced a path of fire. He was the most powerful man in Rome, and he was on his knees, ready to worship you. But you wanted more. You wanted to see him lose all control.
You fisted his hair, pulling his head back sharply. He groaned, his eyes fluttering shut in pleasure. “Look at me.” you commanded. His eyes snapped open, locking onto yours. “Did you miss this? My touch? My taste? Being on your knees for me?”
“Every moment.” he breathed, his voice thick with longing. “Every moment in the arena, every drop of blood I spilled… I thought only of getting back to this. To you.”
“Good.” you purred, releasing him. You stepped back and began to slowly unpin your stola, letting the expensive silk pool at your feet. You stood before him, naked and powerful. “Then you will earn your reward. Undress.”
He rose with a fluid grace, his eyes never leaving yours. He shed his own tunic, his body a tapestry of your love story, the fading scars of his flogging, the new, pink gash from the arena, the muscles honed by desperation and love. He was magnificent.
“On the bed.” you ordered. “On your back.”
He obeyed instantly, stretching out on the vast bed, his body a feast for your eyes. His cock was already hard, resting against his stomach, a testament to his desire for you. You crawled onto the bed, straddling his chest, not yet giving him the friction he craved. You leaned down, your lips brushing his ear.
“I am going to use you...” you whispered, your voice a low growl. “I am going to take my pleasure from your body, and you are not going to come until I say so. Do you understand me, my good boy?”
“Yes, my Empress.” he choked out, his hands gripping the sheets.
You rewarded him with a slow, deep kiss, your tongue claiming his mouth, tasting him. Then you shifted, moving up his body until you were hovering over his face. “Show me how you worship me.”
He needed no further instruction. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you down onto his mouth. His tongue was masterful, skilled from countless nights of practice. He licked and sucked with a desperate hunger, his moans vibrating against your most sensitive flesh. He wasn't just performing a duty; he was communicating everything he couldn't say. He was apologizing, he was worshipping, he was renewing his vow. The pressure built inside you, a tight coil of pleasure, until you shattered with a cry, your body trembling above him.
You gave him a moment to breathe before moving back down his body. You positioned yourself over his straining cock, teasing him, letting him feel your wetness without letting him enter. He was panting, his eyes pleading.
“Please, Y/N… Highness…” he begged.
“Who decides when you feel pleasure?” you asked, your voice stern.
“You. Always you.” he breathed, lifting his head, dying to kiss you.
“Good boy.” Then, in one smooth motion, you sank down onto him, taking him to the hilt. You both groaned as he filled you completely. You began to move, a slow, punishing rhythm at first, grinding your hips against his. His hands roamed your body, cupping your breasts, caressing your stomach, his touch both worshipful and desperate.
“Faster...” he pleaded. “Please, Highness, let me…”
“You will take what I give you,” you snarled, though your own arousal was spiraling. You picked up the pace, riding him hard, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. You leaned forward, biting his shoulder, marking him as yours. He cried out, a mix of pain and ecstasy, his hips bucking up to meet yours.
“Do you feel that?” you breathed in his ear. “That is my power...you belong to me...your body, your pleasure, your heart… it is all mine.”
“Yours...!” he gasped. “Gods, it’s all yours...!” You felt him tensing, his body coiling as he fought against his release.
“Now, Commodus...!” you commanded. “Come for me!”
With a guttural roar that was equal parts man and beast, he exploded inside you, his body arching off the bed as he poured himself into you. You collapsed onto his chest, both of you panting, slick with sweat and trembling with the force of your release.
For a long time, you just laid there, listening to the frantic beat of his heart slowing to a steady rhythm. His arms came around you, holding you close, not as a slave holds his master, but as a man holds the other half of his soul.
“I love you.” he murmured into your hair, the words simple, clear, and more powerful than any declaration in the Senate. You tilted your head up, kissing him softly, a gentle, tender kiss.
“I love you too.” you whispered. “Now, rest. Tomorrow, we rule an empire. But tonight… you are just mine.”
And in the quiet that followed, as you lay tangled in the sheets, your head on his chest, the truth of your world settled around you. On the table beside the bed lay the laurel crown but on the floor, within reach of your hand, lay the cool, heavy weight of the iron collar. The world saw a partnership, a restored dynasty, a powerful couple ruling Rome.
"Only you, my beautiful Commodus..." you whispered "would wear a crown in public and a collar in private... and call it bliss."
A grin split his face, his eyes shining with love. He didn't wait for you to command him. With a steady hand, he fastened the cold iron around his own neck. It settled into place with a soft, final click.
He then laid his head in your chest, his body completely relaxed, his breathing deep and even. You stroked his hair, your fingers tracing the curls you loved so much.
The world could have their Imperial consort. You would always have your Commodus. And as you sat there in the firelight, with your consort collared in your arms and your child growing safe, you knew you had finally achieved what no emperor before you ever had: absolute power, and a love that was beautifully, twistedly, and unbreakably your own.
absolutely adored this finale, love how you wrote commodus as usual, and how you portray paranoia, its practically perfect T_T loved the final smut scene too lmao
local goth woman was tagged by her lovely mutual @scourgiez! we should totally talk about the phoenix brothers more often!
last song listened to: scarling - "black horse riding star"
favorite color: black and pink.
currently watching: molleigh and i are halfway through "final destination 3," and my daddy and i are planning to watch "stand by me" later this afternoon.
currently reading: about to begin "sweet valley high super thriller: on the run" :)
current obsession: river phoenix, of course <3
currently working on: a oneshot fanfiction, set in my river phoenix self-ship au, that draws a parallel between the marriage and babies of your girl me and rivvie and (rpf ship) eartha kitt and james ("jamie") dean. and college stuff, but i kind of doubt anyone wants a list of my college assignments, haha!
heyyy @lala-xiv thanks so much for the tag!! hope you don't mind I'm replying on my Joaquin blog (I'm @frillions)
last song listened to: Baby Monitor from Signs by James Newton Howard (was playing guess the movie score with my husband!)
favourite colour: to wear - black or burgundy, other - probably pink and yellow
currently watching: rewatching the Scream movies (Dewey, my beloved), rewatching Supernatural, and devouring ashleeinc on youtube
currently reading: Tales of the Supernatural by Agatha Christie, contemplating a third read of Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir, just read Remain by Nicholas Sparks & M Night Shyamalan (my god it was so good I can't wait for the movie)
current obsession: same as usual - Joaquin Phoenix, Ryan Gosling, and my comfort movies (particularly heavy on Scream right now!)
currently working on: *accidentally left the previous answer in - edited now 😅* Dewey Riley fanfic series! And Lars Lindstrom gif series focusing on autistic experience and traits!
last google search: ghosting synonym (I'm writing a fic)
tagging (trying to find Joaquin mutuals who haven't been tagged yet, sorry if you have!): @napoleon-bonapartes-blog @commodussy @darknessisafriend @fleckism @the-glory-of-rome
last song listened to: The offering- Sleep token *_*
favourite colour: I tend to say black cause I do love black BUT I noticed I am very much attracted to blue (like azure sort of) I have a blue work bag and a blue car and a blue t-shirt some days XD
currently watching: The apotecary diaries season 2, it's so easy to watch when you are tired and want something cosy
currently reading: Reforged by Seth Haddon, love story between a contested king whose weapon is a magical lyre and his paladin bodyguard
current obsession: Joaquin Phoenix (this one has been going for 5 years now), ancient Rome, Outer Space
currently working on: The final chapter of Commodus the whore of the Empress and a Dom!Abbe de Coulmier x reader
last google search: court rules in ancient Rome
I tag : @galos-writing @smallratboy @lokischambermaid
