#double edged sword

[ashykneecaps6]

Des Leo

A few ref sheets of my iteration's character designs will be posted weekly. Hopefully I can stay on schedule, I'm so busy :(

[goddessofbees]

Haven't drawn female Damian x Dani in awhile so here!!

[wiktorjackowski]

double-edged sword, 2026, oil on canvas, 100x120cm

[quadrantadvisor]

Pairing Off, in which the Waynes meet the Fentons, just not all at once. 2,443 words

-

Damian feels less than positively about the new girl in his grade.

Danielle Fenton has already garnered a bit of a reputation. Her uniform is clearly second hand, and rumors abound about whether she has joined them at Gotham Academy on a merit scholarship or as “one of Wayne's charity cases.” Neither is true; Father has offered no fiscal support to the Fentons, and yet both she and her older brother attend the Academy, leading Damian to believe they've somehow paid their own way.

Her lower class status and midwestern accent ought to make Fenton a target, but her response to being cornered or talked down to by other students was an unsettling combination of cheerful and aggressive. She is now mostly left to her own devices, despite her notoriety. 

Damian has no interest in the girl. While it is true that she excels in both mathematics and social studies, her performance in English and science are unremarkable, and she poses no challenge to his rank at the top of the class. If he finds himself pushing harder in certain classes this semester in order to maintain the edge, it's no one else's business.

Now if only she would leave him alone.

Damian preemptively slams his sketchbook shut, just as a brash, inconsiderate, annoying girl hops up to sit on his desk. “Hey Dami, what're you drawing?”

“It is none of your business,” Damian seethes. “Remove yourself from my personal space before I-” he isn't allowed to threaten classmates with bodily harm, imply that he has brought weapons to school, or use words that are derogatory to women “-do so myself. By force.” He would avoid her altogether if he could, but Fenton is annoyingly (suspiciously) sneaky. He can only ever seem to sense her when she's just about on top of him.

Fenton merely laughs, high, bright, and joyful, and Damian grits his teeth. “Did you draw me yet?” she asks, and doesn't move an inch.

“No, I have not drawn you. I never said I would, and I have no plans to. Stop asking me.”

She shrugs and kicks her feet. “Maybe you'll change your mind. Can I see what you're working on?”

Damian pulls the sketchbook a tad bit closer to himself (a protective reflex that shows his weakness, he should be better than that by now.) “Never, imbecile.”

Fenton sticks her tongue out at him like a child. “Mean,” she says, still smiling. “I wanna see your art. It's so good!”

Damian tilts his nose up at her. “Of course it is, plebeian, I have standards-” he starts, but is cut off by the teacher entering. Fenton slides off his desk and heads to her own seat. Damian stows his sketchbook in his bag and tries not to think of the unfinished work inside, featuring a girl with dark hair, light eyes, and a mischievous grin.

-

There's this brownstone on the outskirts of Crime Alley, an old townhouse recently converted into commercial space. There's a coffee shop on street level, a tattoo parlor down the stairs, some sorta wine emporium on the second floor, and on the third, a little second hand bookshop

It's outside the border of Jason's territory, but he feels sorta responsible for it, given that he frequents the place.

It's a little out of his way, but the atmosphere is nice, alright? Clean, with soft lighting, but not sterile or corporate like the bigger places downtown. The owners are an older couple who Jason has met a couple of times, and they seem pretty happy with the new location. They're collectors, really, who run the shop to make ends meet.

Mostly, Jason talks to their employee. Jazz.

Jazz works in the afternoons and evenings, after her classes. She goes to Gotham U, double majoring in pre-med and psych, on top of a full time job, because she's almost as insane as a bat. She assures Jason that she does alright, gets a little downtime to study on her shifts.

She always makes time to talk to Jason.

Jazz is an interesting person to talk books with. She cares less about plot and literary themes, and more about diagnosing every character with their own personal malady of the mind. She dissects their thought processes and behaviors, ruthless in her analysis.

She's gonna be a brain surgeon someday, open people up and see what really makes them tick. Jason doesn't doubt it for a second.

So maybe Jason is a little bit in love with her.

It's not a big deal. Obviously it's not going anywhere. It's just nice to have something normal, to talk to someone normal, about normal stuff like books and college and sibling antics.

Jazz's stories about her sibling, Danny, rival Jason's own, and his family is fucking disastrous. Jason isn't actually sure if Dan is older or younger than Jazz is, or, for that matter, what pronouns he should use for them, since Jazz mixes it up pretty regularly. He knows that Jazz absolutely adores them, though, and it's heartwarming, the way she smiles as she talks.

All of that to explain why Red Hood is keeping an eye on a brownstone that technically falls outside of his territory.

There's a girl inside that he needs to keep safe.

-

“Hey bud, late night?” Dick asks the man lying prone in an alley, a block away from the Iceberg Lounge.

The response is slurred with sleep and muffled by a cheek pressed hard into asphalt. “S'at you, Dick?”

“Sure is. We've got to stop meeting like this,” Dick tells him, and means it.

The guy's name is Dan. No last name offered, which was fair, since Dick hasn't mentioned his.

What was weird was that Dan didn't give Penguin his last name, either, when he signed his employment contract. Just Dan.

Penguin has been trying to expand his influence into Bludhaven, and Dick's been trying to figure out why. Cobblepot is a very Gotham sort of gangster, all wrapped up in the city's ideas of style and respectability; Dick honestly would've thought that Blud was beneath him. He needs to figure out who he's contacting and what they're offering him, and he needs to do it before Penguin can get a foothold on his turf.

Running into Dan was a side effect. Dick didn't mean to keep doing it. It's just that Dan has this weird habit of completely disregarding trivial concerns such as his own health and safety, and doing weird shit like, as a random example, getting tired, laying down, and passing out. In the middle of the street. In Gotham.

The main part of Dan's job seems to be bouncing at the club. It makes sense—if you wanted to hire a guy as muscle, you couldn't do much better than Dan. He's at least 6 and a half feet tall, with a chest wider than Jason's. 

But Dick has also seen Dan traveling with Penguin before. Add in the fact that it's almost impossible to dig up info on him, and that tailing him is somehow even harder, and a picture starts to come together. A very vague, very suspicious picture.

It's too bad that Dick sort of likes him, and that he's incredibly hot.

Dan has removed his face from the alley floor, and is in the process of pushing himself up. “Not your business, man,” he retorts. “What are you, a cop?”

Dick can't help a wry chuckle at that. “Not anymore.”

“No shit?” Dan asks, hauling himself to his feet. He towers over Dick like that, but it's hard to be intimidated by a man whose cheek is red and pockmarked by little bits of gravel. Dick is legitimately embarrassed that he finds it charming. He needs to get better taste in men. “Yeah, no, that makes sense,” Dan continues, looking Dick up and down. “No way they could keep your ass on the force.”

“Oh yeah?” Dick asks.

Dan snorts. “I can smell the idealism on you from here.” He starts walking, heading straight past Dick, who falls into step beside him. “You remind me of this kid I know.”

Dick gives an interested hum, hoping that if he doesn't interrupt, Dan will elaborate, but no dice.

“So, where're you taking me this time?” the big man asks, still leading, and Dick stifles a grin at how silly the whole thing is.

“Maybe if I take you out for coffee, you won't faceplant onto any more concrete,” he says, reaching up to brush off some of the little rocks. Dan stutters to a stop as Dick touches his cheek, letting him, then strides off again as soon as he's done.

“Don't care, as long as you're paying.”

Dick stops him with a tug to his arm. “Coffee shop's this way,” he explains, pointing, and Dan doesn't hesitate, pivoting to take the lead once again. Dick rushes to keep up with his not-date, a criminal who he literally picked up off the street and who has no idea where he's going. He can't see his own smile, but he knows from experience that it is both delighted and a little manic. He admits to himself, begrudgingly, that he likes his men with something wrong with them.

-

The biggest reason that Tim played so much Doomed with Ghost_Boy, a couple of years ago, was that they were the only player he knew who kept hours as weird as his were. There were worse reasons to form a friendship. Ghost_Boy was a great player, and was always funny in chat. They were upbeat when things went well, and they were sarcastic but not bitter when things went poorly. Playing for the game's sake eventually changed to booting up the game to hang out with Ghost_Boy. They talked about how different their lives were, with Ghost_Boy in the midwest and Tim in the crime capital of America, and they talked about the things they had in common, like falling asleep in class. It was Tim's favorite form of stress relief, back then, when being Robin was new and overwhelming.

Then Tim got busy. No, that wasn't true—Tim had always been busy. More like, Tim's life fell to shambles, over and over again, and he stopped making time for stress relief when the very concept seemed out of his reach.

That was over dramatic. Tim fell off the game, and didn't keep in contact with his friend. That's all there was to it.

That was all there was to it, until a few nights ago, when he booted up his old Doomed file for nostalgia's sake and found a message from Ghost_Boy, sent a couple months back, that said he was planning to move to Gotham and, if Tim wanted, he'd be happy to meet up.

Tim immediately replied in the affirmative, and then he freaked out that he'd done that and started cyber stalking the guy. He couldn’t be bothered to pretend to be embarrassed by this behavior. He knew who he was.

Daniel Fenton was, in fact, a real teenager from a real midwestern town (Amity Park, Illinois.) He had moved to Gotham right when his message said he would, and lived with his older sister, Jasmine (who had custody over him,) and his younger sister, Danielle.

And that was where Tim was planning to stop his research, for the sake of his friend's privacy. Once he confirmed that he wasn't being catfished by either a supervillain or a run-of-the-mill creep, he was going to stop looking.

But Danielle Fenton's situation was incredibly weird.

Apparently, she had never lived with Daniel, Jasmine, and their parents before. Instead, after she was born, she'd been adopted by the kids’ godfather, eccentric billionaire Vlad Masters, and he was still her legal guardian. It was only after the Doctors Jack and Madeline died that she moved in with her siblings and started attending Gotham Academy, states away from her adoptive parent.

Vlad Masters was a man of eclectic tastes. The stories about him in the news were always covering some weird investment he had made, like purchasing a cheese castle in Wisconsin, or buying up property in Green Bay just to have a stake in the Packers, or pouring money into experimental forms of alternative energy. He was always refined in his public appearances, but he had the desperate edge of new money wanting to fit in with the old. Tim knew of him, but had never given him much thought before. He'd never made a move into Gotham, after all.

But the whole story was bizarre. Masters had gone to college with the Fentons, the three of them creating their own field of study in “Ectology,” before Masters had been contaminated in a lab accident, bedridden and unable to finish his degree. Jack and Maddie had continued their research, garnering just enough interest in their work to receive the funding needed to keep afloat, until some sort of breakthrough a few years ago added validity to their theories. They were practically celebrities in the niche forums Tim skimmed through. Masters, meanwhile, stopped working directly in the sciences and instead turned to networking, gaining some generous help from the friends he made and playing the stock market like a fiddle, until he was one of the most well known and lucrative investors in the world. He owned a few companies publicly, and managed some others under the table (Tim had to snort at the ridiculous naming of Dalv Co.) 

And then the Fentons had kids, and they raised two of them (seemingly quite happily, if the photos on their memorialized facebook accounts meant anything.) And then, for some reason, they named the third one nearly identically to their second child and gave her straight to Vlad. Masters raised the girl in Wisconsin, until suddenly relocating to Amity Park and becoming the town's mayor. There he stayed, until the Fenton's recent passing in a lab accident of their own.

Tim doesn't know what it all adds up to. But there was something going on, with both Vlad Masters and the Fentons, and if there's something nefarious in Masters’ actions or his wealth, it could be entirely possible that Daniel was a plant—a way for him to get an in with the Waynes. Tim has to be cautious, and he has to get to the bottom of this.

That's why Tim is waiting in a coffee shop, pretending to be engrossed in his laptop while keeping an eye on the door, waiting for the appearance of a teen with black hair and blue eyes.

Tim idly thinks that Bruce had better not adopt this one.

[jazzy-officia1]

just something im working on

[dclovesdanny]

Double Edged Sword prompt

Dani x Damian

Ra’s Al Ghul had set up a contract that promised his heir to the heir of the Infinite Realms as a way to keep his access to the Lazarus Pits.

However, the contract didn’t activate for his children. In fact, it only activated after his grandson turned twelve. Apparently a new king had taken over, and he had an heir.

Damian was not expecting his grandfather to have kidnapped him to meet his fiancé. Nor did he expect his fiancé, the heir of the Infinite Realms, to be Danielle Fenton, the younger sister of Drake’s boyfriend.

Dani is just wondering why the fruitloop summoned her and how Damian got involved.

[tightjeansjavi]

Double-Edged Sword - “Bite Me”

A/N: sorry it's taken me a minute to post the next part of this ;-; my writing lately is just not where I would like it to be, but try I must! I do really enjoy writing the dynamic between Geta and his Empress :3 she's his ultimate match and I personally think they are perfect for each other! Thank you again to my wife @johnnyst0rm for feeding my brain rot for these two & @songbirdmunson and @magicalmysterytour13 for listening to me yap! Thank you for reading <3 wc: 5.2k Summary: Geta learns about a vital artery in his neck...the carotid artery! Warnings: no smut, but heavy on the sexual tension and pining, belittling, teasing, degradation, no mention of age but reader and Geta are in their 20's, reader has no physical descriptions but is Egyptian and a direct descendant of Cleopatra, Caracalla gets his own warning (again) mentions of death, blood, wounds, (don't read if that stuff makes you queasy) Macrinus gets his own warning (who the fuck invited him to the senate meeting?) +18 minors dni! if I missed anything PLEASE let me know. Remember this is fiction

Pairing | Emperor Geta x empress!reader translations: anaticula - duckling vita mea - my life amica mea - my beloved amasiuncula - darling/sweetheart

Geta was unaware how many hours had passed, but he was unfortunately aware of how many times Senator Thraex had repeated himself in the past five minutes. The older man stumbled over his words and he swallowed thickly, combing his fingers through his hair (lack thereof). Visible sweat pooled along the back of his neck and his eyes darted around the room with visible nervousness. The eldest emperor leaned over towards his brother who wore a bored expression upon his face until Geta whispered something for only his ears and he immediately broke out into a grin, lips curving upwards. They exchanged a hidden glance, brown and blue eyes sparkling like a pair of perfectly carved marbles. 

“Senator Thraex,” Geta said in a smooth drawl, tapping his ringed fingers against the table methodically. He slumped back against the chair for a moment before he leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “Shall we call for a healer? You look…unwell.” 

Silence washed over the senators…and Macrinus? Why was he present? Geta could not remember. He was neither a senator or politician; he was just a wealthy man with a stable of gladiators at his disposal, and yet he somehow charmed his way into the twins' entourage it seemed. 

Caracalla snickered alongside his twin, eyes narrowed on the older man with scrutiny. His head cocked to the side, and he parted his lips as if he were about to speak, but Macrinus cut him off from the opposite end of the table. 

“Forgive the senator, your majesties,” Macrinus bowed his head slightly, dark eyes cast downwards to his clasped hands resting in his lap. “He had a rather late night I’m afraid.” 

“Haven’t we all?” Geta chuckled and his brows raised in amusement. He pushed himself up from his chair a silent signal that this meeting was adjourned, finally. “The hour is late, and as much as the conversation regarding trade routes is the most riveting, I cannot bear to listen to Senator Thraex repeat himself, again.” He was looking directly at Macrinus now, studying him briefly as if he was searching for something…for what he did not know. But something about the man caused him unease. 

Senator Thraex’s face paled and his lips opened and closed rapidly like a gaping fish. He sputtered out an apology, one that was silently brushed off like a pesky gnat on fruit. 

The twins were the first to leave the room, their bodies moving like siamese cats and their Praetorians trailed behind them as they entered the vacant hallway to return to their own quarters. Dondus had made a real nest of Caracalla's hair and chittered softly.

“Brother,” Geta said alongside him, his hands clasped behind his back, brows furrowed, a sign that he was deeply in thought. “Do you know why Macrinus was present this evening?” 

The younger twin shrugged and reached up to fiddle with one of his earrings, rolling the heavy gold between his ringed fingers before releasing it. “I haven’t a clue. Was he…not supposed to be in the meeting?” 

Geta huffed and dropped his hands from behind his back and twisted his rings on his fingers instead. He glanced over his shoulder and past their Praetorians as if he was paranoid someone could be following them. “He had no business being involved. He is not a senator, nor an advisor.” 

“Yes, but he is rich. Rich men always have their way of getting a seat at a table they are not invited to,” Caracalla said with a giggle, nudging his hip against his brothers. “You are so tense, Geta.” 

“I am not tense,” Geta hissed under his breath. “I am exhausted, and I did not expect the discussion of fucking trade routes to last that many hours.” 

“Ah, you are tense!” Caracalla teased and poked him on the shoulder. “Hopefully your empress is in a fair mood when you return to her. Surely she can help you unwind.” 

“Doubtful,” the older twin grumbled. “The most affection I’ll receive from her is practically nonexistent. She always makes me work for it,” he droned. “I should not have to grovel for sex from my wife like I am some common beggar.” 

“Well, had you not foolishly sent your concubines away…” Caracalla trailed off, blue eyes glinting under the torchlights they passed. “You would not have to grovel for your needs to be met. It’s almost as if you like it!”  He gasped, pupils expanding. “She has turned you into a masochist!” 

Geta’s cheeks felt hot and he tucked his chin into his shoulder to hide the blooming redness that spread like a rash from his brother. He could feel the prickling sense of shame creep up the exposed skin along the back of his neck as if his empress were there, alongside him now, whispering against his ear, hot breath fanning his skin and causing goosebumps to appear. 

My whiny, pathetic, little anaticula. 

His breath hitched in his throat at the sound of her enticing voice invading his subconscious. He could even feel the scrape of her nails against his scalp, drawing blood from how hard she would tug on his golden roots. His knees threatened to buckle. The sensation was so strong, so visceral that he blindly reached for his brother's elbow, clamping down harshly. 

“Perhaps you are the one in need of a healer, brother,” Caracalla snickered. “It is like she has bewitched you and casted a spell upon you.” 

“Shut up,” Geta whispered and removed his hand and straightened his posture. “I told you I was exhausted. Don’t read deeper into it. I am well.” His tone said otherwise, but Caracalla made no further comments regarding his brother's crumbling demeanor. 

“Well, rest easy. I, on the other hand, will be having the most delightful evening with my concubines. Tell the empress I wish her a fair evening,” Caracalla said with a wink and parted from his side to return to his own chambers, his Praetorians peeling off from Geta’s. 

The eldest emperor muttered something under his breath, shaking his head and marched forward down the hall. Outside of his and the empress’s chamber he paused behind the door. What version of her would greet him tonight? He wondered. She was always hot and cold; unpredictable. He loved it. He loved her. He wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

He pushed open the door and addressed his Praetorians with a curt nod before he slipped inside and let the ornate carved wood swing shut behind him. He expected that she would be asleep by now, but their bed was still perfectly made up and untouched. Candles flickered from the bedside tables and he was greeted with the scent of incense burning; frankincense. 

“Empress?” He called for her as he strode further into the room. He was greeted with…nothing. If he wasn’t tense and wound up before now he truly was. If the meeting hadn’t stretched for as long as it had, maybe he would have been calm and thinking sensibly, but that was not the case. 

“I am not in the mood for games tonight,” he muttered to himself and made quick, almost frantic steps around the general area. First going to the attached balcony because he knew she liked to sit and stargaze on clear nights, but she was not there either. He loudly cursed, causing a grouping of birds to scatter at the sound of his booming voice. 

He called for her again as he whipped around on his heel, his footsteps heavy along the marble flooring. Had he taken a moment to breathe and collect himself, he would have noticed that his wife was directly to his left when he first walked into their room…but the emperor did not know the art of collecting oneself from crashing out. 

The empress had been practicing her calligraphy at her little vanity area, and when the emperor strode in, calling for her in that desperate tone of his, she couldn’t help but sit back and watch silently. 

The fool. She mused to herself. 

Had she not revealed herself with the faintest giggle, he would have torn up the entire room to find her. 

“HAVE YOU BEEN THERE THE ENTIRE TIME?!” He screeched from where he stood, bewildered at the sound of her ringing giggle coming from the opposite end of their massive living quarters. His skin was flushed, and his hair appeared disheveled from where he had raked his fingers through it frantically. 

The empress folded her hands to rest against her chin, staring at him unnervingly. “The entire time, yes,” she echoed his words with a curved grin appearing on her lips. Her wedding band winked at him under candlelight almost condescendingly—mockingly. 

“And you thought…to say nothing?” he crossed his arms over his chest, feeling his heartbeat still racing out of his rib cage. “Instead you just sat there and watched me make a fool of myself?” He huffed and dropped his arms and flopped down against the edge of the duvet dramatically. 

She rolled her eyes at his theatrics and set her pen down alongside the parchment and stood up. “I enjoyed watching you lose your mind, husband. It was rather entertaining to watch you turn to a state of panic.” 

He sat up almost immediately from the duvet, umber eyes narrowing at her unnervingly calm appearance. “When I call for you, I expect you to answer,” he said firmly. There he was. All bark and no bite, right on schedule. 

She laughed at this because he was just too predictable when he got into one of these mood swings where he experienced a delusion of grandeur where he actually believed he had a semblance of control over her. 

“What am I, your dog?” She scoffed and walked over to where he was sitting, his thighs falling open naturally at her approach as if on command. 

“You heard me, amica mea. I call for you and you answer. Do we have an understanding?” he said with an arched brow, his stern gaze beginning to falter and weaken when she had come to stand between his spread thighs and leaned down over him, her hands coming to rest against his shoulders. Her touch immediately sent a spark of flames igniting under his finely crafted dress robe. 

“No,” she said coolly, and then she slowly lowered herself into his lap much to his surprise. “Anaticula,” she hummed and moved one of her hands from his shoulders and brought it towards his head. At first he thought the gesture was to comfort him, and he imagined her raking her fingers through his golden tresses, but instead she did the unthinkable; she wretched his laurels from their place upon his head and tossed them to the floor, far from his reach. The crown clattered against the marble, bouncing once before it rolled to the opposite side of the room. “What was that you were saying just now?” 

His mouth ran dry as he watched the symbol of his power discarded in such a deliberate and careless fashion. He should have struck her then and put her in her rightful place, but before he could even raise his hand, she was grabbing his wrists and throwing them above his head, pinning them to the mattress. He could easily overpower her, but he was too stunned to move and it felt as if he was locked under her gaze, frozen and trapped. “I answer when I choose to, husband,” she said just above a whisper. 

“I should reprimand you, wife, for your bold actions,” he snarled through clenched teeth. “How dare you remove my crown. How dare you disrespect me. How dare you not answer when I call for you. How dare you—”

His words were lodged in his throat like an obstruction in his airway when she slipped her freehand down between their bodies where his thighs were still slightly spread beneath her and pushed open the fabric there with no resistance. She was surprised to find him bare beneath her touch—that was more Caracalla’s style. As soon as her nimble fingers were wrapped around him, he whimpered and melted like hot candle wax. She squeezed hard, and in tandem his eyes rolled back into his skull. 

“P-peace, vita mea,” he breathlessly pleaded. Tears began to well when she squeezed harder as if her hand was like a coiling snake constricting around its defenseless prey. Visions of her ripping his precious cock from his body danced behind trembling lids. The scariest part? He knew she was capable of such horrors. 

“Have you no respect for yourself, husband? Did you really sit in a room full of crotchety old senators and your brother with nothing beneath your clothing?” she sneered and leaned over him, the bridge of her nose brushed against his cheek before she pulled back slightly so she could look directly in his eyes. “Oh,” she sighed and sank further into his lap. “You thought tonight would go smoothly, and in your favor, yes?” 

“I-I-” he stumbled over his words, unable to think properly, not with her gripping him like a vice, and her words lashing at him like a whip. 

“You left that meeting thinking that tonight would be the night that you put me in my so-called place, hm? That I will finally submit to you. Am I on the right track?”

“Please—I’m sorry, empress. Forgive me. Please. Please. Please,” he begged, hoping she would be merciful. He would be nothing without his manhood—nothing. Yet, despite his very tangible fear, his body reacted differently. The fear only seemed to electrify him further as blood flowed southwards and he grew thick and heavy in her hand. 

“Oh, my whiny, pathetic, little anaticula,” she cooed, “you’re shaking like a leaf,” she giggled and gradually loosened her grip before she released him from her clutches entirely. “Did you really think that I was about to rip your precious cock from your body? Oh, you poor thing.” 

All he could do was blankly stare up at her and listen to the blood rushing in his ears and his heart pounding in his rib cage. His breathing was unsteady even after she had assured him that she wasn’t about to castrate him. His wrists went limp in her hold and he was positively speechless until she lifted herself from her lap completely. He was released from her possessive grip and he struggled to sit up along his elbows as she started to walk away like nothing had transpired. 

“Where—where are you going?” he found his voice again but barely. “Come here,” he beckoned her as he pulled himself up into an upright position. “Please.” 

“Are you going to be nice?” she answered back and turned around to face him. She was not expecting to be met with what looked like a wounded puppy. She expected he would have found his own fire again and stoked it. No, instead his dark chocolate eyes were glistening as if he were about to cry.  “I swear it, amasiuncula,” he said in the quietest tone he could muster. His eyes flickered down to his lap briefly before returning his focus to her. He didn’t want to jinx his luck (not that he had much to begin with) . He watched her with a hooded gaze as she crossed the short distance between them and situated herself in his lap once more. This time, however, she placed one hand flat against his chest as if she were about to push him down against the duvet again, and the other crept around the crown of his head.

“You’re such a cocktease,” he whispered through clenched teeth when her fingers gripped the root of his hair tight enough to make him wince from the sudden sharp pain blooming in his skull. He hesitantly draped his arms around her waist, yanking her forwards so their bodies were flushed together. “What were you doing that prevented you from answering when I called for you, wife?”

“Calligraphy,” she said with a low hum and gradually loosened her grip around his hair, opting to cradle his jaw instead. Her hand that was pressed flat against his chest slipped under the opening of his robes, feeling his heart skip a beat under her sudden gentle caress. Her fingers splayed against his sternum, nails gently scraping pale skin.

“Calligraphy?...” he echoed and cocked his head to the side in confusion. “Where is that?”

“...What?”

“Calligraphy,” he clarified.

“I don’t understand.”

He huffed in annoyance. “It is a country…is it not?”

“Calligraphy isn’t a country, anaticula,” she laughed. “It’s fancy penmanship,” she explained. Normally his lack of basic education was an embarrassment and nuisance, but she found it oddly endearing for once.

“Oh,” he whispered, nodding. His cheeks were flushed red, like one of the ruby stones on his rings. I should know what calligraphy is. He thought to himself. “Can you…show me?”

“That would require me getting up, husband. Are you positive you want that?” She tapped the side of his jaw with her pointer finger and pressed the tip of her thumbnail against his plush lower lip, watching his pupils dilate from the motion.

“Another time.” he tightened his grip around her waist, letting his freehand sneak upwards against the curve of her spine. He was always needing to be touching her in some way. He craved that skin-to-skin contact. “Will you kiss me…please?”

“That's all you want?” she teased, almost as if she was testing him.

“That’s all I desire from you, Empress. A simple kiss. I have been craving one all day, and the meeting with the senate lasted longer than I expected. All I could think about was you,” he admitted.

“Oh, anaticula,” she murmured with fake sympathy, but he couldn’t tell the difference if it had slapped him across the face. “Why didn’t you say that from the very beginning?” She didn’t wait for him to respond as she slowly closed the gap between them, moving her thumb to his chin so she could properly kiss him. Before their lips could even touch his long lashes were fluttering shut in anticipation. The moment would have been tender had she not sunk her teeth into his lower lip as if she were tearing into a chunk of meat. She bit down on the flesh so hard, she drew blood and he let out a surprise grunt, swiping his tongue across the wound to collect the fresh bead of blood that pooled to the surface. 

“Did you just–did you fucking bite me?!” he asked in bewilderment and pulled his face back slightly, but she was holding his head in place now and he couldn’t escape. “I said I wanted a kiss.” “That was a kiss. Don’t complain or act greedy, husband,” she warned. “Give me another one then,” he challenged and she surged forward, smashing her lips against his in a bruising kiss that had him seeing stars behind his eyes and left him struggling to remember to breathe. When she clamped down on his lip again, the same spot she previously wounded, he did not pull away. Fight fire with fire. He moaned unashamedly into the kiss, silently praying to the gods to let this passion last and not fizzle. He did not want to go to bed with pent up frustrations–god forbid. He pawed at her thin, almost see-through nightdress and went to slip the finely woven straps down her shoulders so more of her skin was exposed, but she grabbed his wrists and pinned them behind his head once more. A frustrated growl clawed its way up from the back of his throat when she asserted herself as the one in control again. “Please,” he begged. “Let me touch you, vita mea. Gods–let me worship you,” he mumbled against their locked lips.

She ignored the desperation behind his words and parted from the kiss much to his dismay. A thin thread of saliva kept them tethered together before it dissipated into the balmy air that surrounded them. She nipped at his chin and jaw, biting down hard enough to leave indents of her teeth in his skin. He squirmed like a worm pierced on a hook. 

His breathless pleas echoed through their chambers, ricocheting off the high marble walls. He never was one to beg—for anything, but she emasculated him as if it was her duty; her purpose. To crush him as if he were some helpless bug. A deity and her devoted worshipper. 

Her lips began their descent down his neck, nipping at the vulnerable skin there. If only he knew how easy it would be for her to tear his throat out with her canines. If only he knew—

“You’ll take what I give you, anaticula, and you will be grateful.” 

“Yes, of course,” he gasped. “I will be grateful—I swear it!”  My desperate, needy, pathetic, little anaticula 

Her lips hovered at his throat, hot breath fanned his skin and sent shivers and a tingling sensation all throughout his body. “You don’t even know what it is that you will be grateful for, husband,” she said, chuckling. It was moments like these where he was truly….pathetic. 

“I—I don’t understand,” he said, confusion laced in his tone. 

“What if what it is that I desire to give you is…death? Will you still be grateful then?” 

Her emotionally charged words and casual delivery of them hung heavy in the air. Suddenly he was silent, forgetting to breathe and a sense of dizziness embedded with fear washed over him. The color seemed to drain from his face and he swallowed hard. His empress watched with great intrigue at the way he grew tense. She could even hear his saliva travel down his throat. 

“Cat got your tongue?” she said in amusement and nuzzled her nose against the thick vein protruding from his neck. “My love, are you the slightest bit aware of  how vulnerable you are for me right now?” 

He shook his head dumbly, feeling his heart begin to race. In tandem, all the blood seemed to rush southwards despite his brain activating into its frantic state of flight. That unfamiliar sense of fear was thrilling in itself. He felt entirely out of control—and he loved it. 

“If I bite you, right here…” she trailed off as she pressed her lips to the same vein she was nuzzling against. “You’ll bleed out. All I have to do is bite hard enough through your flesh to reach this very vital vein, and you will die.” 

His eyes rolled back into his skull and he groaned through clenched teeth. “Fuck,” he said with a choked, nervous laugh, “my brother was right about you. He claimed that you would be the cause of my demise, and you’ll no sooner kill me if I am not cautious, and he was right.” 

“Yet, you seem unafraid, husband,” she said against his skin, biting softly, enough to cause his hardened cock to jump under the thin layers he wore. 

“I am terrified,” he clarified, clearing his throat. “Terrified…and intrigued. How do you know of such things? Tell me what the vital vein in my neck is called. Educate me, I implore you.” 

“It is called the carotid artery. It is vital because it supply’s your brain with oxygenated blood from your heart. Should it be torn, you would inevitably bleed out.”

“Fascinating,” he breathed out, imagining what that must feel like to have one’s throat ripped open by the teeth of another. 

“Are you…well?” she questioned him with caution. 

“Of course I am. I may be frightened by your knowledge on how to kill me, but if you were to, would you not have done it by now? If you loathe me so greatly, then make me bleed. I am at your mercy, empress. Rip my throat open if you so desire,” he said challengingly. 

“You willingly…wish to die?” she pulled her face back from his neck to look him in the eyes. 

“At your hand, yes. I have always pondered what death feels like. I have witnessed so much of it in my short time. Tell me,” he said, humming, his pupils beginning to darken as he licked his lips. “Would the blood spurt, or flow thickly? How long would it take before I would die? Would you swallow the chunk of flesh you’d rip from me?” he said in an excitable tone, his expression manic. 

“Have you been possessed?!”she exclaimed in pure disbelief, laughing and he couldn’t help but laugh with her. 

“By you, always! Heart, body, mind, soul, you have possessed me, amica mea. You have turned me into a mere flesh sack. How enthralling!” he giggled. “Tell me, where else upon my body could you bite me that would be fatal?”

And here I was led to believe that Calla was the more unhinged freak. 

“There are veins in your wrist. Have you ever noticed them?” she reached for his arm and gently turned it over in her palm to expose the thin, intricate veins that were embedded under his skin. She brushed her thumb across them in a slow sweep. 

He watched her with hooded eyes and utter intrigue. “Yes, I have traced them with my own fingers many times before,” he said softly, his eyes flickering upwards to her face before focusing on the movement of her thumb against his wrist. 

“Well, if these veins, right here, were to be cut, you’d also bleed out. Perhaps more slowly than the artery in your neck, but death would come regardless.” she brought that same wrist to her lips and pressed a featherlight kiss in the juncture between the base of his palm and beginning of his wrist. 

“How…do you know all of this? Anatomy was never a lesson my brother and I were taught. Nor have I ever heard of a Roman woman speak of such topics. It makes me wonder…have you ever killed a man with your bare teeth alone, amica mea?” 

She smiled against his skin, pressing another kiss to the inside of his wrist before gently releasing it from her grasp. “That entirely has to do with the fact that Romans prepare their dead entirely differently than we Egyptians do. You know of what the basic human body parts are and their functions, but what lies beneath? You have only ever bared to witness it in the Colosseum.” 

He mulled her words over thoroughly and thoughtfully. “I suppose that is…correct. Will you educate me further, please? I want to know more about your culture. Indulge me,” he said in earnest and grabbed her hands, interlocking their fingers together. 

The empress took her lower lip between her teeth, chewing on the soft skin in contemplation. She did  not expect him to be so interested to learn the rich history and workings of her culture, but the sentiment caused her heart to swell. “Well, when an Egyptian dies, their internal organs are harvested, except the heart as it is considered vital for the afterlife. Then, the body is covered in a natural salt to absorb any remaining moisture. The final step is wrapping the body in linen before it is placed inside of a coffin.” 

He hung onto every word she spoke, his attention was focused solely on her. The city could be on fire and he would not care. 

“Why is the heart considered to be vital for the afterlife?” 

She slowly dropped one of their interlaced hands so she could slip her fingers through the small opening in his robes and place her hand against his heart. “Because, anaticula, in my culture the heart is viewed as the seat of intelligence, memory, and emotions. The weight of a person's heart is judged after death to determine their fate in the afterlife.” 

“Judged?…as in…if the person is deemed to be good or evil?” he cocked his head to the side, his lips parting slightly before closing again.

“Precisely. The heart is weighed against the feather of Ma’at, the goddess of truth and justice. If the heart weighs less than the feather, the deceased is then allowed to enter the afterlife.” 

“And if the heart weighs more than the feather? What lies in the fate of the deceased then?” 

“The heart is devoured by the monster Ammit, and the soul of the deceased is damned for eternity.” 

“Wicked,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Well, when I am to die, I wish to be buried the Egyptian way.” 

“Geta…” she trailed off and slowly dragged her hand to rest against his neck, curving her fingers around his jaw. “Do not speak of such things. What if someone were to—”

“To hear me?” He laughed, shaking his head. “No one is present but you and I. Who is to hear of the words I speak? Besides, I am an emperor. If I wish to be buried a certain way, no one has the authority to speak against it.” 

She pressed a surprise kiss to his lips, feeling his body melt against her as if he was wax from a burning candle. “You need to stop being a romantic,” she mumbled against his lips and slowly lowered his back to rest against the duvet. “You are not supposed to be a romantic.” 

“Are you requesting I stop, or demanding?” He said in a low murmur that sent a warmth flowing straight down to her core. He kissed her back deeply and brought his hand to rest at the small of her back, right where her spine would curve beneath his touch.

“Neither.” 

———-

The following morning started off as any other; the twins in the garden and the sun warming their faces as their many servants attended to them. Breakfast was swiftly prepared for the emperors, and while Caracalla was busy feeding ripened fruit to Dondus, Geta was writing. 

Dear diary, 

Last night I learned many things. First, I learned that my wife can murder me with her teeth alone. I also learned that there is a vital vein in my neck called the carotid artery! If she were to tear my throat open, I would surely bleed out and die. 

I also learned that calligraphy is not a country, and I am a masochist when it comes to her. 

The thought of her being capable of murdering me is enthralling! I imagine my poor father is rolling in his grave at what I have turned into, but damn him! I have never felt more alive in my life and it is all because of her.

Vita Mea. 

She likes it when I kiss and suck here—

“What are you giggling about over there, hm?” Caracalla said from the opposite end of the table, breaking his brother's intense focus. 

“Nothing that would concern you,” the eldest emperor snapped back. 

The parchment was suddenly ripped from where it lay in front of him and now was in the possession of his twin. Caracalla’s wild, manic cackle echoed through the gardens as his eyes skimmed the inked words that had not yet fully dried. “Calligraphy is not…a country,” he snickered. “Gods, did you really think it was, brother?” 

“Give that back, Caracalla!” Geta rose from his seat with a narrowed look at his kin. 

“Where does the empress like to be kissed and sucked, Geta?” Caracalla asked with a wolfish grin. “Pray tell!” 

“NONE OF YOUR CONCERN!” 

“Are you all there in the head?! You find it enthralling that she’s capable of murdering you?!” 

“STOP READING IT OUTLOUD!” Geta yelled, his voice cracking. 

And from the balcony above, unbeknownst to the emperors, the empress watched the two brothers bicker like the spoiled brats they were. 

“Calla, keep reading!” she yelled from above, a pleasant grin playing on her lips. “I’m deeply intrigued to hear more!” 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Geta screeched, flapping his arms like he was a wild bird. “DO NOT ENCOURAGE HIM!”

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[yourbodyymytemple]

Never kin villians guys im actually going to kms IM THE WORST PERSON EVER