30, female, she/her.

I'm looking for a long-term writing partner for a roleplay or collaborative fiction piece set in ancient Rome. I love character studies, emotional writing, and historical accuracy- here's hoping you do too!

I would love for us to explore the master/slave dynamic of ancient Rome, not only in a spicy but a more mundane context, and all the loaded social roles that come with it. Think a 60/40 balance of plot-to-smut. With my character as the imported slave, and yours as the imperious master, it's a setting ripe for plot: political intrigue, memories of a land and family left behind, and adaptation to the new versus someone who is quite comfortably steeped in their societal role.

I love to write, and would like someone who is comfortable with literate, long-form text exchange. That said, it would be nice to grow and learn from my partner as well!

Housekeeping:

- I'm in Europe, so my CEST timezone may make active exchange/ooc conversation wonky.

- Keeping OOC in mind, I like to keep things impersonal, and I know that sometimes those who write smut together can develop feelings. Please don't. This is a creative outlet for me, and I'm not open to more personal conversation.

- I like literacy, and would consider myself intermediate to advanced.

- Real life comes first. I also extend this to my writing partner. You owe me nothing. No ifs ands or buts.

- My reply speed may be a bit longer, but I will attempt every day, and let you know if I cannot respond.

- I do not use AI in prompts or responses. Please do not use AI in yours.

- I am 18+, and all characters are 18+. Though I would prefer to play with someone in my age range, the youngest I would consider would be 25.

I think that about covers it!

Prompt

"...mad with grief..."

"...he's a fool for it..."

"...hasn't been the same since mistress died..."

"...he's a man. Look at her. Of course he'd-"

"Shhhhh!"

Fragments of conversation, like the ratty ends of bad weaving. I want to pull the thread, to ask more, but the words stop abruptly as soon as I show my face. Around a corner, out from the shadow of a column, if I step out of a niche; whispers fall silent and I'm only met with anxious looks, a nod or a nervous greeting.

I offer the same in return as I pass, often carrying a decanter of wine from the kitchen, a bowl of cut fruit, or any other little trifle our master sends me for.

I recognize the looks of the kitchen slaves. Envy slides from their brows as easily as the sweat does. I bite my lip and keep my eyes trained to the floor each time I go in.

"...his favorite....must be nice." Someone snarls, loud enough for me to hear. A chambermaid, Syra, mixes flower petals into fat and sucks her teeth at the cook, shooting me a look of pity. Master's secretary, Hilarion, has been teaching me Latin. My progress is slow, but I now know enough to understand. Enough for words to hurt.

"He's a hard man, but kind." She counters. "Much kinder than others."

---

"Freedom?"

The word thrown back at me, incredulous, as if I'd asked for all the riches of Rome on the tine of a silver fork.

It'd been stupid to ask, even if the past months had seen us grow so familiar. I should remember my place. It's common, the others tell me, so common for a master to develop a favorite. I'm nothing special.

My face grows hot and I can tell that my cheeks are scarlet. As always, by embarrassment or sun or exercise or strenuous labor.

That's why he likes you, a Grecian, Delia, murmured to me once in passing. Because you're so fair. He used to make his wife wear blonde wigs. If our mistress were still alive, she'd have made you cut all your hair off for one. Count yourself lucky.

I can hear the soles of his sandals against marble, the fluttering of linen as he folds his arms. On the edge of the bed, I can't look at him, and keep my head bowed to clasped hands that no longer know the work of the kitchens or the monotony of laundry.

"Manumission," he sputters. "And for what? Hm?"

He often will ask a question that I realize he doesn't really expect an answer to. My eyes run over my fingertips again and I squeeze them shut.

No longer in the kitchens. No longer stirring vats of laundry. And yet there are tears on my cheeks when I open my eyes once more, and my hands blur.

"I..." I can barely speak. "I just thought..." Explaining it all would only ring hollow.

"How would you even earn a living?" His voice again, imperious and even interrogation.

"Maybe...maybe a thermopolium, or an inn..." My words betray weakness, and I grow quieter as I trail off. Saying it aloud makes me realize just how stupid the daydreams have been. Raising enough money to-

"A cook-shop." He sighs, heavy. "I should send you straight back to the kitchens and forget your face." Then, almost affectionately: "Beautiful fool. Stulta pulchra."

Silence stretches between us until he speaks once more.

"If it weren't for me you'd have ended up in some forsaken brothel, still speaking like a Barbarian. Or worse yet, slaughtered back in Germania Magna had we not any mercy."

Slaughtered.

My heart pounds and my mouth goes dry. Slaughtered. Like my husband had been. It feels like another lifetime, but each time I close my eyes I can remember the fear in his face, how he told me to run.

"And I bought you, raised you up from the kitchens, saw to your education, and you ask now for freedom? You wear a stola longa and golden fibulae, like any fine Roman woman. Are you not happy here, considering the alternatives?"

Head down. An apple in the back of my throat.

"Know your place, ancilla."

The sob comes suddenly, tearing my throat, and I bring my hand to my mouth to keep the ones that follow inside.

Fingertips on my chin, raising my head to look upward at him. I can tell that carefully applied kohl has most likely smeared from the tears. I see his brow wrinkle for a moment; some emotion crosses his usually-stoic face that I think looks like regret.

"Ah...I mean, really, what would you do with your freedom? It's much harder than you think. A woman with no husband or father to see to her protection." He frowns. "And, of course, without me. Don't cry so."

He sits beside me, and clasps my hands in his, and sighs once more.

"No tears." A thumb catches one in the outer corner of my eye before it can fall. "Whose are you, ancilla?" One of his hands brushes a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I sigh in return, and offer a weary smile. It isn't so bad, I suppose. His lips find my neck before I can respond, and I turn my head, breathing the word against his skin:

"Yours."

Final Thoughts

Congrats if you've stuck around this long, I give you credit for doing so! If I've piqued your interest in any way, please reach out via reddit chat and we can discuss platform, preferences and limits, and finer plot points.

I look forward to hearing from you!