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Jeremy in Los Angeles today <333

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MIKEY MADISON as ANI ANORA (2024) dir. Sean Baker

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Jeremy at the sag awards. Save me save me save me

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HI HELLO

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Worth Remembering - 3

Part 2 | Masterlist

Emperor Caracalla x fem!reader; slight emperor Geta x fem!reader - 18+

Summary: You find yourself widowed, pregnant and forced to chaperone your sister-in-law at the imperial court. At least mourning traditions keep you practically worlds away from Rome's twin emperors. That is, until an injustice calls you to the other side of the imperial seaside residence.

Includes: reader is a (very tired) pregnant widow; Caracalla has mommy issues (this is an understatement); reader has a name and I think a personality (?); historical inaccuracies, because I am writing this based on what I remember from secondary school Latin classes; undoubtedly spelling mistakes (sorry!!)

Series warnings: the twin emperors; non-con/dub-con; violence in various degrees; misogyny; slavery; pregnancy

Chapter warnings: a man is castrated, Caracalla reacts inappropriately

Word count: 5k

It has been quite some time since you had dinner in the company of anyone beside your sister-in-law or handmaiden. A woman in mourning is not to be involved in anything which may have even the air of amusement or enjoyment. Dinner is to be had in modest company, and so you are not only exempt from any banquet, but also most dinners at court — after all, the emperors prefer to dine lushly. From this evening on having dinner in the quiet privacy of your quarters will be outright impossible. By the afternoon a slave came to inform you that you are expected to join the emperors for dinner, and when you tried to get around it, the slave assured you dinner would be in small company and only modest dishes would be served. You do not know what shocks you the most: that Caracalla had anticipated your attempt to excuse yourself, or that he had consciously chosen a modest dinner over a decadent feast just to assure your company in the evening.

Given the turn of events, you have no choice but to join the emperors in the dining room. You make your way through the villa’s hallways to the triclinium on your own. Nona has spent the afternoon with emperor Geta, enjoying one sort of entertainment or the other, and you have not bothered to forge any sort of relationship with other courtiers. When a pair of slaves opens the door to the dining hall, you realize you are running late. Emperor Geta is too engrossed in a discussion with a bearded man you recognize as general Marcus Acacius to notice you, but Caracalla’s eyes find yours immediately. He sits straighter and motions a slave into your direction. You meet the slave girl halfway, when she whispers, ‘Emperor Caracalla invites you to sit besides him.’

And indeed, when you approach the lecti tricliniares you see that the seat besides Caracalla has remained empty. A seat of honor, reserved for you. That disturbs you somewhat. Although you did not ask for assistance, the slave girl moves to help you get on the seat, for which you are ultimately grateful. Lately, you find yourself lost in your body, which has swollen with pregnancy to a size you are not accustomed to. Even now, you are struggling to find a comfortable position to recline in. You consider laying on your right side, as to not be too disturbed by the interference of your protruding belly. That would make you turn your back to the emperor, however, so you settle on your left, facing Caracalla head on. When you are finally laying still, you find his gaze on you, marked by a hint of amusement. Does he find your difficulty in navigating of your own body funny?

‘You are late, milady,’ emperor Caracalla notes. His blue eyes have this strange dimension to it, once again, as if he is simultaneously looking right through you and right into your soul. ‘I was just about to send for you.’

‘My apologies, Augustus, I suppose I lost track of time.’

You take in your surroundings. Your sister-in-law, Nona, sits next to you, which underscores the meaning of the seat you were given. If she was not granted the honor to sit beside Geta, then being allowed to sit next to his brother is even a larger privilege than you assumed. Next to Nona, finalizing this side of the set-up, sits a black skinned man you recognize immediately. The gladiator master Macrinus. He is one of the emperors most appreciated providers of entertainment. Be that as it may, at this very moment he regards you too attentively for you to consider him anything else but a threat. At the end of the opposite wing of the U-shaped set of tricliniares, sits a handsome, bearded young man in a toga of immaculate white. Lucius, the grandson of Marcus Aurelius. He is the greatest competitor to the twin-emperors. A lot of luck and scheming has gone into keeping him alive, and now he lives practically as a hostage. His face can be read as easily as a scroll: his circumstances displease him. Lucius flanks the imperial lady Lucilla, whose ethereal beauty seems undiminished by time. This regal daughter of Marcus Aurelius is holding the large hand of her husband, Marcus Acacius. The general appears less intimidating than you remember from the time you saw him at a party, only months into your marriage. His conversation with the emperor Geta is seemingly going awry.

‘Wine for the lady,’ emperor Caracalla calls, but you raise your hand.

‘Thank you, but I cannot.’ At Caracalla’s confused frown you say softly, ‘My doctor advises against it. For the baby’s sake. Neither is it befitting for a widow to drink alcohol during her ten months of mourning.’

His lips part and you do your best to keep from shivering under his investigating stare. Your condition fascinates him, you suppose, which in turn concerns you.

‘What can I offer you then?’

‘Honeywater will have to suffice.’

Caracalla calls for just that, but in that moment you cannot help but tune into emperor Geta’s definite statement, ‘Numidia must be subdued, general, and you will see to it. That is the last I will say on the matter.’

You bite on the tip of your tongue. The harsh tone of Geta’s voice alarms you. Although his irritation is not aimed at you, just being in the presence of an angry emperor can easily prove perilous. Slaves move to place a table full of dishes by your seat. The food is, as promised, sober enough that it will not be considered improper for you to eat it.

‘And given your concerns for your wife and stepson’s safety, general, my brother and I will do our duty and keep them safe,’ emperor Caracalla intervenes suddenly, an aloof grin on his lips, ‘They will come to live with us on Palatine hill.’

The surprise in lady Lucilla’s eyes is evident, as is the anger on Lucius’ face. For just a moment you see lady Lucilla for what she is behind her mask of grace and serenity: a woman who is not just growing older, but growing tired, a woman who has seen all facets of Rome’s cruelty. She may have been raised by one of the most righteous emperors Rome has ever seen, but she also lived through the reign of an emperor who was not only merciless, but also her very own brother. For just a short amount of time all that old and new fear is openly visible in her eyes. But then she regains the proportions of marvelous marble.

When she speaks, she sounds as composed as ever, ‘My emperors, I thank you for your offer, but we do not wish to be a burden. My husband, my son and I will make the necessary arrangements for our security.’

‘Nonsense. Your safety is of utmost importance to us. There is no place safer than the palace, so the palace will be your home.’ If the lady and her husband consider disputing the matter further, then they in silent agreement choose not to. You watch Lucius gulp down his whole cup of wine in one go.

‘I thank you for your concern, emperors,’ Acacius says solemnly.

‘A toast,’ Geta calls to the table, ‘to our mighty general Acacius and our dignified lady Lucila!’

You feel quite ridiculous toasting with your cup of honey water, to a noble couple who give the impression of wanting to disappear together of the face of the earth, but when an emperor says toast, you toast. Except for Lucius, apparently, who does not move to even have his empty cup refilled. After you have gulped down half of your cup, you feel emperor Caracalla shifting close to you so that your shoulders touch.

‘You have not touched your food, milady. That cannot do, not when you are carrying new life inside of you.’ Before you can respond fingers press against your lips. ‘Here, try this.’

For a flash of a moment you consider faking some sort of allergy, but evidently there is no good way to refuse him. With embarrassment pooling hotly into your cheeks, you part your lips and he pushes the food inside your mouth so that his fingertips brush against your tongue. It is a piece of pastry, that he has fed you, it is filled with something salty and tangy. Caracalla’s fingers linger against your closed mouth for just longer than is necessary. As his touch leaves you, he looks attentively at how you chew and swallow.

‘Well?’

‘It tastes … good,’ you offer dryly.

Caracalla does not take into account your matter-of-fact tone, instead he only grins proudly. ‘Friends, I have yet to introduce you to the lady Volusena Thurina.’ To this he adds in with a boyish enthusiasm, ‘I am to be the patron of her child!’

Instinctively you shift closer to the presence of your sister-in-law next to you. It is starting to dawn on you that you are dining with the highest elite of the empire, only to be made a joke of. It is as if your own words to Caracalla are echoing back to you now: a badly written farce indeed.

‘I am sure the lady Volusena appreciates your insistence to take on an exemplary role in the life of her child.’ Lady Lucilla’s words are elegant, yet hit right on the mark: what kind of person will your child grow up to be, if they are to follow this man’s leading? ‘You are widowed, milady, and left alone to raise your child without a husband?’

You bow your head in respect for a lady of her standing showing you honest concern. ‘My husband, Titus Herminus Cato, unfortunately died in an accident. I lament his death, but do not pity me, for I am not alone. After all, the emperor Caracalla has so graciously taken it onto himself to assure my and mine’s wellbeing.’ You take hold of Nona’s hand. ‘And I have my family-in-law, too.’

‘You have no family of your own? The Voluseni used to be a name often heard and well-met,’ the general Acacius said, adding to it in admittance, ‘in my younger days.’

You give him an awry smile. ‘My family ran out of fortune a decade ago. What has befallen us, has raised suspicions of a curse. What has befallen Cato, if you belief the rumors, is the aftermath of that.’

‘Oh, do not speak thus, Thurina,’ Nona reprimands you. ‘There are so many ways to die, your family just seemed prone to test out all of them.’

You roll your eyes and bite down a smile. Your sister has a dark sense of humor which you appreciate.

‘I forbid you to follow in their footsteps, lady,’ Caracalla speaks out strongly.

You turn your gaze to him, surprised to find his face in a state of agitation. Was it your talk about curses which got him riled up. You are not much of a superstitious type yourself. The ways in which your family members have met their respective ends, were so inconspicuous, so unremarkable that it taught you a lesson in the futility and meaningless of death. The whispers of curses amuse you.

But so it does not the emperor.

‘One cannot promise never to die.’

These are the first words Lucius speaks since you have arrived, and they leave behind them a chilling silence. It is apparent it is solely his presence that the emperors want here, not his opinion or insight. After all, he is a pariah at this dining table. In another turn of events, he would have donned the titles of Augustus and Imperator. In a turn of events that may still come, he may as well still wear the purple one day. It is popular sentiment which protects him from the emperors’ wrath. The people love him, as they love the lady Lucilla, and the only thing which can keep an emperor’s whims constrained, is popular sentiment.

‘Is that a threat?’ Caracalla’s loud voice crashes the ice cold silence, the emperor rising to leash out. ‘I will not have you threaten her at —’

‘Death is inevitable,’ Macrinus interferes, his voice a deep timbre. ‘He only reminds us of that.’

Seeing that his words calm Caracalla, you add, ‘As he is right to do. Promising you not to die would be ridiculous, my emperor. After all, childbirth is no simple affair.’

Seeing from the way Caracalla’s face unfolds and refolds, it becomes apparent he has not previously considered this obvious fact. Women die in childbirth so often, and as an ordinary mortal, you are not exempt from that risk either. The gloom that settles in Caracalla’s body almost rises pity in you. Up until now, you have thought this insistence on your company just some past time to him — but the distress in his demeanor seems as sincere as can be, and such worry for your wellbeing does not leave you unaffected.

‘Let’s not speak of so much death,’ the lady Lucilla speaks out. ‘My dear emperor Caracalla, I am happy to see you take on such a role of… fatherly responsibility. It suits a young emperor well.’ The compliment leaves Caracalla glowing with satisfaction, and his brother Geta clenching his jaw in jealousy. ‘Lady Thurina, in the morrow I can give you some advice on childbearing and childrearing if you like.’

You bow your head. ‘I thank you.’

‘Wonderful. Now, then, emperors, what is this I heard of granting citizenship to all free people in the empire?’

Everyone in the dining hall seems to appreciate the lady’s swift re-navigating of the conversation. Talk about judiciary reforms may be a tad more boring, but gives less cause to tension than rumors about curses and perceived death threats. You are content to eat in silence, letting the conversation of the tax benefits of exalting so many people to Roman citizenship flow past you. Some time into dinner, your eyes cross those of Lucius. He regards you with an empty gaze that unsettles you. Then you feel Caracalla’s fingertips brush along your shoulder, and his whisper close to your ear, ‘Do not look at him. Look at me.’

And so for the rest for the evening, the emperor does not allow you to have eye for anyone but him.

After dinner, you expect to be allowed to take your leave, but once you are back on your feet, emperor Geta approaches you. In contrast to his brother, who is of small height for a Roman man, Geta towers over you, making you feel uncomfortably small. Nona automatically joins by Geta’s side. He gives no sign of noticing the hand she places on his shoulder. You suppose the coolness with which the emperor tolerates her presence and touches a good sign. Her parents only tolerate her scandalous affair with him in the hope of marriage. After all, the only thing which can ever fully repair her reputation would be the title of empress. As Geta does not appear inclined to romance, such unfeeling acceptance of her presence is the best she can hope for.

‘Milady, there is left the question of justice.’

For a second you fear that the emperors have changed their minds, but then Caracalla, rejoined with his beloved Dondus, adds, ‘It is time.’

He takes hold of your hand and leads you out of the triclinium. Emperor Geta and your sister follow behind, you hear them murmuring against each other. In passing, you catch a last glance of Lucius whose current face speaks of tangible misdemeanor. You have an idea of what is about to happen: the actor Chariton will be brought before you. The foresight causes a tension in your muscles. What of Priscilla? You asked that she be allowed to decide his punishment. It would not surprise you if that request was disregarded. You are highly aware the only reason Chariton would see the consequences for his misdeeds, is because Priscilla is your property, and you have expressed offense at her being defiled in someone else’s home. For the emperors this is about you, not the real victim of the crime. After all, if they were to act such on every rape of a slave girl in their household, there would be no men left at court. And they probably would have to punish themselves, too. As you make your way through the halls, Dondus plucks his master’s hair to which Caracalla gives his pet a grape he apparently has hidden in the folds of his attire. Caracalla takes you to his quarters, which to your surprise have been cleaned. The order has been demanded for a special occasion, you realize when you are brought to one of the sitting rooms. On a simple stool by one wall of the room sits your handmaiden, trembling and fidgeting with the fabric of her tunica. By the other wall a beaten and bruised man is kept upright by two Praetorians. Your heart skips a beat. How long have they kept Priscilla and this man in the same room, forcing victim to stare onto perpetrator?

‘Milady, may I introduce you to Chariton!’ emperor Geta announces in a loud, hollow voice as he takes his place with Nona on a cushioned bench.

Caracalla has to practically drag you to the other prepared couch, for you are unable to even blink as you take in the figure of this man. Stripped from the theatrical, dramatical demeanor he as an actor undoubtedly usually possesses, he is as mediocre as most men come. His curls and beard are thick, but greasy with sweat. His knees are trembling: without the guards keeping him on his feet, he would have fallen to the ground.

‘My emperors,’ he rasps as you take a seat, ‘I beg you, have mercy.’

‘You have desecrated the lady Volusena’s property. This calls for retribution,’ emperor Geta says dismissively.

You turn to look at said property. Priscilla looks as if she is about to throw up, but still she tries to keep her composure as best as she can. She sits straight, her head high, as she stares straight at the man who caused her inhumane pain. Yet you are reconsidering your actions. Is this the justice you sought? One that will be made a spectacle not for the victim’s reparation, but your pleasure? Although, when you return your attention to Caracalla, you belief that he will be the one to enjoy the coming bloodshed the most.

‘How was I to know she was not part of your household, my emperors?’ the actor laments.

‘I told you,’ Priscilla whispers and your heart shatters. So she had tried to find safety in your name.

‘You told me you belonged to a woman whose name no one knows!’

‘That enough should have made you turn away,’ you say evenly.

‘My emperors, please, she barely resisted at all,’ Chariton tries then. ‘I thought that was how she liked it, as you know a lot of women —’

‘Oh please, spare us your nonsense.’ You surprise yourself by raising your voice. It seems years since you have had to resort to this sort of tone. ‘She is a slave girl, resistance was beaten out of her before she came in my care.’

You feel Caracalla’s body shift against yours, and when you look at him you find him with his lips parted and his pupils dilated. His reaction to your anger unsettles you so that you force yourself to keep your attention away from him. Chariton has resorted to another strategy, ‘Milady, I plead with you, have mercy. I had no ill intention. If you want, I can reimburse to you the price you paid for her.’

‘She was a wedding gift, you leech,’ you snap.

He forces himself out of the guard’s grip, and falls to his knees. He sets to begging to you, shifting as close — to emperor Caracalla, not to you — as the Praetorians allow him to, but soon you find yourself not hearing any word that is coming out of his mouth. The assured thirst for blood inside of yourself, leaves you behind with an empty determination.

‘Hold your tongue, rat!’ Caracalla barks, having taken notice of your lack of reaction. ‘Milady, what will you have done to him?’

Your gaze shifts to Priscilla. ‘As I said, my handmaiden will decide.’ Priscilla’s attention is glued to the man cowering and crying on the floor. To your surprise her words come swiftly and assuredly. ‘I want him castrated, domina.’

Chariton’s cries for mercy take on a new proportion of desperation and anger. It does not stir any pity inside of you, instead it only annoys and disturbs you. There is nothing you fear as much as the sound of man raising his voice. Perhaps that is why, in a moment of fear, you take hold of Caracalla’s hand and clench around it hard. His other hand immediately covers your intertwined fingers and you feel a jolt of regret zipping through your body. Even then, you find comfort in his presence, as emperor Geta demands in a bored tone, ‘Praetorians, you heard the girl. And make him shut up. He is giving everyone a headache.’

The Preatorians set to the task with disciplined swiftness. One of them uses his cloak to muffle Chariton, while another one keeps him in place, and a third one moves away from the wall to strip the man of his tunic.

You force yourself to watch, as Priscilla has to, and as the emperor besides you does with expectant glee. You watch as the Praetorian unsheathes his sword, as he takes hold of the actor’s manhood, as he places the edge of his blade against soft flesh and, after what seems like an age of anticipation, begins to cut. The amount of blood that begins to flow out of Chariton’s severed penis, makes your whole body tense in disgust. You clench your jaw and swallow down hard in an attempt to keep your dinner down. Your unborn child must feel the unease in your body, for they give a kick so hard that you readjust your posture and place your free hand over your abdomen. Chariton’s attempts to resist have seized, muffled cries of pain the only proof that he is still conscious. This scene of violence is anything but the satisfying ending to this tragic story you hoped for. Instead, the bloodiness of it all, the fleshiness makes your skin crawl. But you keep your eyes Chariton’s castration nonetheless. And all the while, Caracalla refuses to let go of your hand.

Once fully removed from its previous owner, the Praetorian holds the penis in front of Chariton’s red, teary face, after which he lets it fall on the ground, just as his colleagues let go of the castrated actor. He lands in a puddle of his own blood. The wailing that falls from his throat is the ugliest, most pitiful thing you have ever heard. From the corner of your eyes you notice that Nona has hidden her face in the crook of Geta’s neck.

‘That is what I call justice,’ Caracalla giggles besides you. Dondus is clinging to his head, apparently on edge by Chariton’s loud laments.

Promptly you stand, your hand still stuck in the emperor’s greedy grip. It does not matter if he shackles you to him or not, in this moment all your attention is on Priscilla. Her face has grown bleak and flat, clearly stricken by a shock. You call her name, to which she, as in a daze, is quick to answer, ‘Thank you, milady.’

You so terribly want to hold her then, and take her away from this awful scene. But you know that as long as Caracalla’s fingers are intertwined with yours, you cannot allow yourself a portrayal of such softness, let alone for a mere slave girl. So, you only say, ‘Thank the emperors, for their demonstration of true justice.’

Priscilla does just that, after which she leaves. She always knows when she has outstayed her welcome. And most likely, she even more than you wants to simply flee this place.

‘Thank you, my emperors.’ You bow to emperor Geta, before turning to Caracalla.

The repellent mix of intoxication and fascination on his face hinders you from showing him the same gesture of respect. You have heard of his love for bloodshed, for pain. Seeing it from close by is another matter entirely.

‘Take him away,’ emperor Geta orders the Praetorians flatly. To the slaves, ‘and clean up this mess.’

You sit back down besides Caracalla, barely registering Geta and Nona leaving the room. You watch the guards take Chariton away, as the slaves set to cleaning up the mess, the blood, the severed penis.

‘Milady, you do not look pleased.’ Emperor Caracalla’s coarse timbre betrays as note of surprise. Confusion.

You blink and shake your head. ‘I dislike violence, your majesty. Apparently, even when it is justified.’

Around you slaves begin cleaning up the blood with rags. It has spread further than you expected.

‘But there is an intimacy to it, is there not? When a man’s blood flows, when pain is send spinning through the body.’

‘Intimacy?’ you repeat, tilting your head. ‘I would have thought that you, as a man, would have found this scene especially… disquieting.’ ‘Is disquieting a word you would use for this?’

And he takes advantage of already having hold of your hand, to move it down his body, to his hardened manhood. You barely know how you do it, but you manage to keep completely still, despite feeling what the scene of degeneracy has aroused in him so tangibly. Even through the layers of his clothing, you can take note of how large he is. How thick.

You answer is hollow, ‘No.’

Caracalla moves his tongue along his teeth and pressing your palm even more vehemently against himself, he notes, ‘What does it take to affect you, lady Volusena?’

He begins to move your hand, using it to rub himself through his clothing. You focus as well as you can on the little, nervous monkey on Caracalla’s shoulders. At least you appear not alone in your uneasiness.

‘I can inform you, that I do not much appreciate perverted boys, my emperor.’ With a demonstration of will and strength you barely manage to find in yourself, you pull your hand free from his grip. You stand, but cannot prevent the slight tremble that goes through your limbs as you do so. ‘So there is that.’

‘You play games with me,’ he grumbles.

‘You are the one playing games,’ you retort. ‘I am simply behaving as my station and condition befits.’

‘Then I command you to behave�� badly.’ He gets on his feet, reaching for you. You take a step back, but he still manages to take hold of your waist. He comes closer, so his words fan against your face. ‘You told me, pregnancy is taking a toll on your body. Milady, let me relieve you of all that tension. I promise, I can make you feel so, so good.’

You shake your head slowly and he begins to pout, pressing his fingers in your waist greedily. Before he can insists any more, you take his face between your hands and tell him softly, ‘If you want to relieve me of this tension, as you call it, you just have to… go easy on me.’

Before he can question your deliberately vague phrasing, you press a kiss to his cheek. It is the only gesture that may possibly cause him to settle down that comes to your mind. His cheek is warm, and you can feel the scarring of his acne against your lips. When you retreat, there is the vague sense that some of the white powder adorning his face, now rests on your mouth. There is a heavy quiet between the two of you, in which all these entangled feelings are ever more present. His yearning, your uneasiness, his fascination, your exhaustion.

Gods, you are tired.

'I have ordered my slaves to clean my rooms,’ he says, a strange gallop in his tone. His hands move to cup your protruding belly. ‘And to make sure the bed is remade, and comfortable. For a woman in your condition.’

You frown. ‘Your majesty, it would be improper…’

‘I do not care.’

This is going too far. In fact, it has already crossed many, many boundaries.

‘My husband was a good man,’ you say, barely containing your annoyance. ‘He deserves to be mourned properly. I want to do this properly.’

‘You have mourned him enough, I think,’ Caracalla sneers, the pressure of his hands griping your stomach becoming painful. Dondus lets out a loud chirp, but his master seemingly does not register his distress.

‘You are hurting me,’ you whisper through gritted teeth, ‘and my child. Let go.’

Seemingly startled by his own actions and your reaction, he removes his touch from you. ‘I did not mean to.’

And although he sounds mournful, truly, and despite him having let go of you and the scare of being pushed into that situation having passed, you still find yourself at the edge of tears.

‘I should be at home, with my husband, preparing for my child’s birth, but instead I am here, wearing all black, and I —’ You swallow down the salt rising in your throat, lowering your gaze. ‘I am sorry, Augustus, I am tired.’

‘I want to comfort you.’ He breathes in deeply. ‘Tell me how I can comfort you.’

‘I do not know,’ you murmur, ‘I like… I enjoy Ovid.’

‘Who?’

‘The poet?’ you raise an eyebrow. ‘When I feel distraught, I let my sister recite Ovid to me.’

Caracalla blinks and admits, ‘I have not heard Ovid in years.’

You call to the slaves, ‘Bring us someone who can recite Ovid. In the right way.’ Then you take hold of Caracalla’s hands. ‘Lets get you reacquainted with some metamorphoses, shall we?’

The rest of the evening you spend with the emperor on a couch, Dondus on your lap, listening to a charismatic slave recite Ovid’s poems about Narcissus and Echo, Hermaphroditus and Salmacis, and Iphis. The performance manages to set your mind at ease, keep the anxiety and distress at bay. At some point Caracalla gestures for you to recline your whole body on the couch, which effectively forces you to drape your legs over his lap. Something inside of you prevents you from objecting when he undoes your sandals and slowly starts to rub your legs and feet. This is more intimacy than a widow is allowed. Yet you find yourself not caring, for his touch manages to ease the tension from your muscles. This is not so unpleasant. Not at all. When you catch his gaze, he smiles at you as if awaiting praise.

‘This is nice,’ you murmur through the rhythm of the recital and he practically beams with pride.

Taglist: @queenofviolenceandnerds @naysha140 @miragens-para-uma-vitoria @causeimhappinesss @t6gse370 @syraxnyra @jakesullyswhore

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AYO EDEBIRI SNL50: The Anniversary Special (Feb 16, 2025)

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The Prize of Rome {IV}

Lucius Verus x Empress!Reader x Emperor Geta request: no gif credits: @batty4steddie @thelovewittch (gifs aren't mine, please don't mistake them with the original owner) divider credits: @adornedwithlight @cafekitsune Summary: Lucius makes a shocking public display in the arena, and a beloved hero of Rome is sentenced to death. Tensions rise between Geta and Y/n. Warnings: 18+, MDNI, oral sex (f receiving), manipulation, seduction, arguements, pregnancy scare, touching, feelings, emotions, slight!gentle!geta, slight!jealous!geta, possessive!geta, Y/n and Carcalla share a tender moment, protective!lucius, violence Word Count: 5.3k Disclaimer: I don't own Gladiator II or its characters, nor do I claim them as my own Comments, likes and reblogs are always adored and appreciated xx this fic is inspired by Alexia Evellyn - Terra

my goodness this took a long time to write, 6 weeks and 5.3k words later the new chapter is finally up! Hope you all enjoy it! <3

I II & III

4 months earlier

Geta delicately glided his fingers across his lower lip, his warm chocolate-hazel eyes surveying the senators who were joyfully commemorating the name day of both himself and Caracalla. Nevertheless, amidst all the festivities, there was one individual who captivated his attention throughout the entire evening: Y/n. She was the young woman betrothed to the late son of Lucilla and Emperor Commodus, or so the rumours suggested. Only a select few were privy to the truth regarding Lucilla’s son and his parentage. Geta, though, was unaware that Y/n and Lucius had once been promised to one another. Y/n found herself at the celebration not entirely by her own choice; her father had escorted her in an attempt to present her favourably before the court. To further complicate matters, her father had, unbeknownst to her, proffered her hand in marriage to Emperor Geta.

Upon receiving the news, Geta beamed with joy and eagerly accepted the union with Y/n. The thought of stealing a man’s wife from him for his own was the most cunning move he could make. He was captivated by her beauty; it was as if Venus herself inhabited Y/n, her eyes sparkling in the room, her delicate lashes fluttering with an innocent glance. Her modest demeanour attracted him like a traveler finding an oasis in a desert. A smirk appeared on his full lips as he licked them, gazing at her with desire, his eyes darkening just as Y/n stepped forward with her father. “Your Majesties, I proudly present my daughter, Y/n. My dear, meet Emperor Caracalla.” He pointed to Caracalla first, and Y/n bowed her head slightly, curtseying gently.

Caracalla's gaze lingered upon her form, rendering Y/n feeling exposed as she exhaled a shaky breath. “Emperor,” she greeted softly before rising. “And this is Emperor Geta, your future husband.” Y/n's eyes widened, flicking towards Geta. Her breathing became uneven, and she shook her head in disbelief. “Father, what of my betrothed? I was promised to him first; you are aware of this. It is disrespectful if—" Her father’s laughter interrupted her, joined by Caracalla’s laughter, as his hands slapped against the marble throne in delight. Geta silently observed Y/n’s stunned expression. Her father brushed his fingers along her shoulder. “That boy is long forgotten; he is of no consequence now. Emperor Geta has heard tales of your beauty and has consented to be your husband. He offers you protection and a splendid life as the Empress of Rome.” Y/n redirected her focus to Geta, who continued to smirk, his eyes sparkling. “My lady, it appears the gods have spoken. They have destined us for one another. Fate does unfold in the most wondrous of ways.” He leaned forward, locking eyes with her in an intense gaze. Y/n shifted under his stare, feeling an awakening within her as a glimmer of courage surfaced, forming a slight smile. “How amusing that must be for you and your senators, especially since they discussed the same regarding my betrothed and I not too long ago.” Geta’s eyes brightened with amusement, and a broad grin spread across his face as laughter erupted from his chest. Her father chuckled nervously, in company with the Emperors. “You possess quite the sense of humor. Caracalla has always held admiration for a woman with wit. I would be remiss if I claimed your charm did not captivate me. I merely hope it does not become… 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝.” Caracalla snickered beside his brother, nodding toward Y/n. “This is delightful! Perhaps we may share jokes concerning Geta! It becomes rather dull when others refuse to partake in the merriment." He clapped loudly, grinning as his gaze traversed past Y/n. “General Acacius! You have returned from the war! It is splendid to celebrate with us on my brother’s and my name day!” he exclaimed. Y/n glanced over her shoulder, a radiant smile illuminating her face. Y/n’s father and Marcus embraced, the General’s grin widening as he recognised Y/n standing before him. 

“My dear girl, just look at how beautifully you’ve grown. You are truly exceptional, and I envy any man who gets the privilege of calling you his wife.” He took her hands in his, kissing each knuckle gently. Y/n knew she would be lying if she said she had never thought about what it would be like to marry General Acacius. Geta’s voice cut through the moment, sending a shiver down Y/n’s spine. “Well, you should envy me, General. You’re speaking to your future Empress.” A wild grin spread across his face as he peered at the General. Marcus’s expression softened, his eyes holding a trace of sadness as he looked into Y/n’s eyes, eliciting a shy smile from her. The Roman General lowered his head and turned his attention to Geta. “Congratulations, Emperor. I look forward to your wedding day; I am sure it will be the most magnificent Rome has ever witnessed.” 

As the evening went by, Y/n sat beside Marcus. She occasionally glanced around the room, and her quietness did not go unnoticed by Geta. The young Emperor studied her, his fingers tapping the edge of his throne. Y/n listened to Marcus speak with her father when she overheard a conversation between the two Emperors. The lewd discussion on which Emperor would be worthier of taking her virginity and who of the two could fuck her better. The words spilling from their mouths made her cringe as she tried not to make it obvious she could hear. “Brother, in no offence to you, but I believe I could fuck her better. She would be bed-bound every time. She would be crying tears and begging for mercy.” Geta grinned, sipping his wine as Caracalla laughed. “I would happily bet she would come crawling to me after your first night together. Desperately craving a proper man.” The brothers' roaring laughter echoed through the hall as their cups clashed; Marcus turned his attention to Y/n, and his hand brushed alongside hers. She gave him the best smile she could muster, sensing her discomfort. His eyes fell upon the Emperors listening to the conversation. He wanted to speak, to advise them not to talk of such crude ways of speech around Y/n, but he would be risking his head. Remaining quiet, he moved his eyes away from the Emperors and back to Y/n’s father. Y/n only sat silently as she prayed the evening would end swiftly; she could bear it no longer. 

: – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : 

Present day

“Do you truly intend to condemn Acacius to death?” Y/n pleaded, her hands gripping Geta’s arm. Her husband responded with a cold stare. A tense silence filled the bedchamber as the Emperor and Empress locked eyes. Geta turned fully to Y/n, firmly cradling her face in his hands, his eyes burning with rage. “He plotted to dethrone both Caracalla and me, with Lucilla's aid. They aim to replace me—usurp my brother's throne. Despite her claims of no longer wanting it, she desires the position you occupy, my wife. How can you so recklessly accept such betrayal? This betrayal must be punished; you know that.” The intensity of his gaze gripped Y/n’s heart like a vine ensnaring a helpless creature.

“Then exile him and strip him of his title as General. There has to be a better way to manage this, Geta; if you proceed with this, the citizens of Rome will turn against you and Caracalla.” Y/n’s tone was urgent, her eyes filled with a plea as Geta paused, his expression softening a bit. “They will rage against the palace. Riots will erupt in the streets, and they will want to murder Caracalla. To murder you. Could you really leave me so soon? They would delay my death; their hatred would not allow me to join you quickly. I implore you, husband. As my Emperor, please don't condemn Acacius to death.” Desperately hoping to sway Geta’s decision, her husband remained silent, seemingly pondering her plea. “I won’t allow traitors inside my walls. Nor will I permit those who wish harm upon me to be near my family. You and my brother are all I have left.”

Her expression softened as his gaze lowered to her abdomen. Kneeling before her, Geta gently kissed her stomach and rested his head on the tender bulge. “I will not allow us to be apart before our child arrives. The gods smile upon us, my love; they aim for justice to be fulfilled. This is our only path ahead.” His voice trembled, and tears gathered in his beautiful brown eyes. Y/n knelt before Geta, the Emperor and Empress, enveloped by profound silence. Geta embraced Y/n tightly. "I cannot overlook the bond you share with General Acacius. That much is true. However, I must put Rome's interests first. His death will serve as a punishment, not only for Lucilla but for all who dare to defy us. I am devoted to protecting you, safeguarding our child, and caring for Caracalla. We cannot afford the luxury of allowing traitors to live and scheme against us. It pains me to witness your distress and fear about potentially losing someone who has been your comfort and friend through the years," he murmured softly into her hair, kissing the top of her head. “Please, do not assume that my actions arise from anger towards you," He whispered, reaching for Y/n’s hand, intertwining their fingers.“Then promise me you will rethink your actions for me.” Geta closed his eyes, dread for once filling his heart as he spoke his empty words. “I promise.”

: – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : 

As the evening sun descended over the palace, Y/n softly hummed to herself, her hands resting gently upon her moderately protruding abdomen. "Home. I’m floating through the stars. Calling from afar." She sang quietly, as the summer breeze delicately tousled the strands of hair that adorned her face. Her gaze was directed towards the scattered stars that punctuated the sunset hues in the sky. “Home. You’re shining in the dark. A million beating hearts home." She continued. The cicadas chirped in harmonious synchrony with her melody. Caracalla stood silently by the window adjacent to the pillar, attentively listening to his sister-in-law serenade her unborn child. “Your voice is exquisite, sister," he complimented. Y/n smiled warmly as she turned her gaze over her shoulder, extending her hand towards him. He seated himself beside her, his eyes reflecting wonder and admiration. “How could you have kept such a delightful secret from us?” Y/n’s lashes fluttered playfully at Caracalla’s gentle jest, her fingers entwining through his hair, the soft ginger locks bouncing lightly under her touch. “If I revealed every secret I had, then I wouldn’t be a continuous mystery to you and Geta. There is much to me to be learnt.” She giggled.

Caracalla smirked subtly, allowing his gaze to drift over his shoulder. However, his expression shifted to one of seriousness as he leaned in to whisper, “Is my brother still inflicting pain upon you? You are now carrying his child, the future Emperor— or Empress. I find it disconcerting when he harms you. At times, I can see the brewing anger forming in his eyes, and I wish he would refrain from lashing out at you.” Y/n observed his hands resting upon her stomach as she swallowed hard. “I fear that I will not fulfill the role of a father..." The sorrowful tone of his voice resonated deeply within her, prompting her to take his hands in hers while offering him a gentle smile. "Although you may believe you will not become a father, you will undoubtedly emerge as an uncle. My child will be fortunate to have you in their life. Occasionally, an uncle can be even more protective than a father. They will approach you when they desire to engage in mischief and will seek your company for bedtime stories regarding their father. Perhaps you will even have another child to instruct on how to tease Geta.”

Y/n's words elicited a radiant smile upon Caracalla’s face at the prospect of becoming an uncle. "Could you sing more of that song? It is quite soothing," Caracalla whispered. Y/n nodded, permitting Caracalla to rest his cheek upon her chest while her fingers interlaced through his hair. Her calm voice commenced the melody once again. "I can hear you calling my name. Keep on calling. All the tears they won’t be in vain. Keep on calling. I can hear you calling my name. Bursting into life.” Geta observed quietly listening to his wife sing the sweet melody, Caracalla’s eyes falling shut as sleep overtook his body. Geta emerged from his hiding, leaning down to kiss Y/n’s head. “Dare I say we have a new method to calm him when he has his fits?” Geta’s smooth voice murmured in her ear, his breath tickling her cheek.

“Perhaps so. He was quite taken with the song.” Geta smiled, focusing on his brother, leaning down to gently wake him and help take him back to his bedchamber. Y/n couldn’t help but laugh softly, watching Caracalla whine and moan about disturbing his sleep as Geta calmly reassured him he would sleep better back in his own bed. Y/n made her way to hers and Geta’s bedchamber. Changing into her sleeping gown and climbing into the cool sheets, Y/n welcomed the bed’s call to sleep; hearing Geta’s footsteps approach the bed, he removed his robe and put on loose linen pants. Y/n admired his back, the muscles flexing with each movement of his arms. Feeling her eyes, Geta glanced briefly over his shoulder, and a smirk appeared. “Admiring something, wife?” He turned, crawling into the bed. Y/n rested her head deeper on the feathered pillow. Geta’s chocolate eyes drifted over her body, his fingers sweeping on top of the gown, swallowing heavily Y/n’s hand moved down her body to pull the hem of her gown up her thighs. Geta raised a brow at the silent invitation covering her body with his, lips finding her neck, his voice a whisper against her skin. "I intend to worship you, my Empress. To show you with my body and soul how deeply I adore you." A soft gasp escaped Y/n’s lips, followed by a delicate giggle. "𝐎𝐡, 𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫, 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐮𝐫..." She trailed off, her cheeks flushing. Geta nodded, his nose caressing her cheek.

"My love, it shall not limit us, but rather guide our exploration." He assured her, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her cheek. "I will worship you with the utmost care and devotion, ensuring your comfort and pleasure. I intend to take a different approach tonight." He promised. Geta's eyes darkened with passion as he slowly leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that spoke of love and longing. Their mouths moved in perfect harmony, tongues dancing and twining, tasting and exploring. Y/n's hands threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, as if afraid he might disappear.

As the kiss deepened, Geta's hand glided down her body, tracing the curve of her waist, and the swell of her hips, before coming to rest on her thigh. He gently urged her legs apart, his touch reverent as he began to explore the soft skin hidden beneath her silk gown. Geta glided down her body, positioning himself on his stomach, resting the back of her knees on his shoulders. “𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐚𝐫, 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐯𝐞. 𝐓𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮.” He whispered. A shallow breath escaped him; seeing her glistening cunt, a pathetic moan fell from the emperor. "So beautiful." He breathed, his voice thick with admiration. His eyes were wide and blown with lust, tongue licking his lips anxiously.

"Like a precious jewel, waiting to be adored." His warm breath fanned over her core. "Geta, please..." Y/n's voice was a plea, her body arching towards him. He obliged, his tongue tracing the length of her, from the sensitive bud at the top to the hidden depths below. "Ahhh..." Her breath caught in her throat, her back arching as pleasure rippled through her. His tongue painted delicate strokes, eliciting a symphony of moans and sighs from Y/n's lips. "Ahh... yes... there..." She breathed, her hands grasping the sheets, her back arching in surrender to the pleasure he bestowed.

Geta’s muffled moans sent vibrations through her core, trailing through her veins, her heightened sex drive being pregnant, making her body react more strongly to Geta’s touch. "𝐎𝐡, 𝐦𝐲 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫, 𝐈... 𝐈..." Her words trailed off into incoherent moans as Geta's efforts intensified, driving her to the pinnacle of ecstasy. Her body trembled, and every nerve alighted with sensation. "...Geta..." She cried out. Her fingers threaded into his hair, pulling him closer and smothering him between her thighs. Adjusting his weight, he moved forward, flattening his tongue, trailing the muscle from her entrance to her swollen pearl.

The sounds of their passion filled the chamber—moans of pleasure, whispered words of love, and the soft rustling of silk against skin. Geta's devotion was unwavering, and his love was a force that guided his every action. Geta’s blunt nails formed crescent marks in her tender flesh, the light tingles of pain mixing with the pleasure, causing her body to arch off the bed. “My love, I want to bring you to the stars, to show you the heavens." He murmured. Pulling away briefly to lock eyes with his wife, their eyes mirroring each other’s, Geta’s lips found her bud sucking the tip of his tongue gently swirling in between. Y/n’s legs shook, moving to circle around her husband’s head body, convulsing wildly, her climax building rapidly. The heat in her lower abdomen burned hotter, tugging Geta’s hair and rolling her hips faster to meet the movement of his tongue. The lewd sound of his mouth coming into contact with her soaked core would make a virgin blush. Geta’s hand worked up the side of Y/n’s body, linking their fingers together, her grip finding his in a tight hold. “Please... Geta... I can't…” Y/n panted, her body glistening with sweat, her heart pounding. “Yes, you can, my love.” He reassured her, his voice soothing her through her impending climax. “Let go, just surrender. I’m right here.” With a final, fervent stroke of his tongue, he sent her soaring.

"Ahhhh..." Her scream was primal, her body convulsing as the pleasure overwhelmed her. “Geta!” She whined, body arched from the bed. Her tiny moans filled the chambers, the aftershocks of her arousal crashing like waves on a coastline. Geta’s feral moans as he eagerly lapped every drop of her, spreading her legs on the bed. Geta swept his hand under her, lifting her waist to bring her closer. As the tremors subsided, Y/n felt her body grow weightless, her chest heaving, a satisfied smile on her lips. Geta lowered her back to the bed, trailing kisses up her body between her sternum toward her throat. Capturing her lips in a passionate-filled kiss, Geta cupped her jaw, his thumb tracing the apple of her cheek. Breaking for air, Y/n’s dazed gaze met Geta’s. “I love you, Geta.” She whispered breathlessly, looping her arm around his neck. “And I, you, my dove." he replied, his voice choked with emotion. "My love, my life, my Empress.”

: – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : 

As dawn broke on the following day, Y/n turned onto her side, anticipating the presence of Geta beside her, only to discover an empty space. Frowning, she opened her eyes and surveyed the bedchamber. Rubbing her eyes, she swung her feet out of bed just as her handmaiden entered the room. “Good morning, Empress.” The expression on the handmaiden's face drew Y/n’s attention, signaling that something was amiss. “Where is my husband and Emperor Caracalla? I must apologize to them for sleeping longer than usual.” She proceeded to groom her hair while observing the handmaiden's nervous demeanor in the mirror. Pausing her brushing on the dresser, she pivoted on her cushion and adopted a serious expression. "Where are the Emperors?” she inquired, swallowing her trepidation as the handmaiden timidly responded, “They are at the arena, Empress. I was instructed to keep you here. The execution of General Acacius is scheduled for today.”

Y/n’s eyes widened, a tremulous breath escaping her lips as she quaked with anger. “He deceived me," she murmured. Rising from her position, she hurled her brush at the mirror, unleashing a piercing scream. Subsequently, she began to seize and throw any object within reach, wreaking havoc in the room. "Alert the guards. I must depart for the arena," Y/n commanded, prompting the handmaiden to bow her head before hastily exiting the chamber. Y/n then adorned herself in one of her gowns and stormed through the palace corridors towards the awaiting chariot destined for the arena. Despite the protests of guards and servants urging her to remain within the palace, Y/n’s overwhelming emotions rendered her incapable of containing her anger and distress. Upon entering the Colosseum, Y/n advanced through the doors to the Imperial box, where she witnessed Lucilla chained to her seat. Her sorrowful gaze towards the Empress seemed to plead for her to leave and avoid witnessing the impending tragedy. Positioned between Geta and Caracalla, Y/n glared at her husband. “HOW DARE YOU!” Geta turned his head, his eyes widening, while Caracalla frowned; the Emperors were taken aback by her presence. “Y/n, allow me—" Geta raised his hand as he stood, but Y/n swiftly slapped his face. “You never intended to spare him. You are a coward and a deceiver! You disgust me!” Geta’s face hardened, his hand gripping her wrist in a tight grip; the hold made Y/n whimper in pain. “And I made myself clear that I will not permit traitors—those who seek to endanger my family. So, perhaps you witness his death will be a reminder to you too just how much I am willing to provide you the protection you cannot seem to see.” He pulled her down onto his lap, securing her in a bruising grip, his arm encircled around her waist. 

Caracalla noticed Y/n’s pained expression, his hand nervously rubbing the seat. Reaching out for her hand, he offered it for her to hold. Geta's sharp gaze flickered to his brother, the silent warning enough to make Caracalla cower back. “She should not be here, brother.” He murmured, earning a dark chuckle from Geta. Just as he swept Y/n’s hair to the side, his lips kissed her neck. His hand tangled in her hair, and he pulled it back gently. His hand ran over her body down to her thigh. “I should rightfully have you bent over the ledge while I fuck you for speaking to me in such a way. But you are fortunate you carry our heir inside your womb. Do not push me to the man I do not want to be.” He whispered in her ear, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down her back—𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐲. Her body reacted to his touch even if she tried to fight it.

Geta smirked as he gently tilted her chin to face him, her eyes blazing with a mix of anger and desire. The frenetic expression on Geta’s face mirrored her own; he broke into an unsettling grin, breathing heavily. “If I were to explore beneath your gown, my dear dove, what might I uncover?" As his lips brushed against hers, Y/n’s eyes fluttered, her body temporarily faltering within his grasp. “I despise you." She whispered. Geta shook his head, clicking his tongue and swiping his thumb along her lower lip. "𝐍𝐨, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞, 𝐚𝐬 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐰 𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞. 𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐔𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞. 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐈 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐭. 𝐎𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐭.”

“For his treason against the lives of the Emperors, Empress, and the Roman state—General Justus Acacius, an enemy of the people.” The Master of Ceremonies’s voice resonated throughout the arena. Y/n’s gaze remained locked on the gates, her breath uneven and tears brimming in her eyes. She exchanged a silent nod with Lucilla, both women acknowledging their shared sorrow. The crowd's chaotic mix of boos and chants of ‘Acacius!’ surged around Y/n as Marcus appeared, his eyes locking onto hers, causing her heart to freeze. Y/n's lips quivered as she watched him move toward the center of the arena. As he raised his sword to his chest, the four soldiers facing him mirrored his action, charging at him one by one, each initiating a duel. 

Y/n firmly grasped the seat with her hand as Geta rested his chin upon her shoulder, observing her state of fear while positioning his hand gently on her abdomen. Swiftly overcoming his adversaries, Acacius stood with composure. A fleeting sense of relief washed over Y/n before her expression changed dramatically upon hearing the announcement by the Master of Ceremonies. “From the vanquished city of Numida, the victor of two conquests in the Colosseum….HANNO!” he proclaimed. Y/n gasped and turned towards Geta, her eyes widening with apprehension. “You did not.” With a grin, Geta displayed a subtle frown on his face. “What sort of Emperor would I be if I failed to provide such exquisite entertainment?”

Lucius's figure emerged, and his gaze was fixed upon Y/n as he swung his sword in a circular motion and approached Acacius with a determined stride. “It is now time to determine which of the two you would prefer to survive, my love: the man who was akin to a father to you or…the lover you deceived me with.” He raised his ringed hand toward her throat, trailing back down between her breasts covered by her gown Y/n released a slight moan at the subtle caress—𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟. Geta’s eyes narrowed, observing Lucius’ expression; Geta turned her to face him, pulling her in for a possessive kiss, stealing her breath. Lucius growled, letting out a roar of anger. “The Roman traitor? Or the barbarian hero? Let the gods decide!” The crowd’s thunderous applause and mix of cheers and boos fell on deaf ears as Geta did not allow Y/n to pull away from his lips. As the violent clashing of swords captured Y/n’s attention, Geta laughed, knowing the scene ignited the fire inside Lucius. Geta stood slowly angled to the side, his deep crimson eyeshadow creating a penetrating gaze as he licked his lips, gazing down at Y/n. He turned his attention to the arena. “I am a vessel. Fill me with vengeance and vanquish the betrayer.” Y/n flinched, her eyes cast away from watching Lucius and Acacius fighting; hearing the swords and grunts of pain was enough for her to bear. Caracalla, before he was sincere and thoughtful for her emotions now melted away, his old self returning as he relished watching a fight before him.

Clapping loudly, he grinned happily Y/n began to cry; the tears that decorated her lashes now fell upon her cheeks. “Acacius has raised his hand! He has surrendered! Let the gods decide!” The Master of Ceremonies announced Y/n’s breathing stilled seeing Acacius kneeling on his knees, Lucius holding two swords before him. Y/n leant forward, anticipating what will happen next. Geta’s hands shook as he spread them out before him, raising a hand to the golden tapestry above him. Silence fell in the arena Y/n shuddered, and her breathing grew heavy as she rocked back and forth, praying for mercy. Lowering his hand into a fist, his thumb pointing out, Geta rolled his head back, gazing over his shoulder and looking at Y/n before returning his attention to the arena. “The gods have rendered their judgement…” He murmured, pointing his thumb down.

“NO! NO! ACACIUS! PLEASE SPARE HIM!” Y/n screamed. Geta wrapped his arms around her, holding her to his chest. “His fate has been decided; do not question the gods.” He whispered. Thrashing in his hold, Y/n begged Lucius to spare Acacius. Both men turned their heads to the distressed Empress. “Do what you must. I have held my oath to protect her for as long as I live. Today marks the end of my life; Maximus, your father had asked me to watch over her. Your mother, too, wished the same, hoping you would return one day. Restore Rome to her former glory with Y/n by your side. Do not let her fall any deeper into the web she is entangled in, Lucius.”

Acacius begged as Lucius hesitated the General’s words, striking a cord in his heart. “KILL HIM!” Caracalla called out Y/n cried in Geta’s arms, her pleas rendering Lucius motionless, his hands dropping the swords to the earth underneath him. Lucius also fell to his knees, and the crowd booed loudly as Caracalla’s demands grew angrier. “KILL HIM!!” Geta looked behind as Macrinus gave a tilt of his head. Geta looked to the guards. “Kill him. Kill him now!” Y/n slapped Geta’s chest, screaming out. “ACACIUS!” The guards fired numerous arrows to his chest and back. “NO! YOU LIAR! YOU TYRANT! WHY!” Y/n sobbed. Acacius’s body fell limp to the dirt earth as Geta raised his hand, pointing to Acacius. “𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫! 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝!” Lucius clenched his fists in anger, raising his sword; he spoke to the people of Rome. “𝐈𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐞𝐬? 𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄! 𝐈𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐞, 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡? 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞. 𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐍! 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬! 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐞…” He pointed his sword to Geta. “𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫. 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬! 𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐘𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐑𝐒! 𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐄𝐌𝐏��𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐘/𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐔𝐍𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄!” His speech made Geta’s blood boil, and the Emperor released a thunderous shout. “𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍!” The crowd cheered ‘Hanno’ as he left the arena Y/n felt a sharp pain in her lower abdomen; suddenly feeling faint, Y/n held onto Geta. The chorus of anger flooding from the people of Rome became a blur to Y/n.

Caracalla’s gaze darted to his sister as she collapsed into Geta’s embrace, her gown stained with blood. “Brother, she’s bleeding!” Geta urgently cradled Y/n against him, his hand gently cupping her cheek. “No, no, no. Y/n, my love, stay with me. Guards!” He cried out, lifting her in his arms. “Don’t abandon me now; the gods cannot have you yet. I need you here with me.”

tags : @getacocksucker @getaapologist @i-padfootblack-things @chloe-skywalker @sst0txx @qardasngan @doodle-with-rhy @happysparklingshadows @ro-sa-le-en @ladynoonwraith @jakesullyswhore @simsiddy @ajourneyforjoy @jacesvelaryons @flowerdarkx @baconturtle @gothicloverdream @eddiesxangel @eddiesghxst @hellfire--cult @songbirdmunson @everandforeveryours

[ajourneyforjoy]

Eyes of the Gods XII

series masterlist - part eleven

Pairing: Caracalla x fem!Reader x Geta

Summary: You rise to the challenge set before you.

Warnings: 18+, minors dni, unhealthy relationships, controlling behavior, threesome, biting, breeding kink, period typical sexism, obsessive/possessive/ relationships, talk of pregnancy, historical inaccuracies, manipulative behavior, jealousy, past domestic/child abuse, unedited - there are many, many historical inaccuracies here so don’t read if that will bother you!

Word Count: 8.1k

Caracalla's room was oddly dark given the time of day. It was as though the sunlight itself was too afraid to enter the emperor's chambers, instead lingering just outside, peeking anxiously in.

The room smelt strongly of blood. You swallowed, almost tasting the iron on your tongue. You stole a quick glance at Geta over your shoulder. He placed a firm hand on the small of your back, steering you further into his brother's room. It was quite clear that he expected you to be the one to deal with him.

This was, after all, your fault.

There, surrounded by shattered pottery and broken ornaments, was Caracalla. There was blood everywhere you looked, smeared throughout the room. It looked as though Mars himself had crushed the entire room in his grip and left only destruction.

Caracalla was on the floor in the centre of it all. One foot was swinging back and forth but the rest of him was entirely still. His gaze was trained steadily on the ceiling and you could hear him muttering something to himself, perhaps a rhyme.

Geta’s hand was still on your back. Even if you wanted to turn back, he would not let you.

You stopped at the edge of the room, where the chaos began. “Caracalla?”

His foot stopped swinging. Slowly, his head turned until he was staring directly at you. His eyes were eerily clear. Once they were trained on you it was hard to fight off the shiver that was trying to claw its way up your spine.

A muscle in his face twitched. Gradually his arm rose from his side until he was holding it out, palm facing you. His fingers curled, beckoning you closer.

Tentatively, you tip-toed your way through the destruction. Caracalla had settled himself in the small amount of space in which there was no glass and you met him there, crouching down beside him. His eyes sparkled like rare jewels, tracking your every move.

You placed your hand in his, trying to ignore the slight quiver in your fingers. His palm was warm, slightly clammy. For a moment he just stared up at you, eyes darting over the planes of your face.

“Caracalla- “you began.

He used your hand to yank you toward him and pull himself up at the same time. Your chests collided with an audible thump and you had barely a moment to register his face buried in the side of your neck before he was biting down. Hard.

You cried out and pushed feebly against his chest. Geta moved somewhere in your periphery but did not come closer. Seconds ticked by like minutes until he finally unclamped his jaw from your neck, leaning back until he could stare up into your sweating face.

“You left,” his lips curled.

You could see your own blood smeared across his lips, his teeth. Your neck throbbed but you did not reach up to touch it.

“I came back,” you said simply.

“Does not matter,” his hand squeezed yours, “the Praetorians would have returned you to us sooner or later. You left.”

“I was afraid,” you told him honestly, “Afraid for any child I might have. Our child. I – I could not see how such a vulnerable thing could survive such a place.”

Caracalla’s lips thinned, his eyes darting over your shoulder before settling back on you. “Our mother and father never cared about such things.”

It was a heavy statement. You had heard things, of course, about the father of the emperors but. . .

“How would you feel?” you pulled his hand down to rest on your stomach. “How would you feel if you knew someone wanted to hurt our child?”

His nostrils flared. “They would burn for even entertaining the thought.”

“I may not be with child,” you admitted, “but, it would only be a matter of time. I was afraid and I – I could not think clearly. As soon as I regained control of my head I returned. I do not intend to leave again.”

Caracalla laughed, the sound raspy and broken. “As though you could.”

His tongue ran over his lips, chasing the flavour of your blood. Geta had crept closer and you could feel him looming over you. You should have felt trapped. Instead, you felt safe.

“I knew you would return,” Caracalla continued, “I prayed to the gods and they heard me.”

You let him take your hand once more, let him place it against his chest. You could feel his heart thudding beneath his clothing. It was as if it wanted to leap right out into your palm.

“I prayed for other things, too,” he murmured, tilting his head.

“What did you pray for?” you whispered.

Caracalla’s hand delved into the folds of his tunic, beneath the neckline. You saw the glint of something gold at his neck and then a pop as it snapped. He pulled out his hand to reveal a ring, gold and glinting, between his fingers.

You blinked repeatedly, half expecting the tiny thing to disappear before your very eyes. Caracalla gripped your hand tightly and pushed the ring down, down, until it was very firmly on your finger.

“The empress of Rome cannot very well abandon her people,” Geta said, “or her husbands.”

The band was thick and engraved with several symbols A winged infant, a pomegranate and studded with tiny jewels; it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. You did not feel worthy.

“How can I -?” bewildered, you looked between the two for answers.

“Officially, you will marry Caracalla,” Geta scowled, “but you are also mine. We know it, you know it.”

Geta still sounded bitter over the fact and it would’ve made you laugh if you weren’t still so confused. Caracalla had lifted your hand to his face and was busy admiring the ring when he wasn’t nipping at your fingertips.

“I meant,” you tried again, “how could you marry me? I am nothing –“

“You have become everything,” Geta interrupted, insistent. “It is only fitting that your position reflects this. As far as anyone knows, you are a Lady.”

That, you doubted. Surely you were not so quiet that no senators would recognise you? And the slaves, the Praetorians, they would talk.

You focused your attention back on Caracalla. There would be time to further question him and Geta on their plans later. You felt as though if you ignored him for too long, Caracalla would be quick to set his teeth to your skin again.

Caracalla tapped the ring. “Do you know why this is the finger that the ring is placed upon?”

“I do not,” you admitted.

“This finger contains the vein of love,” Caracalla eyed you carefully. “Though I am not sure you possess it, so cruel you were in leaving us. Perhaps I should slice it open and see it for myself.”

There was that cruel edge in his voice again. His anger seemed to seep from his pores, drawing guilt from you in return.

“It is there,” you leaned close, “I know it.”

“How?” Caracalla brushed his nose against yours, so close that you could only make out the blue of his eyes.

“When I look at you,” you breathed, “I can feel it. Just there, thrumming against my bones. You make it sing.”

Caracalla eyes were wide, his lips parting. “Show me.”

It was hard to say exactly how you made it to the bed. Geta took the lead and you followed closely behind with Caracalla. You dared not take your eyes off him. You could see the war going on inside of him; that wrath colliding with desire. You knew which side you wanted to win and you were not willing to leave it to chance.

Geta was quiet. You could sense the jealousy brewing in him but he seemed to understand that his brother was barely tethered to reality. You met his eyes as you dropped onto the bed and hoped he could see the emotion in your eyes.

Geta pulled you backwards until your back was flush against his chest and you were settled between his legs. Even with all the clothing in the way you could feel his warmth. He blew air over the bite mark his brother had left behind and you flinched, reminded of the task at hand.

Caracalla stood at the end of the bed, swaying slightly as though drunk. His eyes were heavy as he watched you wriggle out of your clothes until you were bare before him. This was no place for embarrassment or coyness so you shoved both to the side, determined to do what he had asked.

“Come here, please?” you raised your hands.

As though in a trace, Caracalla crawled onto the bed, eyes glued to your face. You knew that if there was so much as a hint of regret or dishonesty that he would lash out. You kept your face open and honest, allowing the very real yearning you were experiencing to seep through.

Geta drew his knees up, allowing more room for his brother who had stopped between your knees. His eyes dipped, searching and hungry, before coming back up on your face.

You leaned forward and carefully took his left hand in yours, bringing it to rest upon your breast. His palm was firm against your nipple, drawing a languid sigh from your lips.

“Can you feel that?” you asked. “My heart?”

“Yes,” he swallowed dryly, “it feels like a bird. So fast.”

“It’s for you.”

You dragged his hands lower, lower, until his fingers were pressed against your cunt. Already you could feel your own arousal starting to leak out. It coated Caracalla’s fingers, making it harder to remember the point you were trying to make.

“This is for me as well?” he asked.

“Yes,” you quivered, allowing one more moment before pulling his hand up to rest on your stomach. “And this. My womb.”

Caracalla’s fingers left tiny smears of wetness as he touched your stomach, jaw going slack. “Yes,” he nodded frantically, enthusiastically, “mine. I will fill it with children, with heirs.”

“As is your right,” you breathed, “as my husband.”

Caracalla choked out a moan, eyes clouded with want. You recognised the feeling in yourself and let your knees fall open, wider, baring yourself to Caracalla and Geta with little shame.

Geta pressed his face into your hair and adjusted himself, grinding his length against your ass. You curled your arm up and around the back of his neck, holding him close as Caracalla tore at his own clothing.

It was a frenzied scene. Limbs knocked against limbs, hair was pulled, teeth were used. Geta slipped his hands beneath your knees to keep your cunt unbarred, his grip tight and unrelenting. You could feel that honey-sweet flutter emerging, working its way through your entire body.

Caracalla’s cock looked painfully hard as he squeezed it in his fist. “My wife,” he said to himself, “I am going to fuck my wife.”

You tilted your hips, hoping to urge him closer. It worked. He pressed a kiss to your lips, tongue flickering into your waiting mouth as he took and took and took. You were all to happy to give. You could taste your own blood in the kiss and it only heightened the intensity of the kiss.

His cock brushed against your inner thigh, then your puffy lips. With only a slight adjustment, Caracalla was sliding all the way home in a motion that was so quick it almost made you shout. Slight pain pinched at your insides but it was soothed by the alluring feeling of fullness, of belonging.

Caracalla looked unsteadily down at where you were joined. The sight was obscene; the swollen folds of your cunt swallowing down the thickness of his cock like you were born for it. He pulled back slowly until just the tip was left. You would’ve squirmed if Geta hadn’t had such a tight grip on you.

“Take her, brother,” Geta commanded, “she returned to us. Reward her.”

“Yes,” Caracalla agreed, “yes. Reward.”

Caracalla’s hips were flush with yours as he pushed in, all the way to the root. You swore to all the gods that you could feel him in your throat. With Caracalla at your front and Geta at your back there was no escaping.

An unsteady pace was set, Caracalla’s hips snapping into yours as he fucked you dizzy. Your head lolled back onto Geta’s shoulder and he nipped at your earlobes, whispering sweet praises and filthy words directly into your ear. His hands slipped around to your breasts, cupping them and swiping across your nipples with his thumbs.

Caracalla’s head found your shoulder once more, face burying into your neck. Geta urged you to relax, let his brother take what he was owed. Caracalla’s tongue lapped at the wound he had created earlier and he moaned at the metallic taste of your blood.

“Everything,” he shuddered, “I want everything.”

Your own orgasm prickled at your insides but you kept it at bay, allowing Caracalla to fuck into you at a near brutal pace. If you were not with child already then you felt quite certain you soon would be.

“I am yours,” you bit out, reaching up to cup his cheek. The coolness of the ring contrasted greatly with the warmth radiating from his red cheeks. “Your wife.”

Caracalla let out a pathetic mewl, hips slamming into yours for one final time as he emptied himself inside you.

You cupped the back of his head and pressed a kiss to his cheek. It was difficult to think clearly when you were still so aroused. The thought of Caracalla’s seed inside you was enough to make you feel slightly dazed and delirious.

You cried out as Caracalla slid his softening cock from your cunt. Before any of his seed could spill, he pulled you forward whilst simultaneously lying back until you were draped across his chest. His eyes were wild, cheeks red and slick with sweat. He looked content and you breathed a ragged sigh of relief, letting your cheek press into his chest.

You almost didn’t notice Geta positioning himself behind you until his cock brushed against your ass. You jolted and tried to sit up but Caracalla kept you locked down with his arms until he felt sure you weren’t going to run.

Geta slid his hands under your hips, urging you to your knees. The position was new to you and felt somehow more wanton than before. You knew better than to question them. Your chest began to heave with anticipation, your nipples stimulated by the hairs on Caracalla’s chest. The sensation drove you wild, made you present your cunt as though you were an animal in heat.

“Good girl,” Geta praised, sliding his fingers through the wet mess of you.

You thought that not being able to see might dampen your excitement but, if anything, it made the anticipation all the sweeter. You could hear the erotic sound of him using your wetness to stroke his cock, his breath stuttering out of his chest. Your imagination provided you with countless images; Geta’s hand on his cock, his eyes on your cunt, his head falling back in pleasure.

“Please,” you finally whined, “Geta. Please.”

The head of his cock teased your clit once, twice, until it was almost unbearable. Finally, he allowed himself to be sucked in by your greedy cunt. It was enough to send your orgasm ripping through you, knees going numb against the mattress as you tightened around Geta’s cock.

“Fuck,” he swore. His palm cracked down on the globe of your ass. “Foolish girl, trying to take this away from me.”

“I’m sorry,” you babbled, eyes threatening to roll behind your eyelids. “I’m sorry, Geta, please.”

“Your place is beside us,” he reminded you again, hips slapping against your ass. “Cunt full of cock and belly swollen with child.”

You bit out your eager agreement. If you talked too much you felt as though you were at risk of biting off your own tongue and swallowing it. You remembered that night in the baths with Caracalla, how you had felt as though you would do terrible things if only you could feel this pleasure forever. The thought rose now, burying itself in the forefront of your mind where it could be sure you would not forget it.

Soreness was beginning to spread but it felt delicious, like scratching too hard at an itch that had been bothering you all day. Geta’s hands were fastened at your hips as he fucked you, drawing out sounds you hadn’t even known you were capable of making.

“You are also mine,” Geta rasped. “Do not forget it.”

His palm pressed into the centre of your back as he rode you to his own orgasm, wringing another one out of you with just the pulsing of his cock inside you. Your cunt spasmed around him, urging his seed further inside even as he pulled out of you.

You raised your head unsteadily from Caracalla’s chest, blinking blearily. Caracalla laughed at your expression, reaching down to pinch at your nipples. Geta appeared at your side with a pillow in hand and you were helpless as he pulled you from his brother, arranging you so that you were on your back with the pillow tucked beneath your hips.

“There,” Geta said mildly, “that will help.”

Caracalla curled up at your side like a satisfied cat. Although he seemed tired, he did not close his eyes, nor did Geta on your opposite side.

Your body was already beginning to feel the repercussion of being so thoroughly fucked. You felt as though their fingerprints were surely branded upon your skin. Your body was littered with red marks from teeth and hands and your cunt was beginning to develop a pleasant ache.

“Sleep,” Geta instructed.

“What about you?” you asked.

“We will not until you do,” Geta said, stern. “And I shall remind you now that there are Praetorians outside the door under specific instruction not to allow you to go anywhere.”

“You will tell us if you require something,” Caracalla said, settling a hand onto your stomach. “We heard that it is best you do not move after. It gives the seed a better chance to take root.”

“You are future empress of Rome and mother to our children,” Geta reminded you, staring down at your bare body with firm eyes. “To leave us now would be treason. Sleep, and dream only of us.”

Treason. The very word made you uneasy but not as much as it would have a month ago. You had no intention to betray the emperors.

Your brief time alone had told you where you wanted to be and who you wanted to be with. A cage, perhaps, but gilded it was. It did not feel as difficult as it should have been to settle back into it.

The marriage ceremony was to take place less than two weeks later.

Neither Geta or Caracalla were particularly concerned with how you would be received. They did not believe that anyone would have reason (or the nerve) to question you. This did not deter you from keeping a closer eye on the Praetorians than usual, and seeking eye contact with every slave you passed.

You searched them for malice, judgement, anger. You found none of that, only a quiet acceptance and something like relief. Perhaps that paranoia caused by Macrinus and his hired killer would always be there, stuck to your back, just out of sight but able to whisper in your ear.

Macrinus was dead. Geta had told you after you had woken in the night, sweaty and panicked. You had imagined he was just there, poisoned wine in one had and dagger in the other. He had told you that you must choose. You had woken up before you could.

“I wish I could have been the one to do it,” Caracalla had said, “His corpse is still down there, rotting away. Do you want to see?”

“No,” you had shaken your head, “I believe you.”

Both brothers were kept busy for the majority of the week but that did not mean you were ever left alone. The constant company was grating but you understood that you had brought it upon yourself and so you endured it with a pleasant smile and relaxed demeanor.

Neither of them seemed comfortable unless you were glued to their side. Caracalla seemed intent on continuing to test you, to make sure you were not so much as thinking of leaving them again. He had several outbursts – not at you, but at the Praetorians. Each time he would have a number in his mind, different every time, and if the number of Praetorians outside the door did not match that exact number, then hell would break loose.

Geta took to patrolling the entrances and exits of the palace himself at random times through-out the day. You had woken up at least twice to find his side of the bed empty, leading you to assume that he was conducting his surprise checks at night as well. If he found the level of security unsatisfying, his temper would flare almost as badly as his brother’s.

 The first few days you were with at least one of them at all times. It was better that way, calmer. As the days passed by and they could no longer afford to neglect their duties, you were left with dressmakers and the Praetorians, both of whom were issued deadly threats for if you should so much as get pricked by a pin.

That was where you found yourself now. Never had you been so thoroughly measured and fussed about before. The woman talked lowly amongst themselves, occasionally offering you small smiles and tentative compliments as they fluttered around you.

It was conflicting. You did not have the demeanor of a Lady and you were sure they noticed. You did not feel worthy of the attention nor the clothing. But the women treated you as if you were, and you were beginning to realise that that might just be enough to get you through. Like your attacker had said, this was not really about you. It was about the emperors.

Four Praetorians were scattered about the room. One was Consus, from all those weeks ago. The others were unfamiliar to you, but not for long. They were your personally assigned guards. The emperors had decided it was safer for you to have personal guards; less likely anyone would get loose and reckless when they knew anything that happened to you could be traced directly back to them.

Though you also thought that there was perhaps a second reason. You had been selfish that night, deceiving guards and openly lying to them. Even now you had not worked up the courage to ask if anyone had faced any consequences for your actions that night. It had been easier, then, because you did not know them. They may as well have been faceless ghosts for all the care you had.

You would get to know these men. Their lives, their preferences, their families. It would not be so easy to look them in the eye and throw them to the wolves.

Sabina, a woman a few years older than yourself, held up a hairnet for you to touch. “What do you think, my Lady?”

You reached out to run your fingers over the fabric. It was a sunny colour, the colour of freshly cracked yolks. You had seen yellow before but this seemed far richer. Strands of gold were woven into it, causing it to glitter in the sun, adding depth and texture. It was coarse to the touch and would ensure that your hair was kept out of the way.

“It is beautiful,” you smiled, “you possess true talent, Sabine.”

Sabine flushed under your gaze, her mouth opening and closing several times as though she was nervous. “It is an honour to hear such a compliment from the future empress of Rome. I am sure we will flourish under your rule.”

You hoped so. That was, after all, part of the reason why you had returned. And if you could not do anything for Rome, perhaps your child could. Either way, you would offer your home and your husbands everything you had and pray that the fates would grant you a positive outcome.

The room quietened down as the door opened and Geta entered, robe billowing out behind him as he strode directly in. He looked every bit the young god, hair vibrant and glowing, tall and imposing, eyes once again smeared in that familiar kohl.

Without a word, everyone filed out apart from your personal guard. They positioned themselves by the door, just out of earshot, and politely averted their gazes. You remained up on the raised platform, watching as the emperor approached.

Geta gave you an intensely appraising look, eyes zeroing in on the golden hairnet in your hand. It stood out against the white tunic you were wearing. The tunic was thin, allowing for easier measurements, and your nipples peaked at Geta’s attention.

“My brother wanted to see you,” he said, “but I told him that he would have more than enough time to do that in the upcoming days.”

You rolled your lips together. “I am happy to marry Caracalla. Truly. I – I only wonder – “

“Why him?” Geta interrupted. “Why him and not me?”

That was a question you had been pondering over for almost a week. It did not matter, really. You knew that your relationship with both of them meant more than paperwork or titles or the opinion of others. Simple curiosity had kept the question at the forefront of your mind, no matter how hard you tried to shoulder past it.

“You were meant to be for him,” Geta laughed lightly, mockingly. “I am sure he has mentioned it before. I saw the way you comforted him, the way you were kind when you did not have to be, and I thought that it would be beneficial to have another person able to calm him as I can.”

You remembered that night clearly and now, fondly. At the time your own terror had kept you quick and anxious, desperate to squirm out from under the oppressive weight of their attention. Now you flourished under it, craved it almost above all else. The gods likely thought your mercurial nature was amusing.

 “Less than a day passed, a single interaction, and I wanted you for myself,” Geta reached up, tracing a careful finger over your lips. “I suppose that it is highly fortunate that my brother and I have always shared.”

“Then how did you decide that Caracalla would be the one to marry me?”

“I love my brother,” Geta said, “and I can see that he needs you. Without you, even with me, he experienced only chaos. I would do anything to ensure that he does not have to endure such madness again. Including this.”

“You do not need me, Geta?” you asked quietly.

His lips parted. “You know the answer, enchantress.”

You had done the right thing in coming back. You felt more confident in your decision than ever and relaxed a little, continuing to watch Geta as he stepped back and shot a quick glance over his shoulder at your guards.

“Our father was an unpleasant man,” he said suddenly, bluntly. “I gathered that yours was not so different.”

“How?” you asked, stunned.

“I asked you about your carving once. I asked if your father had made it,” Geta paused, running his tongue over his lip before continuing. “The venom in your voice when you answered reminded me of how I feel about my own father.”

Images of your younger years rose unbidden, clouding your mind with their turmoil and bitterness. Your father had stolen your mother from you and you felt her loss more keenly now, whilst preparing to be married, than you had in years.

“They are gone,” you said firmly, more to yourself than him. “Both of them.”

Geta nodded, seeming to come back to himself a little bit. You were surprised that he would share such things with you but were appreciative of his honesty. It was difficult to speak about; you knew this from experience. Even on days you tried to forget, the most painful of reminders could sneak up on you like assassins and ply you with vicious memories.

“You are the opposite to him in every way,” Geta murmured. “Kindness to his cruelty. Love to his hate. We intend to keep you by our sides for the rest of our lives and your marriage to my brother will help ensure this.”

Geta left, allowing the dressmakers to return to the room and continue their work. The mood was pleasant and light and you allowed yourself to sink into the attention, offering your opinion when necessary and trying on pieces as they constructed them, trying to ignore the nerves that were scraping at your insides.

In a week, you would be married to a man you had once feared.

In a week, you would be empress of Rome.

The intricacies of the ceremony were decided upon, the clothing complete. You were not sure exactly what had been decided upon until the day arrived.

Looking at yourself now, dressed in the clothing of a future empress, you could not help but admire yourself. You certainly looked the part. Now you believed that it may be possible that no-one would question you.

Your hair shone from a combination of careful brushing and expensive oils. Your skin reflected in a similar way; heavily scented and smoothed with creams and oils. Even your nails had been trimmed and shaped, dead skin filed away until you felt like an entirely different person.

After today, you would be. It was easier to let your past slip from your fingers when they were busy reaching out for something else. That was what you focused on; the future. Not just yours, but Rome’s.

Sabine stepped back, admiring her handiwork. Normally dressing you would be the task of a ladies’ maid but the clothing was so delicate and finely crafted that you hadn’t felt right letting anyone other than its creator touch it. You had also contributed where you could, as it was common for a bride to fashion her wedding clothing, but had quickly found you hadn’t the skill for it and instead stepped back and let Sabine do her work.

That, and you had not yet been assigned any maids. Anyone in such close proximity to you had to have been closely vetted and the emperors already felt on edge with you being surrounded by so many people on your wedding week.

The belt at your waist felt sturdy and impossible to ignore. You lifted up your hand and traced the edges with your fingers. It was for Caracalla to undo. After that, you would be joined once more, but as man and wife.

There was still much that was unknown to you. You were aware of all the usual traditions but also knew that you would not be able to take part in most of them. You had tried to pull answers from Geta and Caracalla several times but they had brushed you off with soft assurances and teasing pinches.

You smoothed your hands over the front of the white toga. The sensation was pleasantly cool despite the heat of the late afternoon.

The streets were abuzz with people. It was no secret that there was to be a wedding. You were aware of the sacrifice offered to the gods, a bull slaughtered, and the sharing of food and drink in the streets below. The mouth-watering scent of roasted meat floated in through the windows. It should have been appealing but your own nerves were stamping out your appetite.

Sabine had retreated to the door and was exchanging quiet words with Consus. Your brows furrowed at the discreet conversation and you tilted your head, hoping to pick up on a word or two.

Sabine returned with a light cloak. It was as dark as night. She looked to you for permission before wrapping it around your shoulders, pulling it close at the front to hide any glimpse of white. The hood was tugged up over the gold of your hairnet. You looked like a secret, concealed and tucked away.

“I shall pray for your good fortune,” Sabine smiled.

Surrounded by your guards, you were led from the palace and to a discreet carriage, empty apart from a driver. It was plain, the type you regularly saw around Rome. You glanced at them for some sort of answer but they only ushered you inside. One joined the driver at the front and the other three slipped in beside you, looking uncomfortable and warm in their uniforms as they tried to settle in.

There was a jolt as the carriage began to move. “Consus,” you tried again, “where am I being taken?”

“The emperors wish for Rome to welcome you as the empress you will be,” he said simply.

His answer was not entirely helpful. With a sigh, you sat back in your seat. When you reached up to remove the hood, Consus shook his head.

So, you were a secret. The lengths that the emperors would go to in order to disguise your past from prying eyes was not unexpected. You looked down at your hands in your lap, slowly unclenching your fists until your hands were open, fingers shaking.

There, you said to yourself, I am letting go.

You rode in the carriage for quite some time. You kept looking to Consus for information but he would not provide it. Eventually the carriage rolled to a stop. When you rose to your feet, Consus stopped you.

“Oh,” you said, hands raising to your cloak. With unsteady fingers, you unwound the ties and gently tugged it off.

The air was warm and soothing, softly curling around your arms as you stepped from the carriage. The sun had begun to set; you had not realised it was quite so late in the day. You were surrounded by fields, all empty. Likely any workers had been removed specifically so you could come here safely. Above you there was an archway, and at it’s peak, a wolf and two suckling children.

“Romulus and Remus,” you said to yourself.

Your own carving had looked almost identical to the one marking the entrance to the city. You wondered if your grandfather had been here, if it was this that had inspired him to make one for his daughter. You paused, searching for a feeling, a sign, that your mother was perhaps with you.

There was another carriage in front of you, only this one was not so plain. Outlined with colourful paints and murals, this was the carriage of a noble. This would be the carriage that would take you back to Rome.

Even with the distance you could still hear the city. You looked at it and thought of the emperors that inhabited it, the emperors who were waiting for you now. You had left Rome the daughter of a murdered woman, a simple kitchen worker, lover to the emperors. You would be entering as the its empress.

The Praetorians seemed to sense the enormity of the moment as they did not rush you, instead allowing you to watch the sun a moment more. Every time you turned or took a step they would tense, ready to detain you. In the end you stood still, admiring the view with an unsettling feeling that this would be the last time you would ever see it exactly like that. The sun would not change, of course, but you would.

An instrument sounded in the distance, the sound of trumpet. They echoed across the fields and reverberated through the city.  Your lips parted at the sight of a hundred torches being lit – for you. To guide you into Rome. The Praetorians did not have to tell you that now was the time. You could see it. You could feel it.

You set your shoulders back, trying to emulate the posture you often saw on noblewomen. Consus opened the door and you set forth without pause. The interior of the carriage was more comfortable than the one previously. You kept your body as still as you could, apart from your index finger, which you tapped against your leg.

As the carriage approached the city once more, you peeked anxiously out of the small window. It was mostly shielded by gauzy curtains but you were still able to catch a glimpse of the world outside. The closer you got to the city, the more Praetorians you saw. They lined the roads and were quick to snuff out any fights or eager citizens.

And the people – the sheer amount of them left you reeling. It was a mystery to you that you had been able to sneak out of the city at all. For every Praetorian there was at least five people. They craned their necks to get a glimpse of your carriage, a glimpse of you. Heart pounding, you pressed your back against your seat.

Consus cleared his throat. “Perhaps. . .you might try waving?”

Waving. Yes, you could wave. With an audible gulp, you sat forward once more and raised your hand, hoping the jolting of the carriage would hide its shakiness. If possible, the crowd got louder. People threw their hands up in response, smiling and pointing.

That was how you wanted them. Entertained, content. Anything to avoid their ire. Keep the emperors calm, keep them blithe, and you may just be able to do that. The pressure was quickly mounting but you were determined to shoulder the burden.

The imperial palace loomed over you once more. The crowds thinned out as you arrived, likely for the safety of the emperors and yourself. They were still close enough to see, and you felt them collectively inhale as the carriage rolled to a stop.

Cheers rose as Caracalla emerged from the palace. He flashed his gold-toothed grin, regal and immaculate in his toga virils. A wreath was perched amongst his unruly curls and his toga was embroidered with what looked like golden thread.

Your breath snagged in your throat as he arrived at the door of the carriage, pulled it open and held out his hand. You met his eyes and lifted your hand but did not place it in his. It felt as though your knees were about to collapse right out from underneath you.

“You are certainly playing the part of the unwilling bride,” Caracalla cackled once before a sober expression settled over his features. “Come to me, wife.”

You got to your feet and settled your hand in his. He helped you from the carriage with an eagerness that almost made you forget the hundreds of people that were watching. Would they know that you were one of them?

You looked down at your clothing and then up at the red-headed emperor before you. Perhaps you had not been one of them for quite some time.

Caracalla shuddered at the sight of you in your wedding clothes, blue eyes darting over you as though he could hardly take it in. His hand clenched tightly around yours as he pulled you closer, closer, until your shoulders were brushing.

The crowd was quieter now, murmuring amongst themselves. You dared not even spare them a glance as Caracalla led you up the steps, further into the palace. You thought you saw Geta, grim-faced and jealous, but Caracalla would not allow you to take your eyes off of him.

As you entered the palace, you felt the eyes of the crowd dropping from you one by one. They were replaced by the eyes of the gods, judgemental and amused. You would not be here, if not for them, steered by a hundred tiny choices that could have been different but had led to you being here.

Empress of Rome.

The room Caracalla led you to was not one you had been to before. As always, the door was full of incredibly carvings and details but one in particular stood out. A woman, regal and tall. On one arm was a shield, in the other she held a pomegranate. Juno.

Caracalla tugged you into the room with an insistence you could not ignore. The room was lowly lit and not as big as you were expecting. In it’s centre was a lectus, draped with fabrics and with a pillow at either end. It was clear what was expected of you, but you felt no dread; only the low rumblings of desire beginning to chase away your anxieties.

You gasped as Caracalla whirled, crowding you up against the door and nosing at your jawline. “Hello, wife.”

Wife. Your heart seemed to pause for a moment before resuming. Caracalla’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright and keen. Already his hands were grasping at your arms, your waist, your ass. You could not help but arch into his touch.

“Husband,” you greeted, dusting a kiss across his bitten lips.

He giggled, the sound contrasting with the serious nature of your surroundings. It helped you relax more, melt further into his wandering hands and insistent mouth.

Your mind strayed, latching instead onto the other twin. Geta. Where was he? Although this marriage was happening with his approval it had been clear he was not entirely pleased. His love for his brother was admirable and softened you further.

Caracalla’s mouth found the scarred remnants of the bite mark he had left weeks earlier. His teeth slotted into it perfectly, dragging sweet pain down your spine and into your stomach. You stayed still, allowing him to continue mouthing at the mark.

“You are thinking of him,” he pulled away a little, “I can tell.”

Caracalla pouted and you quickly reached up to cup his cheek with your hand. “You are my husband, Caracalla. Tonight, I will be just yours.”

A pleased grin tugged at the edges of his lips as his hands slid to your upper thighs, urging you to hike one around his waist. Your toga was dragged up, and up, and up until you could feel his arousal pressing against you.

Caracalla’s eyes fluttered. It felt as though the room got hotter as he considered your position and the budding of your arousal that he could no doubt feel. He let your leg drop down to the floor before taking your hands again and almost dragging you to the lectus.

His hands found the knot at your waist. He admired it for only a second before pulling at it almost violently. He tossed it carelessly to the floor before placing his hand on your chest, pushing you down and back until you were laid out on the lectus beneath his greedy gaze.

The position seemed to change something in Caracalla. His hands clenched and unclenched, his jaw working furiously as he stared at you. The torches cast golden light over his face, orange flames caressing his pale skin as the moments stretched on.

“Is this real?” he finally asked, gazing down at you with a yearning so strong it made your eyes water.

“This is real,” you whispered, holding up your hand. Your ring glinted in the light, drawing his attention. “You gave me this, remember?”

Caracalla took your hand, first placing it on his chest before dragging it up to his face. His tongue flickered at your ring finger before he took it into his mouth, sucking at the digit as he palmed at his cock with his spare hand.

You squeezed your thighs together for relief, a whimper escaping your throat before you could catch it. Caracalla bit lightly at your finger before pulling away.

“Tell me you love me,” he breathed, crouching down beside you.

He watched your mouth with searching eyes, desperate hands clutching at your white toga. The arousal was coming off of him in waves, each one threatening to knock you and drag you down with it. It felt like a physical thing, filling the room until you had no choice but to breathe it in.

“I love you, Caracalla,” you answered.

 In the quiet of the room, it echoed. You saw the words hit him, saw him soak them up and swallow them down.

“I shall never want for anything ever again,” he rasped, “for you have given me everything.”

When he fell into your arms, it was unbelievably gentle. There was an underlying firmness to his touch that you knew would not allow for protests or pushing away. You held still as he peppered kisses across the planes of your face, as he got acquainted with your body not as a lover, but as a husband.

He took the liberty of freeing you from your clothing before attending to himself. He climbed on top of you, nestled between your thighs as though he belonged there. There was no discomfort or self-consciousness as his hands dragged over your skin, skillful ministrations preparing you to be taken by him.

You could feel yourself, wet and clenching. Caracalla did not tease you; he entered your cunt with a swiftness you had not expected. There was a twinge as you adjusted to his thickness, hands tight around his forearms as he began to pump in and out.

It felt like more the fucking. It felt like something divine, something you had been made for. Like the first gasp of air after being underwater; you could not stop your sounds, could not stop your encouragements as he increased his pace.

“Tell me again,” he pleaded, “tell me.”

“I love you,” you bit out, “Caracalla, my husband, I love you.”

Every time you thought he might be able to spill over the edge he would paise, chest heaving, and lavish attention upon your breasts. Your nipples were stiff under his tongue, between his fingers, and you could already feel the beginnings of bruises on the soft flesh.

It was hard to say when it was really over. Caracalla wrung orgasms from you as though it was his god-given gift, leaving you clenching and shuddering around him as his fingers rubbed tight circles into your swollen clit. He followed you over the pulsing edge several times but did not seem to tire. He seemed determined to make sure you left the room with the beginnings of life budding in your womb.

You were helpless and could do nothing but lie there and allow yourself to be split apart on his cock. Every thrust sent him deeper, his head nudging at a place that made you see stars. Even as you began to squirm and whine, he did not stop, pinning you down with a hot hand between your breasts.

Your orgasm rippled out from that place deep inside you, urging you to lock your ankles around Caracalla’s hips to keep him close as he pumped inside of you. Your eyelids slammed closed involuntarily as your back arched almost painfully up off the lectus, hands scrabbling for purchase as he squeezed you dry.

I must have pleased the gods, you thought, if this is to be my fate.

At some point, after what felt like hours, fatigue reared its head and rose to snatch the both of you down into thick sleep. Whilst drifting you were aware of his warmth on top of you, head resting between your breasts, his hair dusting your chin with every inhale.

You were also aware when the door opened, a familiar figure slipping in. Your eyes slowly opened as Geta approached, staring down at the pair of you whilst twisting at the rings on his fingers. His nostrils flared at the picture the pair of you no doubt painted.

Without a word, you held out your hand and beckoned him closer. Something like relief spread across his pale features as he settled on his knees beside the lectus, lifting your hand to press a reverent kiss on back. Your breath caught in your throat at the gesture.

“Do not neglect me,” he warned you. “Empress.”

“I could not,” you answered honestly.

With careful arrangement and much grumbling from Caracalla, Geta was able to wedge himself on the lectus with both of you. It was a warm tangle of limbs and mouths and always reaching hands. In your mind, it was a true reflection of your union, of your connection to the emperors.

So deeply entwined that even the gods could not tear you apart. You closed your eyes again and let your mind be seduced by sleep.

In the morning, you would take your place beside them both as empress of Rome. You would begin your lessons with tutors, meet senators, sit beside your lovers on a throne of your own. You would look to the people, hold their gaze, and you would not flinch.

Authors Note - please, please let me know your thoughts. This was a beast of a chapter to write and I can’t believe it’s the end!

This was always how I intended to end it. I kinda see this entire fic as a prequel towards the rest of their lives?

If you have questions or thoughts (be kind) do not hesitate to send asks!

Please reblog, comment, like, etc if you enjoyed. Interaction is what keeps me motivated!♥️

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Lewis Pullman's 2024 Releases ↳ feat. Outer Range - Skincare - Salem's Lot - Guzzle Buddies

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Heart of a Father

Emperor Caracalla x Reader

Summary: In the shadow of his illness, Caracalla worries for your unborn child. You try your best to reassure him but his mind is too far gone. Only the birth of his child would bring calmness to his internal storm. 

When the sun dipped below the horizon, you sat in the villa's garden.

Your hands rested protectively on your swollen belly, and the rhythmic chirping of cicadas filled the air. Though the scene was calm, the tension from Caracalla could be cut with a knife.

He paced restlessly.

“Calla,” you called out to him, watching as he paused and turned to look at you. His eyes were filled with worry.

“You should be inside. It’s getting cold,” he said as if suddenly he became aware of your presence.

You smiled faintly, reaching out a hand to him. “I’m fine. Sit with me?”

You watched as he sank to his knees beside you, his hand immediately moving to your belly.

The warmth of his palm against your skin through the thin fabric of your dress.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “What if… what if I’ve passed something to our child?”

You cupped his cheek, guiding his eyes to yours.

“We’ve talked about this, My Love. The physicians have said our baby is healthy. And I believe them.”

His jaw clenched, and he looked away, his other hand moving through his hair.

“But they don’t know for sure. They don’t understand… the poison in my blood, the illness. What if it’s already affected done its damage?”

You tightened your grip on his hand, hoping to help ground him.

“Caracalla, listen to me. Whatever comes, we’ll face it together. You’ve fought countless battles and ruled an empire. This is no different. You’re not alone in this. Geta will also help us. He promised many times. Everything will be fine.”

His eyes filled with tears as he looked at you.

“You’re too good to me. I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve everything, My Love,” you leaned forward to press a kiss to his lips.

He rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“I’m so scared, love. I’ve never been scared like this before.” his hands were shaking, you could feel that. You tried your best to ground him.

You placed your hand over his heart, feeling its steady rhythm beneath your palm.

“That fear only proves how much you love her already. We going to be fine, all three of us. I believe in us, Calla. Do you?”

He nodded, his breath hitching as he exhaled. “I do. I have to.”

---

The night your daughter was born was a day filled with all kinds of emotions.

The palace, usually so imposing and grand, felt small and suffocating as you were in labour.

Caracalla was made to wait outside as per tradition. You cursed tradition for that. You needed him by your side. Why wasn't he there? You felt so alone even if you had a room filled with women.

When your daughter's cries filled the room, a sound so pure and loud it chased away all your fears, Caracalla froze.

He watched, transfixed on the door.

The midwife wrapped the tiny bundle and placed her in his arms.

This is when another midwife opened the door and Caracalla barged in and to your side immediately.

With shaking hands, he looked at you before he looked at her.

“She’s… perfect,” he murmured, staring down at her in awe.

He traced a finger along her cheek.

You reached out for him, your voice soft.

“She’s strong,” you said, smiling up at him. “Just like her father.”

“No,” he said, his voice breaking. “She’s strong like her mother.” He leaned down to kiss your forehead, his lips lingering. “Thank you. For her and for loving.”

In the days and weeks that followed, Caracalla proved to be a caring father.

Geta took on ruling an empire fully for the time being, he wanted to ensure his brother had time for his daughter, for which you will be eternally grateful.

Caracalla was constantly holding her in his arms during the day and pacing the halls with her when she cried at night.

One evening, as you watched him hold her while the sun was setting behind them, he turned to you with a look of pure adoration.

“She’s my redemption,” he said quietly, his voice filled with awe. “Through her, I can be better. For her, I will be better.”

You stepped forward, wrapping your arms around him and resting your head on his shoulder.

“You already are. She’s lucky to have you, Calla. We both are.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“I believe, I’m the lucky one. I’ll spend every day proving that to both of you.”

Caracalla's fear of his illness affecting his daughter disappeared the moment his eyes laid on her.

A small treasure.

Treasure for an Emperor who thought he had it all.

But now he believed, he truly had it all. 

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

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New BTS photo of Joseph Quinn and Fred Hechinger for "GLADIATOR II".

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Lewis Pullman attends the World Premiere Of Marvel Studios' "Captain America: Brave New World

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Kendrick Lamar performing in front of his back-up dancers dressed in the American Flag colors of red, white and blue after Samuel L. Jackson, dressed as Uncle Sam says rap is "too ghetto" for the Superbowl. That is all.

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Blanca Padilla for L'Officiel Italia

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— James Baldwin, from If Beale Street Could Talk