ghoulbloggerrr - Tumblr blog

ghoulbloggerrr · 18 days ago

Text

damnatio memoriae: PART II

In the Roman world, damnatio memoriae was used to describe a range of actions taken against former leaders and their reputations. These actions included: defacing visual depictions, removing heads from public statues, chiseling names off inscriptions, and destroying coins.

summary: reader, who goes by ‘Prima,’ was raised by a powerful Roman consul, under the reign of Imperator Septimius Severus. When it comes time for his eldest son, Caracalla, to marry again, a chain of events is set off, changing the course of Prima’s life and the lives around her.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡

warnings: ancient rome as a warning all in itself, anal, p in v, rough inexperienced sex, oral m receiving, foul language, arranged marriage.

notes: this has been a labor of love. from googling the wildest shit for accuracy, reading a book about caracalla, seeing GII twice, and trying to write ancient roman dialogue while sounding like a broken banjo in real life- I practically bled for this chapter. I refuse to write Caracalla as a totally sniveling bitch so have him partially historically accurate with a side of syphilis. He was a bastard and so was Geta and that’s what I’m going for. Will they both be baby back bitches? Absolutely. But I need them to have the military and campaigning experience they both had in real life. Idk why, it just gets me going and you will all suffer through it with me. Once again, thanks to @trashmouth-richie and @londonfog-chan for being on the receiving end of my neuroses.

⟡ Imperator- Septimius Severus

⟡ Augustus- Marcus Aurelius Antoninus “Caracalla”

⟡ Caesar- Publius Septimius Geta “Geta”

“You knew of this, didn’t you?” Ari’s gaze shifted away as you approached the camp. You dismounted quickly, ignoring his outstretched hand, meant to assist you.

“Prima,” he began tentatively, but a sharp look from you cut him off.

“Don’t.”

“Upon our return to Rome, in less than a week, I am to marry that sniveling child.” Your voice seethed with resentment as you fiercely threw back the entrance flap of your tent. “Even condemned men are granted more time than this.”

“You’re hardly condemned,” Ari protested softly, following you inside. He paused, choosing his words with care. “You’ll be Augusta.”

Turning sharply to face him, your expression softened, pleading for understanding. “I implore you, do not mistake my words for ungratefulness. You know me better than that.” Your voice dropped to a whisper, laden with a bitter truth. “We both know that as Augusta, I’ll hold the title, but no true power. I’ll be just a pawn in their endless games, a broodmare.”

“Well, at least you already know your place.”

Caracalla’s voice cut through the heavy air of the tent. He stepped out from behind the partition dividing the sleeping quarters from the living area, a sly smirk on his face. One of your scarves dangled from his hand, bringing it to his nose, he inhaled deeply, his eyes glinting with something unpredictable.

“What, pray tell, are you doing here?” You sighed, folding your arms as you looked at him with an unimpressed stare. “This is highly inappropriate.”

“Are you fucking him?” he asked bluntly, nodding toward Ari without a shred of subtlety. “Arminius the Barbarian.” He tsked, his expression a mixture of mockery and disdain. “It would make sense, wouldn’t it? A witch and a barbarian.”

You turned toward Ari, your tone cool but resolute.

“Ari, leave us.”

Ari’s face showed a multitude of emotions, with worry and a touch of frustration clearly visible. “I’ll be just outside, should you need me, Domina,” he assured you.

You nodded your appreciation, watching as he made his way out of the tent. The cloth entrance swayed gently as he exited, settling back into place with a soft rustle.

"You were so eager to be rid of my company earlier, and yet here you are now," you remarked, moving toward the sitting area. You lingered as Aeneas poured a cup of wine, offering it to you before retreating behind the servant’s curtain after you had accepted it.

"I came to establish certain terms," he replied, stepping closer. His gaze followed you as you sat on the chaise, gesturing for him to proceed.

"I will continue to take whomever I please to my bed, whenever it pleases me," he said, his tone edged with pride, watching you closely as though waiting for a defiant response that did not come.

"You will not share my bed," he continued, pacing a circle in front of you, as you remained silent, your expression calm. "The marriage will be consummated to fulfill its purpose, but afterward, you will return to your chambers, where you will remain. I will summon you when I see fit."

You inclined your head slightly, inviting him to continue.

"In public, you will walk a step behind me, never at my side. At council meetings, you will take your place beside me, as is proper."

"How delicate you must be," You said, a faint smile playing on your lips. "Is it difficult living in the shadow of a younger brother who is taller and broader than you?"

“Hold your tongue,” he commanded sharply, his jaw clenching as he positioned himself to loom over you—a clear attempt at dominance, betraying his insecurity about his modest height.

“How fortunate for you that they have chosen me as your wife.” Your voice dripped with sarcasm as you met his gaze. “I suppose you might have called for my death had I stood taller.”

The tent felt like a sauna, growing hotter with each passing moment, charged with the raw, unspoken emotions simmering between the two of you. If lightning decided to strike, the whole place would probably burst into flames. Caracalla was like a wildfire, unpredictable and raging, while you simmered quietly, each ember of your anger ready to spark into something fierce. Together, it seemed you might have the power to topple empires—whether for better or worse, you couldn't yet tell. The thought was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

"But please, go on," You said, your voice light though your eyes glittered with challenge.

"You are forbidden to speak with Geta," he declared.

You raised a brow, setting your cup down on the small table beside you. "How am I to manage that? He is your brother, and we will share the same household."

"That is for you to resolve," he said firmly. "I care only that it is done. Do not test me in this, Prima, for it will not end in your favor."

“Your servant,” he motioned towards the partition Aeneas had disappeared behind, “Aeneas, was it?” He asked and you nodded.

“He will be dismissed when we return to Rome and you will receive a new set of servants and guards.”

“Aeneas comes with me.” You stood your ground.

“My terms are not to be questioned.” He looked at you firmly. “He will be dismissed. That is final.”

You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief at his arrogance.

"I pray that every child I bear spills from me only to land at your feet, a curse to haunt you," you hissed, rising to face him, your eyes blazing.

"I would sooner slice open my veins and let the Tiber claim me than be bound to you in marriage," you added, your voice trembling with fury.

He paused at the entrance of the tent, turning back with a cold, amused smile.

"One of those fates can certainly be arranged, witch," he replied, his grin sharp as a blade, exiting the tent with a pompous swagger.

Aeneas peeked cautiously from behind the corner partition as you fought to hold back tears of fury, your face twisted in a scowl, fingernails digging painfully into your palms. "You've heard, haven't you?" you asked sharply.

With a solemn nod, he confirmed.

"You've been part of this household since we were both just kids, and now just because of that arrogant man's thin pride, you're being thrown out." Anger vibrated through your words, and you nearly threw your wine goblet in frustration but managed to stop yourself just in time.

"It will be alright, Domina," Aeneas approached, his steps careful as if he were treading near a wild beast.

"It's anything but alright," you snapped, teeth gritted, "He has no right to do this."

"Domina," Aeneas spoke gently, a calm counter to your storm, "he does have the right."

The truth of his words hit hard, but it only steeled your resolve. "Not for long," you muttered, storming away to your private quarters.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

In the early hours, as the faint light of the waning moon cast silver shadows on the camp, Ari approached your tent. He paused, startled to find you standing outside. Your eyes were fixed on the eastern horizon, a light woolen blanket draped around your shoulders, shifting in the wind. Strands of your hair peeked out where the blanket bunched at your neck, moving with the breeze.

"You’re awake," he remarked softly, stepping closer to stand at your side.

"I haven’t slept," you replied, your voice quiet as you turned to him, drawing the blanket tighter around your waist.

"Varus and I depart at dawn," he said, his tone measured but heavy.

"I heard the noise and guessed as much," you said, glancing away. "So this is goodbye, then?" Your voice held no trace of emotion, though the ache in your chest was almost unbearable as the thought of his leaving settled over you.

He nodded gravely. "I know not when I shall return to Rome."

"It saddens me that you will miss the festivities before the wedding... and the wedding itself," you said with a sigh. "And that you will no longer be so close."

"Perhaps you might hide me aboard your ship, and take me away from this fate," you said with a half-smile.

"You are bound for greater things," Ari said, his gaze meeting yours with such seriousness that you almost believed him.

"One day, I will prove worthy of the faith you have placed in me," you said, offering a faint smile. Ari mirrored it, but his eyes remained troubled.

He took your hand, squeezing it gently as his eyes scanned the horizon. Slowly, he turned to you, lifting your hand to his lips and placed a soft kiss on your knuckles.

A heavy silence fell between you, the first rays of dawn beginning to break over the horizon.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

After four days of travel, with a brief stop at Nisibis to inspect the garrison there and another at Tarsus to change ships—plus an extra day lost to the tumultuous seas—you finally arrived in Rome. Stepping into your family’s grand estate, a sullen mood overtook you, the realization settling in that this place would no longer be called home once the weeks passed.

“There shall be three days of games,” your father explained, his voice steady. “A grand feast on the third day, with the marriage ceremony to follow on the fourth.”

You found a quiet spot among the roses in the garden to speak with him, their vivid red blooms dominating the terrace, except for a patch of deep purple violets weaving through the center. You had planted those violets as a child, under the guidance of the esteemed gardener whose designs adorned the royal palace. He had insisted the tulips remain during his efforts to restore your family’s garden—a decision that had irked your mother. You wondered now if she might take pride in them, knowing that the future Augusta of Rome had planted them. Perhaps she would, now that your place in her world held weight.

“Are you listening to me?” Your father’s voice cut through your thoughts.

“Forgive me,” you replied, shaking your head. “The seasickness still lingers.”

“I cannot recall a time you were so ill while at sea,” he remarked, eyeing you with suspicion.

“Perhaps it is just nerves,” you suggested. Perhaps my body senses what lies ahead, you thought to yourself.

Or maybe it was Geta, leaning in close over the table at dinner a few nights prior, his voice barely above a whisper as the feast spread out before you. The aroma of roasted meats and spiced wines filled the air, but his focus was on the scandalous tales of Caracalla’s lovers.

“First up, there’s Antonia. A true beauty, way too stunning for him, with an ass that could drive any sane man to madness in a heartbeat.”

He took a sip of wine, eyes glinting with mischief. “Then there’s Marcella, who’s got this wild talent—she can make her cunt spray on command. It's a messy trick, sure, but it is a sight to behold!”

“And don’t forget Tullia, a petite little thing. She’s got the face of a dog, but her cunt is like a velvet vice. I swear some of her unfortunate brats must be Caracalla’s.”

After dinner ended that night and the laughter faded away, you slipped into your cabin, shutting the door behind you with a soft click. You leaned against it for a moment, taking a deep breath. Claiming seasickness was a good excuse, but the truth was a little more complicated.

Geta's words had stung- as if each word was laced with poison. The way he talked about Antonia, Marcella, and Tullia—it was like each name was a little dagger, poking at feelings you weren’t ready to deal with. You plopped down on the edge of your bed, feeling the gentle sway of the ship beneath you.

The dining room had been filled with warmth and laughter, but then, in your little cabin, it was just you and your racing thoughts. You wondered if you could keep up the carefree facade you had worked so hard to maintain.

“Prima,” your father said, waving his hand in front of your face in the present time, a hint of impatience creeping into his tone. “Please pay attention.”

But it was like his words were lost in the chaos of your mind. All you could think about was Geta’s voice echoing in your ears during the voyage home, Caracalla’s terms weighing heavily on your heart, and Ari’s face as he said goodbye—those memories swirling together, creating a storm inside you.

Before you even realized what was happening, you doubled over and heaved onto the roses beside you. The sweet scent of the blooms mixed with the nausea churning in your stomach, and for a moment, you felt a strange sense of relief, as if releasing that had lightened your load, even just a little.

Your father’s expression shifted from annoyance to concern as he rushed to your side. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice softer now.

You wiped your mouth, taking a shaky breath as you tried to gather yourself. “I’m... I’m fine. Just feeling a bit overwhelmed,” you managed to say, even as your heart raced with uncertainty about what lay ahead.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

After three long days filled with games, a lavish banquet, and the constant buzz of Caracalla and Geta’s voices echoing in your ears, you were ready for a moment’s peace. The festivities had been grand, but the pressure to keep up with the whirlwind of excitement had left you feeling drained.

You settled into a quiet corner, hoping for a moment of peace, but it seemed like Rome had other plans. The city was alive with excitement, and the air was thick with the scent of laurel and myrtle, symbols of victory and love.

The preparations for the impending wedding had been meticulous, attended by your closest servants, your mother, and the most skilled artisans in the city. The air was thick with excitement and a touch of chaos, as your attendants flitted around the room, adjusting drapes, arranging flowers, and ensuring every detail was perfect. The tunica recta you wore was crafted from the finest red wool, spun by the revered Vestal Virgins. The dress flowed elegantly to the ground, swaying gently with each movement, a river of striking crimson.

Your mother, a whirlwind of nerves and selfishness, fussed over every detail of your appearance, smoothing the fabric and adjusting your hair, each gold leaf and gem meticulously placed throughout the intricate half updo, all while exchanging whispers of advice with the other women. Around your waist, your mother fastened the knot of Hercules, its intricate loops and ties a symbol of enduring strength and fidelity. "Only Caracalla may untie this tonight," your mother whispered.

The flame-colored veil was dyed a deep, vibrant orange, the color of the rising sun. As it flitted in the breeze, it was gently placed over your head, adding an ethereal glow to your appearance. Your mother, ever the dramatic one, stepped back to admire the sight, her eyes glistening with nostalgia. "This was my veil," she reminded you, her voice filled with pride, "worn on the happiest day of my life."

“What a sad life,” you mused aloud, a hint of melancholy creeping into your voice. “Surely you must have had happier days.”

Your mother, not pleased with your outburst, tugged you aside, her expression a mix of disappointment and concern. “Marriage and heirs are a privilege, and they should be approached with thankfulness and joy,” she reminded you firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

“I will be happy if the wind picks up and carries me away from here,” you quipped sarcastically, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips.

The sharpness of her response took you by surprise—a quick slap to both cheeks. “That will make you look less corpse-like,” she commented dryly, turning away to fuss with the servant who was carefully laying out heirloom jewelry for you to choose from.

You rubbed your heated skin, feeling the sting and the weight of her words. In that moment, you realized that this would be the last time she ever laid her hands on you in such a way.

As the time drew near for Caracalla’s arrival, the air in your chamber was thick with anticipation. You moved toward the balcony, the small crowd in your chambers parting to grant you a clear view of the street below, adorned with vibrant flowers and garlands.

“You look like you’re going to be sick,” your father muttered, standing beside you with his hands clasped behind his back.

“What if I’m on the wrong side of history?” you asked, a wave of dread washing over you as you finally voiced your true feelings.

He shook his head, still not looking at you. “Because you are my daughter, you shall not fail.”

“I know plenty of daughters who have met gruesome fates,” you replied, glancing at him. “Yours may be no different. After all, aren’t we all someone’s child?”

As Caracalla approached your family’s estate, flanked by his father and brother on horseback, his retinue of guards and lictors moving ahead, you closed your eyes. Your father gently guided you from your room upstairs, down to the opulent foyer, and out the main path leading to the house. Caracalla dismounted and walked silently over to take you from your father. A litter, arranged by your father, was brought around, carried by ten Arabian slaves he had kept from a campaign months earlier. Everyone took their places, with your mother and father riding behind the dowry, a lavish display that could have secured fifty patrician women’s futures, all granted in your name.

“Wench,” Caracalla said, holding out his hand to assist you into the litter.

“Cunt,” you retorted, climbing into the litter and doing your best to avoid looking at him as he settled in beside you.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Banners and garlands of fresh flowers hung from every balcony of the imperial palace, their vibrant colors contrasting against the pristine white marble of the building. The air buzzed with excitement and anticipation, as citizens gathered to catch a glimpse of you and Caracalla as you exited the litter, ascending the steps with him by your side. Taking his outstretched hand cautiously, you felt a mix of excitement, dread, and nerves coursing through you. Midway up the grand, marble stairs, you paused, turning to take in the crowd behind you.

As rose petals fluttered through the air, one delicate petal skittered across your nose, tickling your skin. You couldn’t help but let out an airy laugh, a reaction that surprised even you. The sound rang out like music, light and carefree, and in that instant, your smile broke out, warm and genuine. That was all it took for the crowd to erupt into a frenzy. Cheers and shouts filled the air, and you froze completely, until Caracalla lightly jerked your hand, urging you to continue moving.

The ceremony took place in the throne room within the palace, its columns soaring to the heavens, adorned with intricate carvings and golden accents. The interior was filled with the scent of incense, wafting through the air as priests performed rituals to invoke the blessings of the gods, with sacrifices in their name having taken place earlier that morning.

Caracalla, clad in his ceremonial toga, his armor gleaming beneath the temple’s light, stood imposing as he locked eyes with you, his eye contact never wavering as you both listened to the high priest recite sacred texts. The crowd held its breath as you both recited the simple, ancient vows.

Septimius stepped forward, his presence commanding as he carried a simple yet elegant golden diadem. You turned to him, bowing your head in respect, feeling the weight of expectation weighing down on your shoulders. As he carefully placed the diadem upon your head, where your veil was pinned midway through your hair, a silence fell over the crowd. With a gentle nod of gratitude to Septimius, you turned to face the crowd. The sound of applause erupted, echoing through the grand plaza, sounds of support for you and Caracalla. But as you glanced at Caracalla, your heart sank slightly. His expression was dark, intense, and unreadable. He looked at you as if he wished for lightning to strike you dead at that moment, and though you wished for the same, you wished he would at least play his part for the sake of appearances.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

You took a modest sip of wine, letting the rich flavor settle on your tongue as you scanned the room, the feast buzzing with laughter and chatter. But despite the festive atmosphere, the tension between you and Caracalla was thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Could you have possibly looked any more miserable in there?” you asked. Caracalla shot you a look that could freeze fire.

“My face has never lied and won’t start now just to please you,” he muttered, barely glancing at the senator who rushed by to offer a quick congratulations.

“That diadem belonged to my mother, and you’re not worthy of it,” he said, his voice low and edged with anger. “I’ll rip it from your head the moment we’re alone.”

You couldn’t help but smirk. “You’re not worthy of the air you breathe, and yet, here you are.”

Leaning in a little closer, you lowered your voice, a playful glint in your eye. “Just so you know, I’m not easily intimidated. You might want to rethink that whole ripping-the-diadem-off thing.”

“Perhaps I’ll strangle you to death and be done with all of this.” He offered.

A laugh escaped your lips, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Oh, is that your grand plan? Strangle me to death? How original.”

Caracalla smirked, taking a sip of wine. “Better than dealing with your incessant sarcasm.”

“True, but think of all the fun you would miss out on,” you shot back, leaning against the table and crossing your arms. “And besides, where is the challenge in that? If you’re going to try to get rid of me, at least put in some effort.”

His expression shifted, a mix of annoyance and curiosity painted his features. “You really think you can outsmart me?”

“Outsmart? Maybe. Outlast? Definitely.” You took another sip of wine, ��But I’m not going anywhere, so you might as well get used to my charming company.”

For the rest of the feast, you and Caracalla kept at it, trading low blows while the party swirled around you. The laughter and chatter of the guests faded into the background as you two became engrossed in your sparring.

“Really, Caracalla, is this the best you can do?” you laughed sarcastically. “I thought I’d find a sharper tongue in the son of an emperor!”

He shot you a sly grin. “And here you are, a mere woman, trying to keep pace with the likes of me. Brave, or just a bit mad?”

“It takes guts to endure your brooding for this long,” you retorted, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll go with bravery.

Caracalla rolled his eyes. “Brooding? I’m just focused, unlike some people who can’t seem to take anything seriously.”

“Focused? More like you’re trying to turn this feast into a funeral,” you replied with a shake of your head.

As the evening wore on, the guests began to drift away, leaving behind their half-eaten plates and empty cups. “Looks like we’ve outlasted everyone,” you noted, glancing around at the thinning crowd.

"Maybe they got sick of the sight of you and left," he said with a smirk. "I know I’ve been sick of you since we left Parthia."

You stood up, finishing the last of your wine. “I am going to my chambers. Feel free to sleep… just not anywhere near me,” you shot back.”

"Rest assured," he said as he rose, taking his wine cup in hand, "I have no intention of enduring your company for the remainder of the night.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Your quarters felt like stepping into another world altogether compared to the bedroom you had kept in your family’s estate. The walls were painted a deep, inky black, their darkness softened by the warm glow of oil lamps scattered throughout the room. In the center of the room, your bed commanded attention. Raised on a low platform, its ebony frame was carved with laurel wreaths and scenes of mythic battles. Black silk sheets spilled over the edges, their golden embroidery catching the light like threads of sunlight. Pillows embroidered with intricate patterns were piled high, making the bed feel more like a throne than a place to rest.

Heavy black velvet curtains hung over the tall windows, their edges stitched with winding vines of gold. When the breeze stirred, they shifted just enough to let in glimpses of the starlit sky outside. After about an hour of exploring your new quarters and sitting on the massive bed, twiddling your fingers, uneasiness set in.

Then you heard it. Singing. Loud, off-key, and completely unapologetic.

Your head snapped toward the sound, coming from somewhere beyond the velvet curtains. Curiosity—or maybe disbelief—drove you to your feet. You crossed the room and yanked the curtains apart in one quick motion.

And there he was. Caracalla.

In the courtyard below, he stood with a makeshift sheet tied around him in a sloppy imitation of a toga. Every gust of wind sent it flapping, exposing his bare ass to anyone unlucky enough to be passing by.

He sang like he thought he was onstage at the Forum, his voice loud, grating, and painfully off-key. For a second, you just stood there, staring, caught between laughter and horror. Here was the man who co-ruled the empire, strutting around like a drunken fool with nothing but a sheet and his own ego. It was hard to decide whether you should yell at him, pretend you didn’t see it, or just let him embarrass himself to the full extent.

You stepped out of your quarters, scanning the hallways for any sign of Caracalla's personal guards or servants. But in the sea of palace attendants, you quickly realized you had no idea who was who. You thought for a moment about going to Septimius, but that would only draw more attention.

Geta. He was your only hope.

After having a servant lead you to his quarters, you knocked quickly.

"What is it?" Geta’s voice called from the other side of the door.

"It’s Prima," you whispered against the heavy, ornate wood. "I need your help."

"Enter."

You slowly opened the door and froze for a moment, caught off guard.

Geta was sprawled in a lavish chair in the middle of the room, wearing a red robe with golden accents, his chest exposed. A woman was kneeling before him, her lips wrapped tightly around his cock as she moved in a steady rhythm. Geta’s chest rose and fell quickly, his neck strained, fighting to keep control of his breathing as he stared at you.

"I’ll come back later—" You started, but he waved his hand sharply, signaling for you to stay where you were.

For a moment, you didn’t know where to look. His eyes never left yours, and his hand wrapped around the woman’s hair, pulling her closer to him- her nose flush with the dark tufts of curls at his base. You couldn’t pull away either, the tension in the room impossible to ignore. Your breathing became shallow, your mouth went dry, and a deep ache settled in your gut—something you weren't used to, making you worry that Geta might notice the change in your demeanor.

Finally, he released her, and the woman pulled back, looking up at him.

"Open your mouth," Geta commanded. Without hesitation, she did.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice calm yet firm. "Now swallow."

You watched as she followed his orders, then stood up, walking past you without a hint of shame. You recognized her as Senator Gracchus’s wife, wiping her mouth with a satisfied smile as she left, her expression casual.

“Does her cunt spray?” you asked with a hint of sarcasm, trying to conceal any signs of your own arousal, or so you hoped.

He stood, tightening the robe around his middle as he glared at you. “What is it you want? Do you not have a marriage to consummate?” he retorted sharply.

“It’s your brother,” you sighed. “He’s half-naked in the courtyard, singing at the top of his lungs.”

He brushed past you, flinging the door open, and turned to look at you as if you were mad when he realized you weren't following. You quickly matched his pace, your legs moving to keep up with him as his robe billowed behind him with each hurried step. When you finally reached the courtyard, Caracalla stood there, a sword in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, swaying back and forth as he hummed a tune that was unfamiliar to you.

“Brother,” Geta approached cautiously, “put down the blade.”

Caracalla swung at Geta, laughing as the blade narrowly missed his chest. “Do not create a scene,” Geta pleaded. “Set down the blade and the bottle, and retire for the night.”

“Wife,” Caracalla giggled as he caught sight of you, wide-eyed and uncertain of what he would do next, “do you still wish to die to get out of this marriage?”

He aimed the blade at you, but Geta quickly shoved you aside just as Caracalla lost his balance and tumbled to the ground, laughing, the sword clanging beside him.

You held your breath as the brothers stared at one another. Caracalla looked amused, almost laughing, as he gazed up at Geta, who stood over him with a hard expression, his eyes glaring down, nostrils flared.

“Neither of you know how to have fun,” Caracalla slurred before his eyes rolled back and closed.

“Is he dead?” you asked, almost hopeful.

“No,” Geta replied, lightly kicking at Caracalla’s side in an attempt to wake him. “He has passed out, I fear.”

“Well,” you said as you walked over to inspect Caracalla, “what do we do now?

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

“I do not mean to sound petulant, but I must say that this is below my station,” you said, struggling to hold onto Caracalla’s ankles as you tried to keep pace with Geta through the hidden passages and tunnels of the palace, long sealed off from sight.

Geta paused abruptly, his arms firmly beneath Caracalla’s shoulders, looking at you with disbelief. “Your station?” he asked, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “And what of mine?”

“Please, do not stop,” you urged through gritted teeth. “He is heavy.”

Geta resumed his walking, casting occasional glances over his shoulder to ensure the path remained clear. He moved with ease, even while walking backward.

“Up ahead, the door on the left,” he indicated with a nod. “It leads to the study adjoining his quarters.”

“Support his head,” you instructed, allowing Caracalla’s legs to thud heavily to the ground. Geta regarded you with surprise as he opened the door, while you steadied Caracalla by the waist, his head lolling against your thighs, his mouth slightly agape as he breathed heavily.

As Geta swung the door open, the study came into view, but you had no time to admire its grandeur. He swiftly entered into the sleeping quarters, tossing Caracalla’s top half onto the bed with a swift motion, his legs flying out of your grasp as his body hit the bed with a thud.

You struggled with the knot at your waist, tugging at the ropes, breathless and feeling the tightness rubbing against your midsection- a sense of claustrophobia clawing at your skin.

Geta moved through the room, pulling out blades, swords, and daggers from the unexpected places Caracalla had kept them stashed.

“What are you doing?” you asked, still focused on the knot.

“So he does not wake and try to kill you,” he replied, as if it were a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Geta approached and swiftly cut the rope at your waist, causing you to gasp as it fell away.

“May you find joy in the company of your husband when he wakes,” he said with a sarcastic smile, gathering the weapons into his arms before departing.

You turned your gaze back to Caracalla’s slumbering form on the bed and let out a resigned sigh.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Turn around, Prima," Caracalla growled, his voice thick and rough as he finally woke up beside you, his sour wine breath blowing hot on your face. You had refused to sleep on the chaise or ground, opting to sleep lightly beside him. In your sleeping state, you had been awoken by his hands grabbing at you. Your first instinct was to move and you did- completely off the bed and towards the door. But before you could make it, he stood, catching you by your waist, yanking you back toward the bed, before losing his footing, still partially drunk, both of you tumbling to the ground.

A hand grabbed your bicep, spinning you around so that you no longer faced him, while his other hand pressed firmly against the delicate flesh of your neck. His breath was heavy upon your cheek, the air slipping from your lungs as he declared, "This marriage shall be consummated, whether you consent or not."

Before you could bring your heel down on his foot or rear back to deliver a stinging slap, Caracalla lifted your tunic to your ribs, forcing you to your knees on the hard flooring, your face pressed against the ornate designs in the marble, as if bowing before the very gods themselves.

"Do you always take your women by force?" you retorted. "Perhaps you cannot find your manhood without—"

Before you could finish, Caracalla's hardened cock filled your ass with a brutal thrust, eliciting a gasp as tears escaped the corners of your tightly shut eyes. "You shall learn to silence that insolent tongue of yours when you enter my chambers," he grunted between each merciless thrust.

"You are a swine, a filthy—"

His foot pressed down upon your jaw, forcing your face deeper into the cool floor, "It seems education was of little importance to your father and mother—have they taught you nothing but insubordination?"

"Do your worst," you managed to utter, your voice muffled against the ground yet laced with defiance. "I shall not be broken by you."

Then, without warning, he withdrew, nearly toppling backwards, leaving you gasping for breath, the sudden absence of his weight disorienting.

With a swift motion, he filled your ass once more, a groan escaping his lips as he gritted his teeth, your body stretching to accommodate him. He found his footing, working you with long, hard strokes. Then, suddenly, he pulled out and thrust deeply into your cunt, spilling his hot seed with a throaty groan.

"You shall learn, Prima," he murmured, his voice laced with a dangerous promise as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Know that my word is final. You shall not speak to Geta again.”

You stayed on the floor, watching as he stumbled back to the bed and climbed in, acting as if nothing had happened between you. His movements were unsteady, but he settled in with an air of nonchalance, as if the chaotic moment just moments before hadn’t even registered to him, making you feel absolutely invisible.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡

Tag list:

@alwaysahiccupandastrid

@justnobodynothingmore

dividers: @ghoulbloggerrr

103 notes · View notes