prettycalla

[prettycalla]

|| ludere ||

Pairing: Caracalla/Reader

Summary: Caracalla is very used to getting what he wants. You prove difficult for him. (Prompt request)

Word Count: 2.6k

Tags and warnings: Reader is a little bratty, Caracalla secretly likes it, suggestive at the end but no smut, no use of Y/N.

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Caracalla is very much used to having anything and everything he desires handed to him with as little as a petulant wave of his hand.

The finest wines, the most luxurious of robes, animals from faraway lands, whatever his impulsive mind decides upon. It is his.

You, however, do not seem to follow Caracalla's lex terrae. How it drives him mad.

And yet, he cannot seem to stop himself from wanting more.

It has become a game of cat and mouse, and you, little mouse that you are, are always able to outwit him at every turn.

He is determined to catch you, no matter how long it takes. Caracalla might be impatient, but he is also very stubborn.

It is early morning, and you have been roused from sleep by your husband already earnestly vying for your affections. He pulls you into his arms, leaning in to kiss you. You tilt your head, and he catches your cheek instead.

A sullen little sigh escapes him.

"Wife, do not be cruel," he murmurs.

You cannot help yourself, even at such an early hour; he is so sweet in his fervour. As apology, you turn your head again, pressing gentle kisses to his jaw and down his neck. He gasps, but before he can reciprocate, you are already wriggling out of his grasp.

"My sweet boy, any more of this and you will be late," you say, feigning a tone of concern.

Caracalla is not to be deterred. He reaches for you again, and you take his hands in yours, pressing gentle kisses along his wrists.

"Your brother will wonder where you are, if you take too long," you continue.

"Let him," Caracalla retorts dismissively, freeing his hands from your hold.

You place your hands on his shoulders, in an attempt to keep him in place.

"But the Senate will be lost without your judgment," you insist. "They will not be able to manage without you."

He pauses, and you hide your smile. You have him.

“You are right,” he says with a heavy sigh.

You nod as he ducks forward to kiss you on the lips. You pull away soon after; a little too quickly for his liking, if his expression is anything to go by.

“I will miss you,” you tell him sadly with a little pout, and that is enough to appease him. For now, at least.

“I will miss you more,” he replies sincerely, as he reluctantly pulls away from you.

You watch him leave, sitting up to blow a little kiss to him before allowing yourself to fall back against the pillows once more. You cannot help but smile to yourself when you hear the groan that escapes him as he leaves to dress for the day.

To a mere bystander, it would look as though you have no love for your husband, but it is not so at all. It is not that you do not want him. On the contrary. You adore him, desire him more than anything in this world. But there is a darker side to your adoration. One that cannot help but tease him, make him wait and beg and squirm. It makes you want him all the more. How you adore the chase, because when he finally catches you - when you let him catch you - it is all the sweeter for it.

It is not long before Caracalla returns. He is now dressed, but not yet made-up. You have already risen and been assisted in dressing, now putting the finishing touches to your attire, when Caracalla all but throws himself into the chair that sits by his vanity table.

“You will assist me,” he tells you.

You cross the room to him, where his little pots of powders and creams are scattered haphazardly all across the table. He owns more than you do, you muse.

“Where is your usual attendant?” you ask, searching through the pots to find the right one.

“I tire of her. She does not have your gentle touch,” he replies.

His tone is shy, almost uncharacteristically so. You smile fondly at him. Finding his favoured pot of crushed red ochre and a brush, you gently tilt his head up.

“I will not disappoint,” you reassure him kindly.

“You never do,” he replies with such sincerity that your heart flutters against your ribcage.

There is a gentleness to your husband that is rarely seen, except by you. How privileged you are.

“Hold still for me,” you say, patting the brush into the powder and gently blowing away the excess.

He obeys as best he can. He has always been a fidgety thing, but you know how hard he is trying to be good for you.

You light stroke the brush across his cheeks, just enough to bring out the colour in his otherwise pale face. He has not closed his eyes; instead watching you with rapt attention as you work. Eventually he begins to fidget once more, lips dropping open as his breaths become shallower.

You do not have much time, you are quick to realise.

As if on cue, his hands wander to your hips, fingers curling into the fabric of your stola. You do not react, having been on the receiving end of his unruly affections many times before. You admire your work instead, gently tilting his head from side to side to ensure you have not painted him unevenly.

Satisfied, you turn your attention back to the table beside you. Not one to be ignored, Caracalla tightens his grip, fingertips leaving little indentations in the fabric. You hum to yourself, pretending you do not notice.

“Carissima,” he murmurs.

The little quiver in his voice is unmistakable.

“Hm? Whatever is the matter?” you ask nonchalantly, picking up and setting down each little pot in turn.

He swallows thickly. You cannot help the smile that touches your lips. How easily he falls prey to his own urges.

“Must we finish this now?” he asks.

You turn to look at him. The quiet desperation in his face makes him all the more beautiful, you think.

“My darling boy,” you coo, “You are the one who asked for my help, are you not?”

His fingers flex against your stola as he nods.

“Yes, but-” he starts, but falters.

You tilt your head to one side, smiling sweetly, almost pedantically at him.

“But what?” you prompt. “Tell me what ails you so.”

Caracalla squeezes his eyes shut for a brief moment.

“You will kiss me,” he commands softly.

It is more akin to a plea. You do as he says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips. He whines as you part. It is not what he wanted. You know that.

“Again,” he insists.

Gently, you reach down and pluck his hands from your dress, kissing each one in turn.

“You must not distract me, my darling,” you tell him, your tone almost apologetic. “Allow me to finish.”

Caracalla looks as though he is on the verge of tears. Reluctantly, he nods, and you place his hands in his lap. You give his thighs a quick squeeze before you straighten up again, revelling in the sharp gasp that passes his lips.

Pretending to have not heard him, you find the pot of colour he uses for his lips and the accompanying brush. You run your finger around the rim of the pot’s lid slowly, deciding whether or not if this is a good idea.

If Caracalla is difficult now, he will only become more so after this. You smile to yourself. It is a fun game, you must admit.

You position him once more, your hand beneath his chin. His own hand reaches for you for a brief moment, before he seems to think better of it.

“Open,” you command in a murmur, not at all missing how his pupils dilate at one little word.

He does as you ask, letting his lips part enough for you to paint them.

He has returned to fidgeting in his need for you, his rings clattering together as his fingers fret with the fabric of his robes.

You feign ignorance, focused on the task at hand. You press ever so slightly too hard at the corner of his mouth, and he gasps.

“Apologies, my darling,” you mutter. “Are you alright?”

He hums softly in reply.

“I am almost finished,” you say softly. “You have been so good for me.”

The tiniest whimper escapes him at your praise. You smile as you take a step back, admiring your work.

“Beautiful,” you tell him, and the natural blush that graces his features renders the powder useless by comparison.

You move to turn when he stops you, fingers tight around your wrist.

“Was there something else?” you ask innocently.

Caracalla looks up at you, wide-eyed and trembling. His painted lips part for a long moment, before he finally closes them with a little shake of his head.

“No,” he replies, his voice little more than a rasp. “Thank you.”

You place a soft kiss at the crown of his head, sidestepping his hands as he impulsively makes to grab for you again.

"I am afraid I must leave you now, my love," you tell him forlornly. "I have matters of my own that I must attend to, and the Senate will soon be fraught with worry over your absence."

Caracalla is fighting a losing battle with himself, you can tell by the distraught look in his eyes. He allows you to leave, and a small part of you feels remorseful for the teasing you have subjected him to.

But how worth it the end result always is, you remind yourself.

Dinner is a rather quiet affair that evening. You take your usual place at Caracalla's side, and he is quick to regale you with the events of his day. He does not tell you that he has missed you, but it is evident in how he speaks. How his hands linger close to you.

You return the favour in kind, fleeting touches across his skin and whispered words in his ear that cause goosebumps to rise in their wake. It is not long before he is squirming.

How much further can you push him, you wonder.

You must take your time. Caracalla is easily flustered, but he is not one to be quiet about it. One wrong move, and he will have no qualms with exposing your little game to the entire room.

You continue as you are for a while, not daring to press too hard too soon. It is not long before the rustling of fabric catches your attention, and you glance under the table. Caracalla's leg is bouncing, as it is prone to doing when he is feeling overwrought.

Your hand drops to his thigh, in what you hope masquerades as a comforting touch. His eye catches yours as you do so, and you give him a warm smile, playing the role of adoring wife perfectly, as you always do. It is not hard after all; you do adore him so.

Your hand remains there for a time, and Caracalla eventually becomes distracted once more. Only when he lifts his cup of wine to his lips do you dare to take your little game another step. You let your hand slide up further, until it reaches the very top of his thigh, and squeeze.

Caracalla splutters into his cup, trying not to choke on his mouthful of wine. Geta turns his attention to him from across the table.

"Are you quite alright?" he asks.

"Oh, you poor thing," you say before Caracalla can answer, lifting your hand to gently rub his back. "You must have taken too much wine at once."

Caracalla turns to you then, bright gaze narrowing into a glare. You would be concerned, if it were not for the splotches of blush that have spread across his face. You give him an innocent smile, pressing a light kiss to his cheek, before deciding to give the poor man a break. For the rest of dinner, at least.

As you suspected, Caracalla's patience quickly wears thin with your incessant teasing. You are surprised that he has managed to last as long as he has.

It is late, and you have both retired for the evening, although sleep is far from Caracalla's mind. He has you settled in his lap on the bed, as you gently run your hands through his soft curls, his golden laurels long since abandoned. The lantern candles are beginning to burn low, and yet he has still to take what he wants from you. Like a wisp of incense smoke in the air, you always seem to evade his grasp.

“You are a siren, I am sure of it,” he murmurs, as you once again divert his hands from their path to your chest.

He whines, and you cannot stop the breathy laugh that escapes you.

“I am?” you ask. “I have no knowledge of this.”

“You lure me into your clutches with your sweet song, before sending me to my demise, again and again,” he continues, his hands changing direction to grip your hips.

You let out a little gasp at his touch.

“Surely you do not think so lowly of me,” you say, head tilting to one side, as if he has hurt your feelings.

“On the contrary,” he replies.

His fingers press deeper against your skin. He is sure to leave little bruises, and he seems pleased by this. He looks up at you then, eyes wide and full of awe.

“I think so highly of you that I cannot stand it.”

You trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips, nails gently scratching his skin. He lets out another whine, louder this time. Your smile widens.

“Kiss me,” he commands, one hand sliding up along your back to press you closer to him.

You lean back, just enough to make him work for what he wants. His hand begins to tremble slightly from exertion.

“I would love nothing more, but…”

You trail off, tracing little patterns across his chest with a sigh.

Caracalla huffs, his patience having entirely unravelled. It is a dangerous game you play.

“You will not deny me what I have asked for,” he says lowly, temper flaring.

You meet his gaze, your eyebrows raised in a look of sympathy.

“I do not recall that you asked,” you reply airily. “Rather, you made demands of me."

His eyes narrow at your words. You refuse to look away, instead leaning in until you are mere millimetres away from giving him what he wants.

“One little word, Caracalla,” you whisper, your breath ghosting against his lips. “That is all I ask of you.”

His eyes widen. The brilliant blue almost entirely swallowed up by his pupils, dilated now at your words.

How you wish you could laugh, but you dare not move.

Caracalla’s tongue darts out nervously to wet his lip.

"Please," he says in a choked breath.

"Please what?" you press in a teasing manner.

You cannot help yourself. To have him like this, so desperate, wanting, desirous of you - it is addictive.

Please, will you kiss me?" he asks in a soft, trembling voice.

You are quick to relent. You are only human after all, in spite of Caracalla's accusations. You kiss him, and all too quickly, he is pressing himself up against you and pushing you down onto your back. What little restraint he had left is now gone; his need for you entirely overwhelming his senses.

"You will drive me to ruin," he murmurs, as he leaves biting kisses along the length of your neck.

Only a sharp gasp escapes you in response; the urge to tease him has left you entirely. You want this as much as he does, and you will not deny yourself, or your poor husband, any longer.

It is not a loss on your part, as your robes are carelessly thrown to the floor; it is most certainly a victory for you both.

TAGLIST 💖: @glassbxttless @lover-rep-fanfic @punkrockmlchael

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[prettycalla]

This is a continuation of the betrothed!reader blurb series as decided by [this] poll, thank you! (also it's more like empress!reader now...)

[ prior betrothed!reader entry can be found here ]

“And the brothels, they have been… rowdy, as of late,” A senator spoke, his hands clasped together. “The men grow restless. We should consider advancing the start of the next campaign.”

Another senator rose. “You would go against the general’s request for leave?”

You could see it from a mile away. Geta was dreadfully bored.

He tried to hide it, tried to appear as though he enjoyed this part of his title, but you knew far better. 

His eyes slid over slowly to you, a smile growing as they raked over your hair, the laurels he placed there despite your protests shining.

They suited you, he thought.

Your smile as you registered his gaze passing over you. The way your fingers moved to play at his, dangling off the arm of the throne. He loved all of it.

Right as he leaned over to speak with you, to offer some small promise of what he’d ask of you after these meetings were over, he was interrupted.

“Emperor?”

The questioning voice cut through his small moment of happiness. His eyes darkened as he looked back at the toga-clad man, who seemed to very much regret his interruption.

“You have something you wish to say that is so important? As if you all haven’t been bickering the entire afternoon?”

Geta’s hand left your knee.

“Are you sure her presence in these chambers is… necessary?”

He was trying so very hard not to be rude, but failed entirely.

Your hands clung to Geta’s wrists, recognizing the tension growing in him, but he slipped out of your grip easily, stalking forward out of his throne.

“You misunderstand, Senator. That,” he pointed to you, “is our Empress, and you owe her your respect, for we are all at her whims.”

“It is just abnormal, Caesar,” the senator attempted to explain.

Geta became quite terrifying. “Abnormal? Are you men so weak that you cannot handle the sight of her in your midst?”

“She has bewitched you, Emperor,” someone else called out.

Geta’s fury focused in on a single target. He stalked forward, holding a hand out for a sword, the sound of it being drawn by the loyal Praetorian sending chills down everyone’s spines.

It was leveled at this Senator. 

Geta was aware of the sharpness, of the bite of the blade, even as he held it against the man’s neck. If his heart beat any harder, the movement would split the vessel across the blade with how tightly it was pressed to his skin.

“I will give you only one opportunity to retract your blatantly false and ridiculous statement.”

“Kill him,” Caracalla grinned.

Geta rolled his eyes, turning back to speak with his brother. “I’m not going to kill him,” he spoke, slightly exasperated. 

Caracalla frowned.

As Geta returned his attention to the Senator before him, the man raised his hands, held together.

“Forgive me, Emperor. It was a moment of madness. I did not mean to insult her.”

“Her?”

“O-Our Empress, Caesar.”

“That’s right. My Empress. And there will not be another word about it. Ever.”

He tossed the sword aside, letting it clatter to the ground, sliding right over to stop at the feet of the Senator that brought up the topic in the first place, as if daring him to pick it up.

He did not. 

As the Praetorian collected the sword, unbothered, possibly quite used to the twins’ antics, Geta slid back into his seat. 

“Do you feel better now, dear husband?” you whispered, eyes alight with mischief. 

His lips slid back into that easy smile, his eyes darting down to look at you. “Quite.”

[prettycalla]

I've made a taglist form for my fics! You can find it here if you're interested!

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[prettycalla]

|| here for a moment ||

Pairing: Eddie/Reader

Summary: Eddie stays over at your place, and you help him with his hair.

Word count: 1.6k

Tags and warnings: Fluff, established relationship, no use of Y/N.

(Did I have any clue what I was doing when I wrote this? No. Does it make sense? Man, I hope so. Just wanted an excuse to write some fluffy Eddie while I'm working on a Caracalla request.)

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It's a funny sort of domestic routine you've both fallen into.

At this point, Eddie's probably staying at your place more than he is his own. He has his own drawer for his clothes in your bedroom, and his tapes and books are slowly starting to mix in with yours.

Neither of you have been able to brave the talk about moving in together just yet, but you're comfortable and happy with the way things are right now. Why try and fix what isn't broken, right?

You're curled up on the couch one evening with a handful of takeout menus in front of you, trying to decide what to order for dinner. You hear Eddie come out of the bathroom, a wall of steam flooding out behind him. His hair is a tangled, dripping mess hanging over his face as he tries to wrestle his still-wet ass back into his boxers, hopping precariously on one foot.

"Eddie, for Christ's sake," you say with a groan as you catch him from the corner of your eye.

Ever prepared for your boyfriend's antics, you take the pyjamas you'd laid out for him - an old band t-shirt and plaid bottoms - and toss them across the room.

"You're an angel. Thanks, baby," Eddie replies, letting his boxers drop to his ankles as he picks up the clothes laying on the ground.

You roll your eyes. He's gonna be the death of you.

He dresses himself, struggling to push his soaking wet hair out of his face as he heads for your bedroom.

"Do you have a comb or something I can borrow?" he calls. "Never mind, found your brush!"

You immediately scramble after him, snatching the brush out of his hand before he has a chance to put it anywhere near the bird's nest that sits on his head.

"Don't you dare," you grumble, setting it back on the dresser. "You'll break it."

Eddie pulls a face. "Well, what am I supposed to do? I don’t have anything with me," he says.

You grab the sleeve of his T-shirt in reply, pulling him with you as you find a towel and make your way back to the living room. You sit down on the couch, tossing a cushion on the floor in front of you.

"Sit there," you tell him.

He looks at you, confused, but does as you say, settling himself between your legs. You gather up sections of his hair with the towel, gently pressing it in an attempt to soak up some of the water.

"Y'know, it might be easier if you just let me run around outside and shake myself dry," he jokes.

"That's not a bad idea, actually," you reply with a mischievous smile. "I mean you eat and shed like a dog. Should probably make you sleep out there too."

Eddie turns to you, pretending to be offended, and you drop the damp towel over his face. With a strangled yelp, he snatches it away, glaring at you. Or tries to, at least. His hair is all over his face again. You can't help but laugh at him.

"You're so mean," he says, and you can hear the pretend pout in his voice.

You lift the towel again and continue where you left off.

"Oh, I am not," you reply, "Would I be doing this for you if I was so mean, huh?"

You run your fingers along his neck, pulling a laugh from him.

"Huh?" you insist, smiling.

"No, you wouldn't," Eddie relents grouchily. "Because you're perfect. Best thing that's ever happened to me. Happy now?"

He says it a silly, exaggerated voice, and yet you can't help the little breath that hitches in your throat.

"You mean that?" you ask quietly, dropping the pretence of arguing.

Eddie pushes his hair out of his eyes and leans his head back to look up at you, big brown eyes full of sincerity.

"'Course I do," he murmurs. "You are the best thing that's ever happened to me."

You lean down to press a kiss to his lips. He kisses you back, and you can feel him smiling against you.

"Except maybe my guitar," he mutters against your mouth, his soft smile quickly turning into a shit-eating grin.

You lightly smack his arm in reply. He just laughs.

"I can just leave you to do this yourself, y'know," you tell him, as if it wasn't your idea to begin with.

"Oh, that's fine," Eddie replies with a nonchalant shrug. "I can take care of it, no problem."

He starts slowly shaking his head back and forth, and your eyes widen.

"Eddie," you warn, "Don't you dare."

You shriek as Eddie violently shakes his head, sending water everywhere. You're off the couch in an instant, tackling him to the ground to make him stop.

"I take it back, you're worse than a dog," you scold.

Eddie doesn't say anything, just looking up at you from the floor.

"What?" you ask, a little nervously.

He always freaks you out when he goes quiet like that.

"Eddie," you try again, chewing at your bottom lip.

Eddie smiles up at you, a slow, lazy smile that brings out his dimples. He shakes his head.

"Nothing," he finally replies. "Just wondering how I got so damn lucky, that's all."

A blush creeps over your face at his words. How does he manage to be both a pain in the ass and the sweetest guy in the world at the same time? You tell him as much, and he dramatically clutches at his chest.

"I'm wounded," he says, straining his voice for effect.

He's a nuisance at the best of times, but you can't help the fondness you have for him. He makes you laugh until you're in tears, listens to you like you're the only person in the world that matters. Makes you feel safe, even at your worst. He's like no one you've ever met.

"Still with me, sweetheart?" he calls softly.

You nod, embarrassed that you were clearly caught staring. Eddie lets his hands wander to the hem of your shirt, tugging at the fabric gently.

"C'mere," he says, his tone uncharacteristically shy all of a sudden.

You frown at him, confused, until he reaches up, pressing his hand to the back of your neck and pulling you down to kiss him. It's soft and slow and everything Eddie lets himself be when he's around you.

You could easily let yourself stay there all night, wrapped up in his arms - if Eddie's hair wasn't currently leaving a slowly spreading puddle across the floor. You reluctantly pull away from him, pressing a little kiss to the tip of his nose as you sit up.

"Come on, get up," you say, as you manage to climb off him and back onto the couch. "I'm not done with you yet."

Eddie just blinks up at you. "I wasn't done with you," he grumbles, eventually dragging himself into a sitting position again.

You bite back a smile, refusing to take the bait as you continue where you left off. Once you're satisfied that you're no longer under threat of being soaked again, you drop the towel on the floor, focusing your efforts on trying to detangle the mess of hair in front of you. You begin prying his curls apart gently with your fingers, taking care to ease out the little knots so as not to hurt him.

Eddie tries to make an effort to look through the takeout menus you'd forgotten about, but after a while, his interest wanders as you work at his hair. He's clearly enjoying the attention, if the little hums escaping him are anything to go by.

“You doing okay down there?” you ask with a little laugh.

“Sweetheart, this is fuckin’ heaven, you know that?” he says lazily.

He sounds as though he’s about to fall asleep, and judging by the way his head is starting to droop, he probably is. You reach around to give him a soft tap on the cheek and he jerks upright again.

"Hey, sleepyhead, don't doze off on me. I'm almost done, okay?" you say gently.

He just grunts in response as he tries to rouse himself. You're not faring much better if you're honest - the repetitive motion of separating his curls, as well as Eddie's weight and warmth against you, is strangely soothing.

Eventually, you've done about as much as you can, and you gently shake Eddie by the shoulder. He lets out a very attractive snort as he jolts out of the doze he'd drifted into.

"All done," you tell him. "Well, it's the best I could do."

Eddie turns around, leaning his arms against your legs.

"What would I do without you?" he asks, smiling up at you.

You lightly squeeze his face between your hands.

"Do you really want me to answer that?" you ask in turn, your tone teasing.

Eddie laughs, gently pulling your hands away from his face to press a kiss to each of them.

"You're on menu duty until I get back, okay?" you tell him.

He gives you a little salute as you grab the towel from the floor and stand up, stretching your back out as you do. Eddie immediately dives for the couch as soon as you're up.

"Aw, babe, you kept my seat warm for me," he teases with a little grin.

You roll your eyes at him as you head to the bathroom. Eddie watches you go before focusing on the very important task you've set him.

“Eddie?" you shout from the bathroom, "Did you use all of my shampoo?!"

If the empty bottle in your hand wasn't proof enough, the loud thump as he falls off the couch in a frantic scramble to get out of your line of fire certainly is.

(banners by @ cafekitsune)

[prettycalla]

Thank you for keeping the Michael nation fed 🫡

Thank you for sending such a lovely message! 🥺 There are some amazing Michael writers here, so I’m really happy that there are people who like my little contributions too 🫶

[prettycalla]

|| venenum paradiso ||

Pairing: Geta/Empress!Reader

Summary: Geta has some very traditional views that are not to your tastes. You decide to put him in his place. (Request fill)

Word count: 4k

Tags and warnings: Smut (not explicitly described, but still obvious!), period-typical sexism, bickering, submissive Geta, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!

(I wrote a little blurb a while ago and decided to make it in a bigger fic. I had to scrap the original idea because I was getting way too into the lore, and let's be real, we're not here for that, we're here for Geta smut. Also read up a Lot on sexuality in Ancient Rome, and wow, did they have Opinions.)

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Of all the men you have encountered in your life, your husband is perhaps one of the most frustrating at times.

It is not often that you argue, you are patient enough that you are willing to agree to disagree on many matters. But there are occasions when it feels as though you are on the brink of war with him.

He is stubborn, infuriatingly so, and there are times when it takes everything in your power to hold your tongue.

However, even you, diplomatic and gracious as you are, have your limits.

Geta holds certain views that are...traditional, to say the least. You are not of the same mindset.

It had started over a passing remark. A mere flight of fancy that you had had late one night, as you had laid together in bed. Of being brought to release by your husband's mouth. At worst, you assume he will think nothing of it.

How full of surprises he is.

He is rather quick to remark that he does not believe a man of his rank and status should subject himself to something so...unbecoming.

It is not so much his words, but the manner in which he says them. As if his archaic opinion is fact. How your blood boils. Then, an eerie feeling of calm washes over you. You hum in response, teeth clenched behind a tight smile.

Oh, you are most certainly at war now. And you, you will be the victor, you are certain of it.

He does not notice at first, as on the surface, you are treating him no differently than any other day.

Eventually, it starts to click into place. You will not stay long in his embrace, you shy away from his touch, you turn your head with a tight-lipped smile when he tries to kiss you.

“Wife,” he demands one night as you are readying yourself for bed. “You are angry with me. Why?”

You lay down your hairbrush on the table, turning to face him.

“Whatever has led you to that conclusion?” you ask in turn, in an unassuming tone.

“You have been treating me with disdain for the better part of two days now. I tire of it,” he tells you, with all the grace of a spoiled child.

“Surely you are imagining things,” you say airily.

“Do not insult me,” he spits.

You give him a look of feigned surprise. “As if I would ever do such a thing.”

“You will tell me what I have done,” he insists.

You brush past him on the way to bed, slipping under the covers.

“You will figure it out for yourself,” you reply. “Goodnight.”

You turn your back to him, leaving him to stand there and process your words. It is a while before he joins you. You feel his hand hover near you, but you ignore it under the pretence of sleep. Eventually, he moves away, and you cannot help the smile that creeps onto your face as he lets out an irritated sigh.

His mood only worsens from there. When you wake the next morning, he is already dressed for the day ahead.

"Did you sleep well?" you ask with a yawn.

Geta glares at you with tired eyes, but does not allow himself to fall prey to it, turning his attention to more pressing matters.

"I trust you remember that we are to attend a banquet tonight," he tells you. "I will have you by my side, as my loving wife."

You do not miss the warning that lingers in his words.

“Would you have me any other way?” you ask, the very picture of innocence.

He does not reply, instead reaching across the bed to kiss you before he leaves. You conveniently choose that moment to get up, leaving him to stumble and fall onto the bed as he misses you entirely.

The quiet snarl that escapes him is quite the reward, you must admit. Embarrassed, he storms out, leaving you alone to your morning routine. You smile to yourself. Perhaps you should not be enjoying this as much as you are, but he does make it so easy for you.

You do not see Geta again until early evening, as he is kept busy for much of the day with meetings with senators and patricians. When you arrive at the grand hall, he is already seated and deep in conversation. You cannot help but notice how decadently he is dressed, in robes of the richest reds and golds, adorned with the most beautiful jewellery, and golden laurels sit atop his fiery hair. It is far too much, even for an event such as this, and you bite back a smile. Geta only dresses in such a manner when he is upset. And judging by the look he has now levelled on you, he is furious.

He quickly schools his expression into something more fitting of a loving husband as you draw near, taking the fawning and flattery of the surrounding crowd in your stride as always.

"Wife," he murmurs, with a smile that is reminiscent of a shark.

He takes your hand in his, lifting it to his lips to press a kiss to the back of it.

Your attention wanders as he does so. He attempts to pull you towards him, but you do not budge.

"Come, you will sit by me," he says pleasantly.

You shake your head, slipping your hand from his tight grasp.

"Oh, no, I could not possibly interrupt your conversation," you reply, "Please, you must stay with the senator."

Geta opens his mouth to argue, but you have already turned away. Caracalla has been watching the entire scene unfold before him from across the table with rapt attention, and he grins at you.

"Gentlemen, if you will excuse me," you say politely, with an incline of your head.

You take the seat next to Caracalla, who in turn looks to his brother to find him seething. Never one for subtlety, Caracalla giggles loudly, turning his attention to you.

“My dear sister, whatever has your poor husband done now?” he asks, inelegantly swirling the wine around in his cup before taking a drink.

His voice carries far enough across the table for the guests to glance up curiously. Geta looks as though he wishes for nothing more than to throw himself across the table and strangle his brother.

You smile as you pat Caracalla’s arm in a good-natured manner.

“Now, now. Is it not enough for me to sit by you and enjoy your company?” you ask innocently.

His eyes are on you then, his gaze sharp and scrutinising. A wide smile slowly breaks out across his face.

“Of course,” he replies, almost giddily.

He leans in to you, his voice dropping low enough that only you can hear.

“What games you play,” he whispers slyly.

You laugh then, your eyes drifting to where Geta sits. To a mere bystander, he would look the very image of a man deeply engrossed in political conversation, but you know him better than anyone. He is clutching the cup in his hand with such ferocity that his knuckles are have lost all colour, and his jaw twitches from clenching so hard.

You are beginning to feel pity for him. But he must learn.

You are rather quickly distracted once again by Caracalla, who is making quite a spectacle of himself by reaching over people who are trying to eat to acquire food for Dondus. She is perched on his shoulders, her little hands clutching at his messy hair to balance herself.

He unceremoniously falls back into his seat, arranging his spoils in front of him. He lifts a grape up and Dondus greedily snatches it from him, pawing at it before she bites into it.

"Would you like to feed her?" he asks, holding out some walnuts.

"Of course," you reply, taking one and holding it out to the little monkey.

Dondus sniffs at it for a moment, not as familiar with your scent, before she takes it from you.

"What a sweet girl you are," you coo at her.

"Isn't she?" Caracalla agrees proudly, as he scratches under her chin.

The evening continues to pass as pleasantly in Caracalla's company. He regales you with stories, making you laugh until there are tears in your eyes. You have almost forgotten about your husband.

Almost.

As if on cue, Geta rises from his seat.

"Excuse me," he announces to the table. "I must withdraw for the evening. Please, stay and enjoy yourselves."

You watch him leave, his agitation evident in how he holds himself.

Caracalla tilts his head closer to you. "Do you think he has suffered enough?" he asks mischievously.

Not quite, you think to yourself.

It is another hour or so before you retire for the night as well. As you had suspected, Geta has returned to your chambers and is very much awake, pacing back and forth across the length of the room, as he has likely been doing since he returned.

"You finally grace me with your presence, Augusta," he says.

Beyond the public's prying eyes, he only ever calls you by your title when he is angry with you.

"I thought you would be asleep by the time I returned," you reply.

You cross the room to your vanity table, sitting down to begin your nightly routine. Geta drags the chair out to stand in front of you, demanding your attention. You look up at him. He is seething. You, by contrast, are quite unaffected.

"You seem to have forgotten your place," he says through gritted teeth.

He will not be ignored.

You tilt your head with a feigned look of confusion. "And where, exactly, is that?" you ask.

"Wherever I wish it to be," he replies. "If I want you by my side, you will be by my side."

He bends down, hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly as he looms over you. His expression is glowering, his intense eyes made all the more so by the flickering lantern light.

"If I command you, you will obey," he says lowly.

There is a side to Geta that will rear its ugly head when he has been slighted. It craves power and control, and will not rest until both are firmly in its clutches. In the beginning, it was persistent, constant, as he was terrified of allowing you to see him for who he truly is. With time and patience, you were finally able to tame the raging beast, to prove to him that you would not hurt him, that you loved him.

The beast is raging once more, but you are no longer frightened of it. You are more than equipped to put it back in its place.

You merely smile in response. He does not like that. He straightens then, drawing himself up to his full height. His stubborn petulance is almost endearing, if not growing a little tiresome.

“You will kneel for your Emperor,” he commands.

You cross your legs as you look up at him with a serene expression. Even with the advantage of height between the two of you, he looks like a little boy in the midst of a tantrum.

You feel powerful. It is intoxicating.

“If you wish something of me, husband,” you say, “you will ask nicely.”

Geta’s eye twitches at your words, biting the inside of his cheek in irritation.

“I will do no such thing,” he says at last.

“Oh, you will,” you reply, your voice light and airy, as if you are discussing something as mundane as the weather.

You stand up, not bothering to push the chair back, uncaring of the close proximity between the two of you. Your hands slide from the arms of the chair and up along his stomach, his chest - light, teasing - before they fall at your sides once more.

“Because I tire of this discussion, and I am quite certain you have had more than enough of this argument of ours."

You hold his gaze.

“Wouldn’t you agree?” you ask.

Geta laughs, but it is without a trace of humour.

"At last you admit it," he says. "You are angry with me."

You tap your finger to your chin, as if in contemplation.

"What was it that you called me? 'Unbecoming', was it?" you ask.

Geta blanches. Now he remembers, and too late he is.

“Wife-” he starts, but you shake your head to silence him.

“No, I quite understand," you say readily, as if you truly agree with him. "I can only imagine how unbecoming it would be, to have me in such a manner.”

You lean in closer to him, your breath ghosting along his ear. He shivers.

“Beneath you, undressed and unmade, entirely at your mercy and in the throes of pleasure,” you continue.

You let out a pitiful little sigh.

“How…vulgar,” you finish, pulling away from him.

Geta watches you carefully. For once, he is without words. He swallows thickly. His eyes dart to one side for the briefest moment before meeting your gaze once more.

“This is a fool’s errand,” he says through clenched teeth.

It would sound threatening, if the waver in his voice wasn't his undoing.

“Then I am a fool,” you reply simply. “But I am a fool of my convictions.”

You try to brush by him when his hand suddenly lashes out, grabbing your arm. You stop quickly in your tracks, your heart beating at a racing pace. You keep your expression as neutral as you can manage.

“Oh, by all means, you may command me again,” you murmur. “But the victory will not be as sweet, I assure you.”

You have him there. Gently, you pluck at his fingers. To your surprise, he lets go as easily as that. For a moment, you watch each other, as if neither of you can dare to look away. To show weakness. Time seems to slow.

Geta is the first to break.

“What do you want of me?” he asks.

You pretend to think about it for a moment, before fixing him with a determined stare.

“Kneel," you reply simply.

Geta’s eyes widen, his expression a mixture of exasperation and anger.

“How dare-“

“Kneel, or leave me,” you say, as if he had not spoken. “Those are your choices.”

He opens his mouth again, and you wait for the inevitable chastising for daring to suggest that an Emperor commit such a lowly act that was to come.

But it does not.

Without breaking away from your gaze, Geta slowly sinks to his knees in front of you.

Surely the Gods have called you to them earlier than planned. You were insistent on breaking his resolve, but you had no idea that he would actually listen to you.

You must be dreaming. And what a beautiful dream he makes. His dark eyes are fixed on you; small, shallow breaths falling from his trembling lips.

Truly, he is a sight to behold.

Slowly, you reach out a hand, your touch light as you hook your fingers under his chin.

“Good boy,” you murmur, and the shudder that runs through him at your words will surely stay with you until your last mortal breath.

"What would you have me do?" he asks in a whisper.

You do not answer. Instead you run your thumb gently across his chin, back and forth, back and forth. He is trembling under your touch, you realise with a smile to yourself.

"What was it that you would have had me do?" you ask in turn.

You lean in closer to him, your grip on his chin tightening ever so slightly.

"When you came here, and so crassly asked me to kneel for you," you continue. "What was it that you desired of me?"

You drag your fingertips along the column of Geta's throat. He swallows thickly, and you feel the sensation against your skin.

"I…" he begins to say.

His voice cracks, and he falters.

“I wished to have you as you have me now,” he says at last, his voice rough.

“Go on,” you insist. “What was I to do?”

His tongue darts out to wet his lip. Shame burns at his cheeks. How it amuses you to see him like this.

“Is it not enough that you have humiliated me-” he starts, his temper flaring up once more.

You press a finger to his lips, silencing him.

“I have done no such thing,” you reply. “I have held no sword to your throat, no poison to your lips. I am but a woman before a God.”

You move closer still, your lips dangerously close to brushing against his.

“Though I did not know that Gods could be broken so easily,” you whisper with a wide smile.

You feel him lean in and you quickly pull back. He loses his balance and his hands reach out, pressing against your thighs to steady himself. You step out of his range entirely and he falls on all fours with a snarl.

You are enjoying yourself far too much.

“Please, finish your tale,” you say as you sit down once more.

Geta clenches his fists, but does not move.

“I would…I would have had you undressed. On your knees and entirely at my mercy,” he spits.

“Quite the picture you paint,” you muse. “But I wonder…”

You reach forward, your hands plucking the delicate laurels from atop Geta’s head. You gently twirl them back and forth in your grasp, admiring the craftsmanship of each detail.

Geta looks as though he wishes to squeeze the life from you. He does not move.

Without breaking his gaze, you gently place the laurels on yourself.

“I wonder if it would be as pleasurable as you say,” you finish with a mischievous smile.

You crook your finger in a pedantic manner at him, beckoning him closer to you. To your surprise, he obeys, crawling the short distance between the two of you.

You run your hand gently through his hair. His eyes slip closed at your touch. You drag your hand down to the base of his neck, where your grip suddenly tightens and you wrench his head back. A sharp hiss escapes his throat, but he does not move to stop you.

"You will undress," you tell him. "And you will not keep me waiting."

Geta looks at you with wide eyes, as if wondering where you have been hiding this side of yourself. You are wondering that yourself.

You hold his gaze, looking down the length of your nose at him from where you sit. Unblinking, unwavering. Daring him to defy you. The very image of an Empress.

Geta moves to stand, and you shake your head.

"Surely you can manage from where you sit," you say airily. "I have been witness to you doing so in much worse states."

He starts slow, dropping each piece of jewellery to the floor with a loud clatter, in the hopes of irritating you. You, by contrast, are thoroughly enjoying yourself. Finally, he begins to remove his robes, leaving them in a scattered heap on the floor.

He looks up at you again, feigning an air of disinterest. It does not fool you. The flush that runs from his neck to his chest speaks volumes. You lean forward, running your hands from the curve of his hips up across his torso to his chest, your fingertips skirting just shy of the places he desperately wants you to touch.

"How long do you intend to shame me like this?" he demands of you.

His voice is strained, choked even. He has never looked more beautiful to you than he does now.

"My dear husband," you coo, "You act as though this is torture."

Geta glares at you, and you laugh, a soft breath of a sound.

"You will give me what I want," you tell him, leaning back in your chair. "And we will have no more of this silly argument."

He opens his mouth to speak, when his gaze drifts downwards, to where you have begun dragging your stola up along your legs. You part your thighs, unable to hide the smile on your face at the sight of Geta's mouth dropping open.

"Wife," he manages to whisper, his mouth dry.

"Yes?" you ask innocently. "Whatever is the matter, husband?"

Geta has entirely given up on trying to remain angry with you. You know that look on his face all too well. He is a starving man, and you, you are a banquet laid out for him to indulge in.

You hold out your hands to him, and he tentatively takes them, allowing you to pull him closer. You can feel him trembling against you.

"I will show you what to do," you tell him in a patronising tone. "But you are a quick study, I am certain you will not disappoint me."

You place your hands on his face, nails gently scratching at his skin. He shivers, a soft moan involuntarily escaping him.

"Do not keep me waiting," you warn with a roguish smile.

You presume he will drag things out further, continue to argue, dress himself and storm out in a rage - but he surprises you, rough hands pushing at your thighs to give you exactly what you want from him.

A sharp gasp escapes your lips at the feel of his tongue against you. He is frantic, messy, pathetically inexperienced in his movements. But oh, how filthy he feels against you.

You drag your hands through his hair, gripping hard as you press yourself closer to his mouth. He groans then, and the vibration of it has your eyes rolling back.

You have never felt pleasure quite like it. It vexes you that he has kept an experience such as this from you for so long. All because of something as pitiful as his pride.

As you had suspected, Geta is indeed quick to learn, and he finally finds a rhythm that soon leaves you shaking against him. It's so much, too much all at once, and you try to press your legs closed, but his hands hold firm against you, keeping you open and pliant for him. Gods, how you adore him like this. As wanting and hungry as he has left you.

"That's it," you tell him, a tremor in your voice as your nails scratch at his scalp. "Good boy."

Your words elicit another moan from his pretty throat, and the sound of it, his mouth, his tongue, his desperation, has you falling from the precipice you have been so precariously dangling from. Your climax hits you like a shockwave, leaving you trembling and breathless against him. Geta does not stop, not until you release your grip on him.

He slowly sits up, still kneeling between your legs as he looks up at you. He has the audacity to look pleased with himself, but it is you who has truly won. After all, you were finally able to wear your prideful husband down to seeing how ridiculous he has been, even if he will never admit it.

He runs his tongue across his lips in a crude attempt to clean himself up, his dark eyes almost black with desire. You let out a breathless laugh, allowing yourself to slump into your chair.

"Surely you have something to say to me, do you not?" you ask, propping your chin against your hand.

Geta briefly breaks your gaze, a heavy breath escaping him. This is torment for him, and you know it. Knowing how desperate he is for your touch in this very moment, and here you are, demanding that he tell you that you were right.

How you revel in it.

"Wife," he starts.

It is an attempt to warn you, but he is so choked up in his need for you that it falls flat.

"Husband," you reply with a lazy smile.

"What would you have me say?" he says, words all but catching in his throat as you lean forward to take him in hand, touching precisely where he needs you right now.

"Tell me that I was right," you reply, stroking him in the exact manner that has him arching into your touch.

"You were-" he begins, stumbles, "Gods-"

"Say it," you murmur, "And I will give you exactly what you desire."

"Please," he whispers desperately, placing a hand on your cheek. "Wife, I-"

"Say it," you hiss, your touch teetering just on the edge of too much.

"You were right," he gasps, "You were right, I was wrong, just please, please-"

Never have you seen him in such a state. He is mesmerising, his eyes glassy as he aches for release.

And who are you to deny him, when he begs so prettily?

"Such a good boy you are, Geta," you whisper in his ear, and just like that, the sound of his name falling from your lips in such a sultry tone has him falling apart, unravelling in your grasp.

Geta all but collapses into your arms, a trembling mess.

It takes him a moment to return to himself, shaky little breaths escaping him as you hold him. Eventually, he rights himself, looking up at you. All of his rage, his fury, all of it has been washed away. He kneels before you not as a merciless Emperor, but as a mortal, who has been thoroughly put in his place.

You lightly brush your nose against his, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"Well?" you ask. "Have you quite learned your lesson?"

Geta attempts to glare at you, but the fight has truly left him. He places his hands on your face, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth.

"Perhaps...I will reconsider my opinion on the matter," he replies, almost shyly.

It is difficult not to feel smug, you must admit.

After all, you have won.

(banners by @ cafekitsune)

[prettycalla]

Okay! Caracalla, Geta, and…………..Acacius? Trying to keep it all G2.

Oh man, okay. I really had to think about this for a second because my answers kept changing every three seconds.

Fuck

Geta. It’s gotta be Geta. Look at him, he’s the definition of wound-up too tight and how could I not wanna [REDACTED], y’know?? I wanna bite him, he’s so big and pretty with those big, brown eyes.

Marry

Caracalla. That’s my wife and I love her. Would I last more than a month before he gets bored of me and has me executed? Probably not, but! I don’t care, he’d be worth it. He’s feral and chaotic and we’d be awful for each other. Sign me up.

Kiss

If I was normal, the answer to all three of these should be Acacius, but alas, I am not. I know he’d be super soft and sweet and it’d be like kissing a prince in a fairytale.

[prettycalla]

|| careful impulse ||

Pairing: Michael/Reader

Summary: You haven't been taking care of yourself, forcing Michael to do something about it.

Word count: 2473

Tags and warnings: Fluff, smut (not super explicit, but it's still obvious), Michael is a sweetheart (even if he is a little mean about it), smoking mention, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!

(For @glassbxttless - I hope this is okay! Also I swear I'm not turning into a Michael account. I have a 4k Geta fic that I'm in the process of editing and I'm working on a Caracalla one too!)

Masterlist

You’ve been hunched over your sketchbook for the better part of the day now. You haven’t moved, haven’t eaten, nothing. Your designs are due in by Monday, leaving you with barely over a day to finish.

You're on the verge of tears. Hours and hours of work you've put into this, and you just can't. Get. It. Right.

“You can’t sit like that all day,” Michael says, watching you from across the room.

He’s leaning in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest.

You don’t answer him, instead furiously erasing the same line for the fifth time.

“Are you even listening to me?” he asks irritably.

You let out a frustrated breath through your nose, but say nothing. You have to finish this.

Michael tuts in annoyance, crossing the room to stand in front of you.

“When was the last time you ate something?” he asks, looming over you.

“It’s not finished,” you say through clenched teeth.

“I don’t care. When was the last time you ate?” he asks again, pressing.

You shrug one shoulder, still scribbling.

Michael reaches down and takes the pencil out of your hand, tossing it across the room. You glare up at him, furious.

“I’m trying to work,” you snap at him.

“Yeah, well, you’re not getting anywhere, are you?” he replies. “You’ve been on that same bit for an hour.”

“Just because you have nothing to do-“ you start to say, but he interrupts you.

“This has nothing to do with me,” he shoots back. “You. Need to stop.”

“I can’t, I’m not finished,” you tell him with a frustrated sniffle.

You’re not about to start crying over this. You’re not.

Michael crouches down in front of you, resting his hands on your knees. His touch is warm against your skin. You want to lean into it so badly, but you have to finish.

“Hey. Look at me,” he says softly, pressing his fingers under your chin to tilt your head up.

Reluctantly, you meet his gaze. He doesn’t look happy with you, but his eyes are soft. He’s worried.

“You’ve gotta eat. You’ve been at this all day.”

You open your mouth to argue and he presses his finger against your lips.

“Don’t,” he says, warning, “I don’t wanna hear it. I know how important this is to you, but it’s not gonna get finished if you collapse. You come first."

He taps the sketchbook.

"Not this.”

Then your shoulder.

“You.”

Your gaze drifts down to the sketchbook again.

“Oi,” he says, pulling your attention back. “Are you listening to me?”

“Go away, Michael,” you say with a huff.

You try to get up to find your pencil, but he’s too quick for you. He lifts you up and slings you over his shoulder. You yelp, slapping at his back with one hand while desperately trying to keep hold of your sketchbook with the other.

“Michael!” you shriek. “Put me down!”

“Not until you eat something,” he says calmly, as if you’re not currently trying to knock the wind out of him.

As if you both haven’t done this exact same song and dance before.

He carries you into the kitchen, dropping you unceremoniously into a chair at the kitchen table. While you’re distracted, he slips the sketchbook out of your hands, putting it on top of the fridge. He pulls out his own chair, making sure it’s right in your way, before he sits down heavily.

Your gaze immediately drops underneath the table. If you could climb under the legs and scramble out the other side…

“Go on,” he says, knowing exactly what you’re thinking. “I dare you.”

You’re stubborn and he knows it as well as you, but he’s just as bad. This won’t end well if you keep pushing. Neither of you know how to back down.

Your eyes drift to the plate in front of you. Two boiled eggs sit haphazardly in cups. The little rainbow ones he’d pointed out to you at a charity shop that you immediately fell in love with. A small stack of toast sits next to them.

Michael pushes the butter across the table, knife already jammed into it.

“I know you like to cut your own soldiers, so I left the toast as is,” he says.

“You cut them too big,” you reply, taking the knife and spreading butter across the top slice.

Michael laughs. “Right, like yours are any better. Skinny little things. Starvin’ soldiers is what yours are,” he teases.

Out of nothing but pettiness, you cut the slice of toast up as thin as possible.

Michael scrubs a hand over his face.

“You’re worse than a kid,” he grumbles, but you can hear the affection in his voice.

You lift the teaspoon sitting on the plate, tapping the tops of the eggs until they crack and give away. Yolk oozes out across the chipped shells, little yellow trails slowly dripping down.

“Thanks,” you mumble as you dip your too thin soldiers into one of the eggs.

“Sorry? What was that?” Michael asks, theatrically placing a hand to his ear. “Didn’t quite catch that.”

You stick your tongue out at him.

“You heard me,” you reply. “Thanks. Y’know, for…this. For looking after me.”

“Somebody has to,” he says. “Look, I know this project is important to you, and you’ve got a deadline and all, but you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

You don’t say anything, instead fussing with the egg, pushing the toast a little too hard into the yolk.

“I just don’t like seeing you suffer like that,” he admits softly. “You’re good at what you do. You really are. You just need a break every so often.”

Michael tentatively reaches across the table, and you stop making a mess of your food, moving your hand closer to his. His thumb strokes gently across your fingers.

“Take more breaks and I’ll stop throwing you about like that, promise,” he says jokingly.

“Maybe I like when you throw me about,” you reply with a grin.

Michael’s eyes narrow. You laugh, squeezing his hand a little too tight before turning back to your food.

“Chancer,” he says fondly.

He gestures to your plate.

“Eat up, will you? I worked hard on that.”

Knowing Michael’s cooking skills, you don’t doubt it. You both finish your food in silence, but it’s a comfortable one that’s settled over the room.

For the most part. You keep stealing glances at the top of the fridge.

“Oi,” Michael calls, waving his hand in front of you. “Leave it.”

You kick him under the table, not hard, but enough. Without a thought, he kicks you back.

“Don’t start,” he says, “You know it won’t end well.”

“For you, maybe,” you shoot back with a mischievous smile.

“Nah, I’m not falling for that. I’m trying to be the adult here,” he replies.

He stands up, dropping the cutlery onto the plates with a clatter as he stacks him for the sink.

“Go get the duvet and go back into the living room," he tells you. "I’ll be in in a minute, alright?”

You do as he says, dragging the blanket from your bed and taking into the living room. Michael’s sitting at one end of the settee, his tobacco tin balanced on one thigh as he rolls a cigarette. He looks up as you come in, licking the paper and pressing it closed.

"You're not smoking that in here," you tell him as you flop down next to him.

He pulls a face at you as he pushes a cardboard filter into one end of the cigarette, placing it behind his ear.

"Wasn't planning on it," he replies. "It's for later. Gonna need it."

You frown. "What do you mean?" you ask.

"Nothing for you to worry about," he says dismissively as he shakes his head.

He tidies up the tin, placing it on the coffee table before sitting back.

“C'mere,” he says, patting the space between his legs.

You slide over, letting him pulling you into his arms. He drags the blanket over you both, making a fuss out of tucking you in until you start laughing.

"You feeling any better, darlin'?" he murmurs into your hair, pressing a little kiss to the top of your head.

You let out a sigh. "Yeah," you reply. "Thanks."

"S'alright," he says, and you feel him shrug.

You turn your head as best you can to look at him.

"No, I mean it," you insist. "You were right. I did need a break."

His eyes widen dramatically. "Did you just say I was right?" he asks with a grin. "Christ, is it my birthday?"

You slap at him lightly. "Yes, you were right. Happy now?"

He pulls you tighter against him, enveloping you in his arm. He smells like faded washing powder and the aftershave he always gets from the chemist's. Familiar. Safe. Like home.

"Could be happier, if I'm honest," he replies quietly.

You pull a face. "Why? What's wrong?" you ask.

"Well..." he says, dragging the word out.

His hands move under the blanket, one stopping at your hip, the other toying with the waistband of your pyjama shorts.

"I mean, I thought you were relaxed, but your shoulders are still up to your ears for one," he says, voice low against your ear.

The hand on your hip reaches up to playfully grab your chin.

"And you're clenching your jaw for another. I can hear it, y'know," he continues, hand dropping back again.

You can feel a blush creeping into your cheeks at his words.

"I don't know what you're on about," you say, annoyed at how shaky your voice sounds.

"Come off it," he murmurs, sliding a finger under the waistband and letting it gently snap back against your skin.

You jolt in his arms, and you hear him smile. You huff, smacking his hand.

"Come on, darlin', don't be like that," he says. "Just tell me to stop, and we'll say no more about it."

That's the problem. You don't want to tell him to stop. And you know he knows that.

"I'd feel bad," you say, pretending you don't care, "Since you seem so desperate for it and all."

Michael laughs in disbelief. "Oh no, no, I'm not the one desperate for it."

You're all set to keep arguing with him when he slips his hand under the waistband and past your underwear. You let out a sharp gasp, your nails clawing at his forearm.

"Michael-" you splutter.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble in your ear. "Go on."

His fingers press closer to you, sliding up, up-

You just about manage to hold in the squeal that threatens to erupt from you as he finds the most sensitive part of you.

"One little word," he insists, knowing full well what he's doing to you. "You can do that for me, can't you?"

He sounds so smug and patronising, and any other time, you'd have no trouble telling him to fuck off, but right now, you're struggling. He doesn't let up, gradually picking up the pace against you until you're squirming in his arms.

"I'm waiting," he sing-songs, his other hand gripping your hip.

You lightly knock your head back against his chest, in the hopes that it'll shut him up. It doesn't.

"You're so cute like this, you know that?" he says with a breathy laugh.

You don't know what's worse - the fact that he's laughing at you, or that you find it so fucking hot. You can't think straight, his touch is scorching against your skin, he's going to drive you mad-

"If you stop," you manage to say, your voice little more than a whine. "I'll kill you."

He laughs again. "I don't think you're in any position to do anything to me, sweetheart," he replies. "But don't worry, I wouldn't dream of it."

You couldn't answer him even if you wanted to, barely capable of anything more than gasping moans as you are right now. You're so wound up, mind blank, so overwhelmed by how he's making you feel. You're vaguely aware of Michael grinding his hips against you, and fuck-

"Michael-" you manage to grit out.

He knows that tone. Knows exactly what it means.

He quickens his pace against you, not letting up for a second, and you're close, so close-

"That's it, darlin', cum for me," he whispers, nipping at your earlobe.

His touch, his voice, it's all too much all at once, and you're falling apart in his arms, a shuddering breath pushed from your chest. Your back arches and he holds you tight against him, his fingers still tracing soft little circles against as you all but collapse against him.

You rub a hand over your face, pushing loose strands of your hair out of the way.

"Fuck," you breathe, still trembling with little aftershocks.

Michael presses a kiss to your cheek.

"Feel better now?" he asks, lips still against your skin.

You manage a nod, and he squeezes you gently, holding you close to him as your breathing eventually returns to normal.

"Do you need to...?" you ask, trailing off as you turn to look at him.

Michael shakes his head, a little too quickly. "Nah, no point," he replies, and he sounds embarrassed.

"What do you-"

Then it hits you.

"Oh," is all you can manage to say.

You'll definitely be filing that thought away for future use.

Michael loosens his grip on you, rooting around in his back pocket. He manages to pull out a lighter as he takes the cigarette from behind his ear.

"Told you I was gonna need it," he says, putting it between his lips.

"Michael, don't you dare," you scold, trying to reach around to take it from him.

You manage to slap the lighter out of his hand. He just laughs, pushing you forward gently and climbing out from behind you to retrieve it. Without him there to hold you up anymore, you slump back into the settee cushions, utterly exhausted.

"Hey," he calls from the doorway.

You raise your head slightly.

"Love you," he says with a soft smile.

You can't help the rush of warmth that runs through you. No matter how many times you hear him say it, you can't quite seem to get used to it. You're about to say it back when he tries to light his cigarette again. You grab a cushion from behind your head and toss it at him.

"Out!" you shout at him.

He just laughs as he heads for the front door.

You lay there for a few moments, letting yourself enjoy the peace and quiet.

Michael might be a menace at the best of times, but God, you're grateful to have him.

(banners by @ cafekitsune)

[prettycalla]

If you get a star ⭐️ in your inbox. It means your moot appreciates you, and your efforts in the community. Send this to 10 mutuals to continue the love!

no, u!! you’re so sweet, thank you! 🫶

[prettycalla]

I *loved* adversus on so many levels!!!

thank you so much!! i was so nervous posting it, but everyone’s been so lovely and i really appreciate it. honestly i wanted to get Way nastier with it, but i got scared (maybe next time) 🫶

[prettycalla]

If you get a star ⭐️ in your inbox. It means your moot appreciates you, and your efforts in the community. Send this to 10 mutuals to continue the love!

me sitting here like:

thank you!! 💖

[prettycalla]

|| adversus ||

Pairing: Caracalla/Reader

Summary: Caracalla discovers that you bleed. He is fascinated by it.

Word count: 799

Tags and warnings: Light smut, reader has a period, Caracalla is a little freak about it (big surprise) but it's all consensual, reader and Caracalla are soft for each other, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!

(This GIF (the whole scene, really) is to blame for me writing this and I'm not apologising for it. I could have gotten a Lot nastier with this, honestly, but I'm always so embarrassed writing smut, so here we are!)

Masterlist

Caracalla understands the importance of rules and tradition, but he does not see why he, as the Emperor of Rome, should have to adhere to any of it if he does not wish to. He flourishes in chaos, relishes in doing the opposite of what is expected of him.

It is no great secret that he carries a fascination for blood. It is something you are very aware of, and as a result, have done everything in your power to keep this one little thing as far from his eyes as you are able.

It is only a matter of time before he finds out.

You awaken one morning to find the sheets stained with blood. Fear takes hold of you. You must have miscalculated the days. Caracalla is still asleep by your side, and you desperately pray to Somnus that he will remain so until you are able to hide the evidence of what has happened.

The Fates are against you as Caracalla stirs, reaching for you even as he is between waking and dreaming.

"Come back to me," he mumbles drowsily, his sleep-warm fingers grasping at your wrist.

"I will return in a moment, I promise," you say, trying to pry yourself from his surprisingly strong grasp.

Caracalla moves to sit up, rubbing at his face with his free hand.

"You will-" he begins to say, when he falters.

His eyes widen as he sees the blood, tracing its path to your skin.

"You are bleeding," he says, his voice a mixture of concern and something else.

Something darker.

"It is nothing to concern yourself with," you tell him as he moves closer to you. "It is my mensis. It happens at the turn of the moon."

Caracalla does not answer, instead reaching out to trail his fingers across your thigh. Something in you wishes to stop him, but something else - something far stronger - wishes to urge him on.

He looks at the blood on his fingertips, his lips parted and pupils dilated.

"So much, and yet still you live?" he asks, his voice rough with arousal.

He looks up at you, his eyes narrowing. It is a look you know all too well. The very same one he always has in the midst of the gladiatorial games. The same one he has levelled on you, time and time again.

Lust.

"Does it hurt?" he asks as he leans closer to you.

"It will pass," you tell him. "As it always does."

You can feel his breath, shallow and warm, against your skin. You should feel embarrassment, or shame perhaps, but right now, all you can feel is the desire emanating from Caracalla in waves.

It is overwhelming. You do not wish for it to stop.

"You can help me," you tell him softly, surprised at the boldness of your words.

Caracalla suddenly looks ravenous.

"Show me what I must do," he replies in a rushed breath.

How you adore him like this. So ardent, so eager to please.

You take his hand and slowly drag it up along your thighs. He keeps your gaze the entire time, teeth worrying at his bottom lip until his fingers press against you, exactly where you need them.

A soft sigh escapes you at his touch. Encouraged, he keeps it up, finding the rhythm he knows you like best. Quick little gasps escape you as you begin to unravel. He should not be as good at this as he is.

You reach up to the back of his neck, pulling him into a bruising kiss. He is not to be deterred from what he has started, his fingers quickening their pace as his teeth nip at your lower lip.

You cannot last at this pace, and you tell him as much in a shaky breath.

"Let me see you fall apart," he murmurs against your lips. "Please."

The urgency in his touch and the desperation in his voice are too much for you all at once, and you feel yourself tip over the edge at last, wave after wave of pleasure thrumming through you.

Only when you push him away does Caracalla finally stop, his hand coming to rest once more on your thigh.

"Pulchra," Caracalla says softly with a wide smile that has your pulse stuttering more than it already is.

Your rest your forehead against his for a moment, before the discomfort begins to build once more.

"I must clean myself up," you tell him reluctantly.

Caracalla presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. "The baths," he replies. "I will accompany you."

You know exactly what allowing him to do so will lead to, but you do not mind in the slightest.

Caracalla finds himself impatiently awaiting the next turn of the moon from then on.

(banners by @ cafekitsune)

[prettycalla]

Fuck, Marry, Kill. Send me three names.

[prettycalla]

Lines of your Hands

Pairing: Emperor Geta x sculptor!reader

Warnings: none

A/N: Just a little idea I had that I wanted to write out! I still have other Geta requests I want to work on. I've got some for Sam as well. I'm trying to stay in this little productive spell! Thank you for requesting and commenting, etc. It makes it easier to stay engaged. I appreciate you! Hope you enjoy this.

“What are you doing with that?” Emperor Geta asked, his alert, watchful gaze following every movement you made. Scrutinizing, distrustful.

Uncertain.

The thin implement you held was used to more carefully and precisely shape the clay sat in front of you. And currently, you were measuring the distance between his brows with it. You brought the implement close to his face, but avoided touching his skin, marking with a finger the span in question. You then moved it to the same area of the sculpt you were working on, and made an indentation, marking the measurement.  

“I am measuring you, Emperor.”

“Measuring?” His voice was low, a bit scratchy with disuse. 

The sun shining in through the terrace behind you lit up his face perfectly. His eyes glowed amber. His hair shone in the afternoon sun, his laurel crown glinting a halo around his head. You knew your sculpt would hardly do him justice. If you could capture even a small part of his cautious look, you would consider your work sufficient.

“I must be as precise as possible. My mentor will sculpt you from marble, using this. Any errors I make will impair the finished product.”

Holding up the implement, you measure brow height, the distance between the brow and eyelid as well, making the relevant marks in clay.

“Could your mentor not just come here and sculpt this himself?”

You met his eye from around the side of the clay head. “Am I not good enough, Emperor?”

He blinked. “I did not say that,” he backpedaled.

“Have you ever carved marble, Emperor?” you asked, biting your lip to hide the smile that threatened to bloom across your face.

“Well, no.”

You squinted as you aligned the implement with the bridge of his nose. “Could you sit here for weeks?”

Realization settled in his features. “Right. Yes, I imagine not.”

So he allowed you to continue your work. Slowly but surely, clay Geta took form. Though it was obvious he was sitting uncomfortably in this silence, he did not complain. He could have, he was an Emperor, after all, but he didn’t.

Instead, his eyes watched your hands move. He watched as you swiped at an itch on your forehead, leaving behind a streak of dark clay. He noted the way you sometimes leaned in close, quite close, actually, to the clay, fussing over some detail. It was then that your knee touched his.

It burned.

He wanted to feel the cold squelch of the clay on his face. Wanted your hands pressed into his skin. Wanted you to measure all of him with your fingers. The length of his neck, width of his shoulders, the span of his palms.  

He imagined you pressing your fingers in, to smooth out his own skin into the shape you wanted. You would dip your fingers in the small basin of water, smoothing them over his cheekbone, down the bridge of his nose. Along his lips.

He became possessed with a desire to drag you into his lap, sculpture be damned. He wanted you to touch him for a different reason altogether.

Heat raced up his neck to his cheeks as he collected his thoughts, wondering where they had come from.

“Are you alright, Emperor? Is it too warm in the sunlight?”

He shook his head. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine. He wasn’t fine. It was sweltering. He felt a bead of sweat slide down his back.

And suddenly his breath caught.

Measuring his lips, you let your fingers just barely ghost along his bottom lip as you moved the implement in place, not accounting for the fullness of them. 

“Sorry,” you spoke quietly, shocking him as you lowered your hands, the implement too, only to return with a small scrap of damp linen.

You began wiping away the stray clay from his lip, muttering apologies for the state of you. You weren’t used to handling Emperors, you explained. You were out of your element here.

None of it sunk in. He was too enraptured by the way your mostly clean hand gripped his jaw, holding him in place, as you wiped at the grey smudge.

As if you were unafraid of the consequences for touching an Emperor in such a manner. Or perhaps more likely, they did not occur to you.

His hands wrapped around your wrists, tightly, almost uncomfortably so.

“I need you to stop that,” he demanded.

Heat filled your face. “I’m sorry, Emperor.”

He shook off the apology. “I believe I need a break,” he confessed. Though you’d never guess why.

Without waiting for your acceptance, he released you and stood, marching across the room and passing through a door. 

Silence descended again. You looked to your work, fingers smoothing along the sculpted forehead, the brow, the nose, the cheekbones. The rest largely unfinished. Unrefined.

Still, it looked a great deal like him, which was the idea, anyway. It would be a bit of a failure if it didn’t. There was still plenty left to do, but with the way your wrists burned, you wondered if you would be able to finish it all today.

Suddenly the door opened again, and Emperor Geta stepped back into the room, his skin slightly damp and pink as he reclaimed his seat, his knee accidentally brushing against yours.

“Forgive me.” 

Forgive me for leaving to scrub my skin nearly raw to get rid of the sensations your touch left behind, would have been more accurate, he supposed.

“Do you want to continue?” 

He clenched his hands together in his lap, nodding. “I would ask you to be more careful,” he warned. Not for your sake. 

For his.

“Of course, Emperor,” you answered, noting the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes any longer, the tension held in his arms and shoulders. The firm set of his brow.

You bit the inside of your cheek to hide your amusement. 

He was… affected. It filled you with warmth as you moved to resume your careful measurement of his lips.

[prettycalla]

If you’re taking requests, can I ask for some early morning fluff with Jason? Love your writing btw!!

MORNING BIRDS | JASON HOCHBERG

summary: in the early hours of camp pineway, you and Jason share a moment.

word count: 2,565

CW fluff to the maxxxx, i'm in love with this man your honor. don't know if Jason has a sister, but he gives me big brother vibes so i went with it

thank you soo much for your kind words. i appreciate it soo much.

this one came to me so fast, the motivation is real after that call y'all

The crickets chirped their relentless song, a soundtrack to the quiet seclusion of Makeout Point. Technically, it wasn't called that at Camp Pineway, but the name, whispered among campers and acknowledged with knowing smirks by counselors, had stuck. It was a small clearing, slightly elevated and ringed by whispering pines, offering a perfect, moonlit view of the lake below. You sat on a worn wooden bench, Jason beside you, close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating from his arm. A half-empty bottle of lukewarm soda sat between you, the remnants of a shared, sugar-fueled buzz.

The night had started with the usual campfire stories down by the main fire pit, a mix of genuine spooky tales and the kind of exaggerated, slightly terrifying narratives that were a camp staple. Jason had told one about a camper who wandered into the woods and was never seen again, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine, even though you knew it was just a story. His delivery was perfect – quiet intensity, pauses timed just right. After the campfire, s'mores consumed and songs sung, everyone had scattered – some to their cabins, some seeking quieter corners of the camp for a bit of freedom before lights out. You and Jason, drawn by a shared desire for peace away from the lingering campfire smoke and boisterous energy, had found your way up the winding path to this secluded spot, the silence growing more comfortable with each step.

"It's… peaceful up here," you said, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between you. The moon was a like silver coin in the inky sky, its reflection shimmering on the distant water's surface. The lake looked serene and vast from this vantage point.

Jason leaned back against the bench's rough-hewn backrest, stretching his legs out. "Yeah. Peaceful's a good word for it. Back home, it's always… noisy. City sounds, people, even when you're inside." He glanced at you, a small smile playing on his lips. "This is a nice change. Sometimes I think I could just stay out here forever."

You hummed in agreement. "I know what you mean. My town's not huge, but it's never this quiet. You can always hear cars, or neighbors…" You hadn't known Jason particularly well before this summer. He was one of the older counselors, a bit quieter than the rest, but with a dry wit that you found yourself increasingly drawn to. There was a steadiness to him, a calm that was a welcome contrast to the chaos of camp life.

Time seemed to slip away as you talked. You discussed everything and nothing – your families, your plans for the future, funny camp stories, and shared memories of childhood summers. Jason told you about his younger sister, Lily, and how she was the "biggest drama queen you'd ever meet," his voice fond despite the teasing words. He described a particularly dramatic incident involving a school play and a misplaced prop, making you laugh until your sides hurt. You told him about your dream of traveling the world, starting with maybe backpacking through Europe. He listened with genuine interest, asking specific questions about where you'd go first and sharing a story about a disastrous family road trip that somehow ended up being one of his favorite memories. He even admitted, his voice softer, that he sometimes felt unsure about his own future plans, a vulnerability that surprised you and made you feel closer to him. The distant sounds of the camp faded entirely, replaced by the gentle rustling of leaves and the rhythmic chirping of the crickets, creating a bubble just for the two of you.

The soda was long gone, the bottle rolling slightly on the bench between you. The night air grew cooler, raising goosebumps on your arms, when you realized how late it had gotten. The moon was higher now, casting long, distorted shadows across the clearing, making the familiar pines look like watchful figures.

"We should probably head back," you said, the words reluctant, accompanied by a yawn you couldn't suppress. "Lights out was… hours ago."

Jason glanced towards the path leading back down, then back at you, his gaze lingering for a moment, searching your face in the dim light. "Yeah, probably," he agreed, but his tone lacked conviction. He shifted slightly on the bench. "Unless… you want to stay a little longer? We could try and spot some constellations. I think I can still find Orion from here." There was a hint of something hopeful in his voice, a hesitant curiosity that made your heart skip a beat.

You hesitated, chewing on your lower lip. You knew you should go back. Curfew was… well, curfew was a suggestion at best for counselors, but there were still expectations, rounds to potentially check. Getting caught out here could mean trouble. But the thought of leaving this quiet intimacy, this bubble of shared thoughts and easy silence overlooking the sleeping camp and the moonlit lake, felt like breaking a spell. The connection felt too real to cut short.

"Okay," you breathed out. "Just a little longer. Show me Orion."

Jason's smile widened, reaching his eyes this time. "Deal."

The "little longer" stretched into a full-blown all-nighter, spent entirely in the secluded haven of Makeout Point. Jason pointed out constellations, his finger tracing patterns against the velvet sky. You talked more, the conversation meandering into deeper territory – fears, hopes, silly 'what ifs'. At one point, the sharp snap of a twig nearby made both of you jump, freezing like startled deer. You held your breath, listening intently, imagining John or Kathy doing a late-night patrol. After a tense minute of silence, punctuated only by your own heartbeats, a small raccoon ambled out from the bushes, blinked at you both, and scurried away. You both let out shaky laughs, the shared moment of minor panic dissolving the remaining distance between you. You watched the stars shift across the vast canvas above, the sky slowly lightening from a deep, velvety blue through shades of indigo and violet to a pale, washed-out grey. The conversation ebbed and flowed, punctuated by comfortable silences that felt just as meaningful as the words, and the occasional shared laugh that seemed loud in the pre-dawn stillness. Jason had a habit of tilting his head when he was really listening, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration, and you found yourself increasingly fascinated by the small details of his face – the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the faint scar on his chin, illuminated now by the approaching dawn.

As the first hint of sunrise painted the eastern horizon, a sliver of pale pink bleeding into the darkness over the distant hills, a different kind of quiet settled over the clearing. It was the hush of anticipation, the stillness before the world woke up, heavy with unspoken feelings. You shivered, the morning chill finally penetrating your tired limbs and the thin fabric of your shirt.

Jason noticed immediately, shrugging off his worn fleece vest without a word and draping it over your shoulders. It was warm from his body heat and smelled faintly of woodsmoke, pine needles, and something indefinably… him. You pulled it tighter around yourself, inhaling the scent, a blush creeping up your neck despite the chill.

"Thanks," you mumbled, avoiding his gaze by looking out over the lake, now catching the first rosy reflections of the dawn. The water looked like liquid glass, perfectly still.

He just nodded, his eyes following your gaze to the horizon. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. "We should probably get some food," he said, after a moment, his voice slightly rough from hours of talking and the cool air. "Before anyone else is up and asks questions we don't want to answer."

The walk down the path felt different in the dim morning light, the familiar trail transformed into something new, charged with the energy of the night you'd shared. You walked side-by-side, not touching, but acutely aware of each other. The mess hall was eerily silent when you and Jason slipped inside through a side door he knew was often left unlocked. The long rows of tables were empty, chairs neatly stacked, the only sound the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Mrs. Peterson, the camp cook, wasn't due in for another hour, which meant…

"We're on our own," Jason said, turning to you with a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Think Mrs. P keeps any secret stashes?" He headed straight for the kitchen doors, pushing them open with a soft whoosh, and you followed, a sense of giddy, sleep-deprived adventure bubbling up inside you despite your exhaustion.

The kitchen was a wonderland of early morning possibilities – stainless steel counters gleaming faintly, oversized pots hanging from racks. Jason, surprisingly, seemed to know his way around. He navigated past the industrial ovens and mixers, opening cupboards with confidence. He pulled out a carton of milk, a box of cereal (something sugary and forbidden, the kind that was definitely not on the camp breakfast menu – Lucky Charms, maybe?), and located a couple of mismatched mugs in a drying rack.

"Breakfast of champions," he declared, pouring the cereal into the mugs with a flourish that sent a few colorful marshmallows scattering onto the counter. "Or, you know, survivors of an all-nighter."

You laughed, leaning against the cool stainless-steel counter as you watched him pour the milk. "Definitely survivors." There was something incredibly domestic, and incredibly intimate, about this – the two of you, alone in the quiet heart of the sleeping camp, sharing a secret breakfast after a night spent talking under the stars. It felt stolen and special.

The cereal was devoured quickly, standing at the counter, the sugary milk leaving a sticky residue on your fingers. The silence wasn't awkward, just filled with the small sounds of eating and the lingering closeness from the night. You washed the mugs in the big, industrial sink, the sound of running water echoing slightly in the empty hall.

"So," Jason said, leaning against the counter beside you, his shoulder brushing yours lightly, sending a little jolt through you. "What now?" He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, but his gaze was warm.

You stifled a yawn, the adrenaline fading into bone-deep tiredness. Your eyes felt gritty. "Now… I think I need sleep. A lot of sleep. Before the campers wake up and demand energy I don't have."

"Me too," he admitted, rubbing his eyes. "My cabin's not too far from here…" He trailed off, looking down at his hands for a second before meeting your eyes again. The implication hung in the air, clear and inviting, yet hesitant.

Your heart did a little flutter-kick, a nervous energy mixing with the exhaustion. You knew you shouldn't. You really shouldn't. Sharing a secret breakfast was one thing, sneaking into the kitchen felt like a minor infraction. Going back to his cabin felt like crossing a different line entirely. What would people think if they saw you leaving? What did he think? But the thought of ending the night – the morning – just yet… it was too much to bear. The connection forged in the quiet hours at Makeout Point, strengthened by the shared adventure, felt too strong, too promising, to simply walk away from now. You wanted more time, even if it was just sleeping in the same room.

"Okay," you said, the word barely a whisper, but loud enough in the stillness. His answering smile was small, but genuine relief washed over his features.

Jason's cabin was small and cluttered, but it had a certain lived-in charm that felt authentic to him. A pile of books sat precariously on a small table next to a battered armchair, titles ranging from sci-fi novels to poetry collections. A half-finished charcoal sketch of the lake lay on another surface, showing surprising talent. And a worn-out sleeping bag was spread neatly on the floor, looking surprisingly inviting.

"It's not much," he said, gesturing around the room with a slightly self-conscious air, running a hand through his already messy hair. "And usually cleaner, I swear. But it's… home for the summer."

You didn't say anything, just stepped inside, taking it all in. The air was warm and slightly stuffy, but it smelled like… Jason. Like woodsmoke and old paper from his books, charcoal from his sketch, and something sweet, like the sugary cereal you'd just shared. "I like your drawing," you offered quietly, pointing to the sketch.

He glanced at it, a faint flush rising on his neck. "Oh, uh, thanks. Just messing around." He watched you, his expression unreadable in the dim light filtering through the small window. Then, he gestured decisively to the bunk "You can… have that. Seriously. I'll take the… chair." It was a simple wooden chair, looking far less comfortable than the bunk.

You hesitated, looking from the bunk to the chair, then back at him. "Are you sure? That chair looks like torture after being up all night. We could… share?" The suggestion hung in the air, bolder than you intended.

He looked surprised for a second, then shook his head, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips. "I'm sure. Wouldn't be much of a gentleman otherwise, right? Besides," he added, his voice dropping a little, becoming softer, more intimate, "I want to make sure you're comfortable. Get some proper rest."

You didn't argue further, sensing his quiet insistence. You were too tired, too overwhelmed by the emotions stirred during the long night, and too… drawn to him and the unexpected sweetness of his gesture. You settled onto the bunk the worn fabric surprisingly soft against your skin. It felt strangely right, being here, cocooned in his space.

Jason sat in the chair, leaning back and closing his eyes almost immediately. The early morning light cast his face in soft shadows. He looked… peaceful. Content. And you realized, with a jolt, that you felt the same way, a quiet sense of belonging settling over you, chasing away the last dregs of worry about breaking rules.

Sleep came quickly, pulling you down into a deep, dreamless slumber born of exhaustion and a surprising sense of security. You woke up hours later to the sound of someone shifting. Jason was still in the chair, blinking himself awake, stretching stiffly. He looked… younger, somehow, in the brighter daylight filtering in, all the quiet intensity of his waking hours softened into a peaceful vulnerability. He caught you watching him and offered a sleepy, slightly crooked smile.

You smiled back, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the stuffy cabin air. You knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that this wasn't just a camp fling, not just the result of a sleepless night fueled by sugar and proximity. This felt like something… more. Something real, sparked in the quiet darkness of Makeout Point, tested by a near-miss with a raccoon, and cemented by shared cereal and quiet understanding in the dawn.

And as you eventually drifted back to sleep for a little longer, the image of Jason's sleepy smile imprinted on your mind, you couldn't help but feel a thrill of anticipation. The all-nighter overlooking the lake had definitely been just the beginning.

[prettycalla]

|| another's treasure ||

Pairing: Michael/Reader

Summary: You used to play piano as a child. Michael finds a very specific gift for you.

Word count: 1869

Tags and warnings: Mostly fluff, established relationship, Michael is a bit odd but he means well, no use of Y/N.

(I dropped this hyper-specific little idea into the server I'm in, and after some encouragement, here it is! It's kind of a spin on something that happened to me as a kid and I managed to crack it out in a day. Hopefully it's okay! Also I still have a load of Emperors fics in progress!)

Masterlist

“Do you play any instruments?” you ask.

It’s a Saturday night, and the two of you are sitting in front of the TV, watching a music documentary. Michael’s long since given up on sitting up straight, now slumped into the cushions with his hands resting on his stomach and his legs spread out. You sit next to him, your legs resting on his thigh.

“Not unless you count Three Blind Mice on the recorder,” he says with a laugh. “What about you?”

“I used to play piano,” you tell him.

He turns his attention to you then. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. My neighbour used to give me lessons when I was a kid. She was a lovely older lady, always so kind to me," you say, a little smile on your face as the memory comes back to you. "She had the most beautiful old piano in her living room. I was always so afraid to touch it. Then we moved, so…”

You trail off awkwardly, a little pang in your heart. It had been so long since you'd last thought about it.

Michael places his hand on your leg, gently bringing you back to the present.

“D’you miss it?” he asks.

“Sometimes, yeah,” you reply. “I wasn’t very good, mind. But I enjoyed it.”

“Maybe we could pick one up cheap somewhere?” he suggests. “Not a proper piano, but like, a keyboard or something."

He points to the corner of the living room near the TV.

“You’ve been saying that bit of the room's too empty," he says. "Could put it there.”

You look at him, lip trembling slightly as you smile. You know neither of you have the money for something so frivolous right now, but it's the thought that has you feeling overwhelmed.

“What?” he asks, completely oblivious.

You shake your head. “Nothing. It’s, um…Yeah, sounds nice.”

A few weeks pass. Neither of you had said any more about it, and eventually you'd forgotten that you'd even mentioned it.

You're alone in the living room one night. Michael had gone out a few hours ago, saying he was going to "see a man about a dog". You never liked when he said that, because it meant he was up to something, and he wasn't going to tell you what it was.

You hear him before you see him. An awful scraping sound, followed by a lot of muffled cursing and shuffling. You assume it’s one of your neighbours on the landing outside and think no more of it.

Besides, you have more pressing matters at hand. The tape of your favourite cassette has been coming loose lately and you’ve been spending the better part of a half hour trying to carefully wind it all back in with a pencil.

Then comes an ungodly bang from outside your door and the tape flies out of your hand.

“Who the hell-“ you start to say, when you hear the letterbox open.

"Babe? You there?" Michael calls down the hallway.

"Yes!" you shout back.

“Can you get the door for me?” he asks.

You look down at the ruined cassette in your lap. You could kill him.

“It’s on the snib!” you answer, picking up the pencil again.

You can’t remember if it is, but you want him to suffer just a little for messing up your hard work.

“It’s not, it’s locked,” he replies. “I don’t think I have my key. Please open the door, I have a surprise for you.”

You hesitate. Knowing Michael, this will either be very good or truly awful. There’s never any in-between. His heart’s always in the right place, though.

With a sigh, you set the tape aside and make your way to the front door. Michael’s hand is still holding the letterbox open, his brown eyes looking up at you.

“Cheers, darlin’,” he calls. “Now listen, I need you to hold the door open for me, but don’t look, alright?”

“What have you dragged home now?” you ask as you reach for the lock.

He steps back, the letterbox clanging shut.

“I mean it, no looking," he insists through the door. "Eyes shut. Promise me.”

“Alright, alright, I promise," you say impatiently.

You turn the lock, pulling the heavy door back as far as it’ll go. Despite your better judgment, you do as he asked, holding the door open with your eyes closed.

Whatever it is, it’s big. Michael’s clearly struggling with it as he pushes it across the hall.

“D’you need a hand?” you ask.

“No!” he answers too quickly, his voice strained. “Just stay where you are. I’ll tell you when to move.”

A few more minutes of grunting and cursing and “Oh, come on, you stupid-" pass before the flat finally falls silent again. You hear Michael’s footsteps drawing closer to you.

“How long are you gonna make me stand here like this?” you ask with a nervous laugh.

Michael pulls the door gently from your grasp, shutting it before turning his attention back to you. He takes your hands in his.

“Not long, promise. Follow me,” he says, gently guiding you along with him.

“Can I open my eyes?” you ask, fearful of tripping over something.

“Not yet,” he replies. “Easy, watch yourself. You’re almost there…”

You couldn’t swing a cat in the hallway for all the size of it, and yet now it feels as though it goes on forever. Suddenly, Michael stops, and you bump into him. He lets go of your hands, his footsteps receding.

“Okay, you can open your eyes now," he says.

You squint slightly, your eyes adjusting to the light as you open them. Michael’s standing across the room, face flushed and hair a mess. His jeans are covered in dirt marks, his coat left in a heap on the floor.

“Well? What’d you think?” he asks expectantly with a smile.

You turn your attention to the large thing sitting next to him. Your eyes widen.

“Michael…” is all you can manage.

It's a piano.

You cross the room to take a better look at it, awestruck. It's an upright piano, the most beautiful colour of mahogany. The wood is cracked and damaged in some places, but not so much to take away from its charm. You lift the heavy lid. The keys are yellowed with age and a little dusty in places, and they're all still intact.

You press one of them down. Nothing happens.

You try another one. Nothing.

With a frown, you take a step back to look at it properly. Near the bottom are two large pedals, upholstered with red carpet that's worn and fraying in areas.

Then you realise. It's a reed organ.

“Where did you get this?” you ask, fingers sliding reverently across the keys.

How much did this cost? is what you want to ask.

“Found it,” is all Michael says.

You look at him, your expression full of doubt.

“You found this?” you ask. “Michael, it’s an organ. Who would just throw this away?”

He shrugs. “Chapel was doing a clear-out of some old stuff. I saw it while I was doing my rounds a couple days ago," he explains, "Bellows are busted on it, apparently, but it’s fine other than that. There was no way it was fitting in the lorry, so I asked them if they could hold onto it for me until I could go 'round and get it myself.”

Then it dawns on you.

“You dragged this the whole way from the chapel?” you ask. “Are you mental? That’s three streets over!”

He laughs, brushing his messy hair from his forehead with his hand. “Tell me about it. It was hardly gonna fit in a cab now, was it?”

He moves closer to you, his fingers lightly brushing yours where they still lay on the keys.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he murmurs, glancing at you.

You look up at him.

“What d'you think?” he asks again, worry evident in his expression.

You look back at the worn old thing sitting in front of you that’s clearly seen better days.

“I know it’s not the best, but we can clean it up, get it working again," he says, as if he's trying to convince you. "I was gonna go down to the library tomorrow and see if I can get some books to help with fixing it.”

Michael’s hand rests over yours. You haven't moved, haven't spoken.

“Say something, darlin’, please,” he murmurs nervously. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

You shake your head. It's only then that you realise you've been crying.

“No…It’s…It’s perfect,” you manage to say in a choked whisper.

You turn your attention back to him. He still looks worried, dark eyes watching you carefully. You don't trust yourself to speak, instead throwing your arms around him and pulling him close. He almost loses his balance in the process and he laughs.

“Oi, give me some warning next time, will you?” he scolds, but his tone is affectionate as he wraps his arms around you tightly.

It takes a while before you're able to calm yourself, but Michael stays with you, gently running his hand up and down your back. Eventually, the wave of emotion settles and you pull back, your hands still gripping at the shoulders of his shirt.

"Probably should've given you a heads-up, ey?" he asks light-heartedly. "Didn't realise you'd go all wobbly on me."

You lightly slap at him, giving him a mock-frown in response.

"Wait here," he says suddenly as he rushes out of the room.

He returns with a dining chair, setting it in front of the organ. He gestures to you to sit.

"You said it was broken," you say as you sit. "And it's not gonna play like a piano."

"Yeah, but give it a go," he replies. "Let's see what the damage is."

You raise your eyebrows at him. "You'd better not mean my playing."

He folds his arms, waiting for you to start. You turn back to the keys, trying to remember where middle C is. You place your foot on one of the pedals, pressing down on both it and the key at the same time.

The organ lets out an awful sound like a ship's horn, startling you both. You sit there, frozen for a moment. Michael snorts, and you can't help yourself, you burst out laughing.

"I think it might be beyond help," you tell him with a smile, gently closing the lid over the keys again.

"Nah, you leave it to me," he replies.

He places his hands on your shoulders, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

"Nothing that can't be sorted, yeah?" he murmurs close to your ear.

You reach up, bringing your hand to the back of his neck.

"Yeah," you reply fondly.

Whether or not it can be fixed, or if it just ends up as an interesting piece of furniture, it doesn't matter to you, not right now. Michael may have a different worldview from you at times, and you might not always see eye to eye on everything, but knowing that he went to so much trouble over something so small means so much to you, and that's what really matters.

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[prettycalla]

Emperor Caracalla and his laurel wreaths.