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glassbxttless · 4 days ago

Text

Columbina

emperor caracalla x fem!reader

word count: 11.1k+

summary: (Title Translation: Little Dove) You are a favored concubine of Rome’s twin tyrants— you certainly were not expecting the feelings you had been harboring for one of your Emperors to be returned.

warnings: 18+ Only (Minors DNI), this shit ain’t historically accurate— don’t expect it to be; that’s what text books are for. this is literally just emperor caracalla porn from the mind of a 25 year old who likes those freaky gingers a bit too much, I’m choosing to IGNORE the Syphilis— Caracalla does not have it in this; we’re blaming the dementia on lead poisoning, groping, touching, kissing— like a lot, oral male receiving, unprotected pinv (this is 211 AD, there’s nothing protectin them), swearing; “fuck” is used a few times, Caracalla is a little sweet (maybe a little out of character)— he just wants to be loved and taken care of and for something to be his. sweet next morning with caracalla, dondus makes a brief appearance.

notes: Big thanks to @peachyproserpina and @keeryhours for reading through this one for me!

The marble floors that wave across Palatine Hill, cold beneath your knees. The scent of ground patchouli leaves and wine settled thick in the air of Caracalla’s private chambers. You kept your gaze lowered, your hands folded neatly in your lap. You had learned long ago that letting your gaze linger too long, or speaking a bit too freely, could mean punishment— or worse, dismissal. You had absolutely no wish to leave. Not when you had grown accustomed to this life that had so graciously been bestowed upon you after the last few years. You adore the luxury of being in their presence, even if it was only as a pretty little plaything for their pleasure.

Geta drunkenly lounged against the curved arm of the chaise you had been so neatly kneeled beside. Fingers idly rolling the stem of his goblet between them. Wine settling warm in his belly and tongue stained red. Out of the corner of your eye you catch those beautiful redened locks in the flickering firelight. Bathed in the most beautiful golden glow. Caracalla, his younger brother by mere moments, sat beside him. He seemed less relaxed, his sharp gaze burning into you even when you weren’t foolish enough to meet it. The two of them had always been brute forces of nature— fire and water. Twin pillars of a power that ruled Rome with tyranny unlike any other. To be chosen by them, to be favored, was both an honor and a curse.

You had told yourself, many months ago, that the yearning in your chest was foolish. The thought of a lovesick child. Something you hadn’t been in many years. You told yourself that it was enough to serve Rome with your body. To be touched, to be whispered to in the dark when wine had softened their edges. You had never truly expected more than that. You hadn’t let yourself.

But you’ve noticed how Geta’s hands lingered. You’ve noticed him tracing lines down your arm when he should have already moved away. The way his hands would rest on your shoulders as he would pass by. You’ve noticed the way Caracalla’s voice softened when he spoke to you. It was lacking its usual bite, and his jealousy— always a dangerous thing— seemed to flare whenever his brother took too much of your attention. And you were no fool. You knew what it meant when an emperor wanted more than you had to give.

The silence stretched thin in the chamber, but was growing thick with expectation. You kept your head bowed, eyes fixated on the hands in your lap. You focus on listening to the gentle clink of Geta’s rings against his goblet. You can hear the way Caracalla’s robes shifted when he moved, his patience wearing thinner than the expansive silence settling between the three of you. You had been witness to his temper before, the way it could turn the air sharp as a blade’s edge. But tonight, there was an intimacy in the way he watched you— something that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise.

“You are quiet,” Geta’s voice is warm and inviting, something you’ve grown comfortable in. He reaches out to you— his fingers, cool from the chilled wine. He traces down the slope of your bare shoulder, his touch barely there. And yet your skin prickled beneath the touch. “Have we not treated you well enough, little dove?” Not tonight, I’ve yet to be touched— plagues your thoughts, but you bite your tongue. It was a dangerous question. One that you must answer correctly. You had been given more than most of their other toys— silks instead of rags, food fit for those of noble blood instead of scraps, their hands, and their favor. But there had been a distance between you. The lingering reminder that you were theirs to use, not to cherish. Geta’s touch stalled in a way that made your heart stumble. His fingertips tracing shapes idly onto your skin where his hand lay against your shoulder. You dared a glance up, only to find Caracalla watching you, his blue eyes zeroed in on you. He leans forward, resting his forearms against his knees. He clasps his hands together, bringing you to swallow hard.

“She does not answer, brother,” he lets out a frustrated breath. “Tell me. Do you find yourself dissatisfied?”

“No,” you said quickly, the word slipping out before you could think better of it. “Never.”

The chuckle that fell from Geta’s lips was soft and indulgent. “Then what is it, little dove? What makes you tremble?”

You hadn’t realized that you were. But between the two of them— Geta’s golden warmth that enveloped you wholly and Caracalla’s piercing gaze that heated you up from the soul out— you felt as if you were standing at the precipice of something so vast that you couldn’t understand.

“Perhaps,” Caracalla said, tilting his head. There’s a smile tugging at his lips as his eyes drift towards his twin, “she is beginning to understand.”

Your breath caught, eyebrows knitting down in confusion. “Understand…?”

“That you are more than just a passing amusement,” Geta whispers, slurring his words just a bit, The wine beginning to take hold. He drags his fingers up from your shoulder, curling a loose strand of your hair between his grasp. “That you belong to us entirely.”

The weight of those words settled over you, heavy and inescapable. You had always belonged to them, from the moment you stepped onto Palace grounds all those years ago. But never like you had these past weeks, not as something to be held, to be kept on a shelf only to be used when they needed you. And definitely not as something they may come to love. Your breath feels too shallow as you try to catch your breath. Your heart feels like a frantic kick drum against your ribs. The weight of their words pressed against your skin, curling around you like an invisible chain. You belong to us.

You had always known that, of course— deep down. You had been chosen directly. You had been plucked from your place of obscurity, creating great feasts for the palace and then placed at their feet just because of your pretty face. As a treasured possession meant to please. But never before had it felt like this— so real and so close.

Geta’s fingers continued their lazy exploration, looping that loose strand of hair around them before letting it slip free from his grip. His touch was featherlight against you, but his gaze was heavy. Curious in a way that made a warmth bloom in the center of your chest. He had always been the softer of the two— charming even, the golden emperor whose favor you had never once struggled to earn, it had come so easily. Maybe with just one look, he unfortunately was not the twin you yearned for. And tonight there was something unfamiliar in the way he looked at you. Caracalla was still watching you. Blue eyes searching for a change in your body language. You had now spent years at his side— learning the smallest shifts in his moods and the warning signs of his temper, you learned it all just as Geta had. Because you cared about him more than he would ever know. Although… Tonight his intensity did not feel like a threat, it never really had. No, this level of intensity felt like obsession— it was possession.

“Tell me,” Caracalla’s voice comes forward, low and commanding. “Did you ever wish to be just that? More than a passing amusement?”

Your lips part, but no words come. More? You did not allow yourself to dream of such things truly. You had become accustomed to the way things were. You would share a night with Geta. You would share a night with Caracalla. You would stay until they had their fill. And your body never knew the difference— but your heart couldn’t stop the fire flaming in your chest with each moment you felt their touch— Caracalla’s touch. You did want more, but that was a sentiment that you never let make it to the forefront of your thoughts.

Geta hummed, more than amused at your hesitation. “Come now, our little dove. We know you’re not as meek as you pretend to be.” He brings his hand up from where it had been against your shoulder— and his knuckles brush against your cheek. Calloused fingers against your skin, soft as silk. “We see the way you look at us when you think we aren’t watching. We know, little dove. Stand.”

You push yourself to your feet while the heat burns hot and bright beneath your skin. You had thought you had been careful. You had always tried to be careful. But it seemed nothing escaped their watchful eye. “I—” Your voice was barely a whisper, your throat feels drier than all of Rome in July. “I would not presume—”

Caracalla moves from his seat, standing two steps away. It’s not long before he crosses the distance with ease. His hand reaches out to catch your chin between his fingers. The touch isn’t cruel, not punishing, but it is firm. His index finger is curled beneath your chin, holding your head in place. His thumb traced along your jaw, holding you still beneath his gaze. “Presume what, my little dove?” he echoed, voice sharp as a blade drawn out slowly from its sheath. “As if we would deny you.”

Your pulse stuttered. You had spent years feeling the way you had felt. These last few months, the yearning had reached its peak. You were aching for his touch even in the moments you were alone. Your heart panging at the thought that Caracalla had chosen someone else for the night. Even when Geta would bring you into his bed, his body draped over your back, you would think of him. This confession… it was not just the fleeting pleasure the warmth between your thighs gives them, just as it was not for you, it was not a brief indulgence. This was the twins claiming all of you, your mind, your touch, your very breath.

“You are ours,” Geta said, his voice warm, loose from the wine he had consumed. “Not just in body, but in all things.”

Caracalla’s fingers tightened on your chin, just slightly, raising it to look him in the eye. “Do you understand that, dove?”

You swallowed, the weight of their attention nearly suffocating. Your eyes meet Caracalla’s. There was only one answer to give. “Yes, my emperors. I understand.”

Caracalla’s grip remained firm on your chin. His fingers pressing just hard enough to remind you of the power he held over you. Geta’s touches had always been indulgent and meant to coax you into softness. Pliable to everything he needed you to be. But Caracalla— he did not coax. He commanded. And yet, beneath the weight of his dark gaze— you never found cruelty like one would expect. No, there was something else lurking there, something that made your stomach twist. Longing— that was it. There was a longing for you in Caracalla’s eyes that just couldn’t be ignored any longer.

Geta exhaled a quiet chuckle. His hand resting against the chaise arm as he lounges back with the easy confidence of a man who had never in his life been denied anything. “It seems my brother has been waiting for this,” he points out, swirling the wine around in his goblet. His gaze flicking between you and Caracalla. “Shall I leave you to it, then?” He asks, but doesn’t make a move.

Caracalla did not look at him. His eyes remain locked on yours. His fingers still beneath your chin, tilting your face upward. Now his thumb is skimming the edge of your bottom lip. Your breath is catching in your throat at the soft touch. Finally, Caracalla speaks, averting his gaze to his brother, “Stay if you wish,” he said, voice low, distracted. “It makes no difference to me.”

Geta’s laughter was drunkenly warm, albeit knowing. He then leans forward once more, resting his elbow on his knee. “You see how he is?” he asked, addressing you now. He was speaking to you as you were some witness to an age-old truth— one that had been in the works since the day they were born. A brotherly rivalry. “He hoards his favorites, keeps them too close.” That drunken little giggle creeps out of his lips and his smile turns sharp. “Possessive.”

Caracalla’s fingers slid along your jaw, down your throat. His fingers curl around the soft flesh squeezing lightly just beneath your pulse. Your heartbeat was wild beneath his touch, giving away the feelings you had so diligently tried to hide. And something like satisfaction flickered in his expression. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “But I have shared everything since the womb. And I no longer wish to share what is rightfully mine.”

Geta hummed out his annoyance, but he did not argue. He only watched his twin with curious eyes.

And you— you had felt your world tilt on its axis. Because Caracalla had never spoken of you in such terms before. He had never used the word mine. Always theirs. Never referred to you as anything but a passing amusement. Never as a favored indulgence. Now all of that had changed, and you had to play it over in your head. Make sense of it all. Your lips parted, Caracalla’s hand crawling upward from where it had loosely settled around your throat. His thumb dragged over them again, silencing you effectively. “No more questioning,” he murmured. “No more doubt.” He tilted his head, his breath warm as he leaned in just close enough to make your head dizzy yet again. “You know who you belong to, don’t you?”

There was only one answer. The very one you had given before, “Yes, my emperor,” you whispered. And the small smirk that ghosted across Caracalla’s lips told you everything you had yet to admit to yourself. Through all your want and longing. Your yearning for something you never would have— you come to terms with the fact that you had been his from the very beginning.

Caracalla’s thumb lingered at your lips, his touch deceptively light despite the force behind his presence. He had always commanded attention, his unpredictability as infamous as his power, but tonight, in this moment, his focus was entirely on you. And you felt it like fire licking at your skin. “Good,” he murmured, his thumb pressing just slightly, enough to part your lips further. His blue eyes flickered with need. A need for you. “You learn quickly.”

Geta chuckled from his place on the chaise nearby— unmoved as before. It was distant, inconsequential. Geta might have indulged in the game if he had one more glass of wine in him. He might have delighted in teasing you, in drawing out pleasure like a leisurely hunt if it had been his turn with you in his own chambers. But Caracalla was different. He was never careless with what was his. And as he said, you are what’s his. His hand moved lower, tracing your throat yet again, pressing lightly against your pulse. Your heart hammered beneath his touch, and he knew. He could feel the effect he had on you just by watching the way your eyebrows change with his touch. There’s a flicker of satisfaction in his gaze that was unmistakable.

“Tell me,” he commanded, his voice low, even. “Did you think I had not noticed your feelings?”

You swallowed hard, voice quiet and unable to find the right words. “I—” His fingers tightened on your chin just slightly, a silent warning as if to say, Do not lie to me. “No,” you admitted, still barely above a whisper. “I had held hope. But I did not dare to think it was truly real.”

Caracalla hummed, eyes scanning over your features to confirm just a hint of the truth. His thumb brushes once more over your throat. “You are clever,” he mused, the corners of his lips tugging up in a smile as he lets out a soft chuckle. “And yet, still so foolish.”

A shiver ran down your spine. “Foolish, my emperor?”

His head tilted slightly. “To believe that I could touch your skin, command your every whim, and yet feel nothing for such an obedient little dove.” He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. “To believe that you could belong to me in every way and I would not want you for more than the pleasures of the flesh.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The heat of his words settled low in your belly, curling tight. “Perhaps,” you admitted, voice trembling, “I did not dare to believe such things.” At your response, Caracalla pulled back just enough to study your face. And then, after a moment, his fingers slid from its home against your throat, trailing lower. Fingers skimming over your collarbone. His touch was slow, deliberate, burning your skin with each movement.

“Then hope, little dove,” he murmured. “For I do not let go of what is mine.”

That word again. And you finally felt it— the weight of what he had been claiming, He was not like Geta, not as intentional with his passions. Geta knew what he wanted each night and cast it aside come the dawn in pursuit of something new, no matter how favored you were. But, Caracalla? He was absolute in his desires, so unrelenting.

Geta exhaled a small laugh. His eyes drift from you as he tilts his head, watching his brother’s movements. “It seems you’ve made your choice, then.” The words are directed towards you, but you dare not look his way.

Caracalla did not look at him either. His hand remained on your waist, his icy gaze locked with yours. “There was never a choice,” he murmured. You had belonged to him from the very moment he decided it. And now, you would never be escaping it.

Geta exhaled, a knowing smirk curling at his lips as he leaned back into his seat. “Well,” he slurred— the wine taking its hold— he’s stretching back like a lazy cat, “I do believe I’ve outstayed my welcome.” His bronze locks gleamed in the dim torchlight as he took another leisurely sip of wine, letting the moment stretch further just to amuse himself. See how long until his brother breaks.

Caracalla does not look at him. His fingers remained on you, his grip firm yet not unkind. Testing the weight of you beneath his touch. He’s reminding you of what he had said, what he had known for so long. He does not release you from his hand, he did not move, did not even acknowledge his brother’s words.

And Geta, ever perceptive, took the hint. “Try not to break her,” he finally adds, drunkenly letting his words drip out as he stands. His gaze flickered over you briefly. His gaze was something like giving approval— or perhaps extending you his pity— but he said nothing more. The sound of his footsteps echoed as he strode toward the exit, the heavy doors groaning open, then shutting with a firm clink behind him.

Then, there’s silence settling into the room.

Caracalla did not move for a few moments longer, as if he was listening. Ensuring that they were alone for what he had planned next. You could feel it the second he decides you are safe— the shift in him— the way his breath came slightly heavier, the tension coiling tight in his muscles. And then, suddenly, he grips you harder. With a swift motion, he pulls you toward him. One hand snaking upwards and threading into your hair, the other moving from your hip and pressing against the small of your back. The force of it stole your breath from your chest, but not out of fear— out of want, out of longing, out of needing him. His lips hovered over yours, his breath fans out warm against your skin. You could feel how tightly wound he was. How he was trembling as he restrained, holding himself back from taking what he wanted. You.

Caracalla, the ruthless emperor, the conqueror, the god among men— was trembling because of you.

His fingers in your hair flexed against your scalp close to the nape of your neck. He cradles you, his thumb brushing against the spot right under your ear as though he was memorizing the feel of you. His jaw was clenched, his breath uneven. He wanted this. He wanted you. And yet, he was hesitating. His pride would not allow him to beg. He’d never beg for a woman— not even you. But his body betrayed him, the way he leaned in, lips parted. In the way his grip refused to loosen on your body, and the way his nose brushed against yours in a silent plea. “Kiss me,” he rasped, the words a barely audible whisper against your skin. More an exhale than a solid command. This demand laced with vulnerability, a feeling so unknown to him he wasn’t sure what to make of it. But as his lips hovered against yours, the space between you felt unbearable, torturous.

And in that moment, you realized the truth— Caracalla did not just desire you. He needed you. He needed you so badly, he can’t imagine breathing without you near any longer. His breath comes fast, hot against your skin as he holds you so close to his body. His hand is still tangled in your hair as if he feared you would slip away from him the moment he let go. There isn’t even an inch of space between the two of your bodies. Although, his gaze bores into you, dark and heavy, full of the feelings he had long kept buried beneath the cover of his pride. The air between you grew thicker, suffocating you with everything unspoken. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest. The way his body shivered ever so slightly, a contrast to the cold and stoic emperor that he had always shown you. You truly were not just a desire for him any longer. This was something real— something even Geta had noticed.

He finally leans in, his lips brushing yours with a soft, hesitant touch. It was barely a kiss— but it stirred something deep inside you. This was entirely different than you had ever had with him before. Caracalla was quick to take what he needed, use your body for his own pleasure— and then send you away without as much another look in your direction. You start to think that maybe it was his way of keeping his emotions at bay. And so, you gave him the space to act on them. You closed the distance between your lips, offering yourself to him with a shift of your body. That’s the moment you realize he’s lost the battle with himself.

Caracalla is fast, crashing his lips against yours, desperate and unrelenting. His kiss was as demanding as he was, yet there was a tremble in his hands that spoke of a deeper need. The one you had seen glimpses of tonight. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you opened to him instinctively. You were feeling his heat invade every corner of your senses— you could taste the wine on his tongue and something so distinctly Caracalla it made your head spin. Your pulse pounds at the feel of his robes, heavy against your skin— and you couldn’t get enough. He pulls back from you, his forehead pressing to yours as he breathes heavily. His chest is rising and falling with the weight of his own realization. Those pretty eyes, blue and glinting with want, never left yours. The quiet storm you both had been harbouring within yourselves now exposed to the light. “I’ve wanted this,” Caracalla muttered, his voice crackled, his eyes closed. “I’ve wanted you for so long… but I could not let myself admit it. I-I’m an emperor. I could not let myself need you.” The admission clung in the air between you. It was the most vulnerable you had ever heard your twins. It was more than you had ever expected. You settle in the thought that Caracalla was his most comfortable with you— and that held a heavy weight in your chest.

You swallowed, your fingers moving to trace the sharp lines of his jaw, his head tilting to lean into your touch as you spoke softly, “I knew… I’ve always known, Caracalla. I’ve waited obediently… but never thought you would return it.”

He shifted his weight, his eyes are still closed and his cheek is warm in your hand. He was so cold on the outside, hard, blood hungry. Never let anyone see the true him. Maybe other than Geta. But here you are, exposed to everything, “Then why wait, if you knew?” His voice was softer now, and yet still thick with the weight of a question that seemed to haunt him.

You exhaled slowly, taking in the moment. His face cradled in your hand and the way his presence filled you, consumed you. “Because I never thought I could be more than a passing desire for you or for Geta,” you murmured, almost to yourself— but that prompts him to open his eyes. “I thought I was just something to pass the time.” He turns his head to press a kiss against your palm.

Caracalla’s eyes soften with something akin to regret, a flicker that made him feel more human in that moment, than the emperor he had always been. His hand, still tightly wound up in your hair— tightens. He moves your head to gaze into your eyes— holding you there, solidifying the truth. “No,” he said, his voice thick. “You are not just something to be used… Not anymore. You are mine.” He leans in again, his lips hovering just above yours. He drops his voice to a whisper, “And I have wanted you for a while now, needed you, more than I have allowed myself to admit… But you were never just mine. Always had to share. Now you...” His voice is cut off as you take a leap of faith and close the small gap between the two of you. Your lips are brushing against his once more. Tender this time, slower, a promise woven into the kiss right from your heart. It was not just a kiss of passion; it was a kiss that spoke of everything that would remain unspoken. When he pulled back, his eyes were burning with something deeper than just desire. There was love there too— silent, fierce, undeniable. Something you thought you would never see from your Emperors.

And you knew then, in that moment, that Caracalla had not only claimed you as his possession— a winning trophy in the lifelong rivalry he was forced to play a part in with Geta. He had claimed your heart as his own. They were two halves of a whole— they were beating in time with one another. Caracalla’s breath was ragged as his hands slid down your back, his fingers brushing the linen fabric of your tunic. The tenderness in his touch was unknown to you. The way his fingers on his free hand traced the curve of your spine, up, up, up— Was far different from the usual commanding nature he displayed in public, even in private with you. This— this was the emperor, your emperor, unmasked. He was a man who had long buried his desires beneath the weight of his crown. Always seeking love, something that didn’t belong to his empire or to his brother, but to him alone. His gaze never left yours as he slowly guided you backward, step by deliberate step, towards his bed. The soft flicker of torchlight cast shadows on his face, revealing that pretty blue of his eyes, a color you had loved so much. His fingers trail back down your spine and he lets his hand linger at the small of your back. He presses the warmth of his palm against the delicate fabric of your tunic, urging you closer, pulling you toward him like a magnet. Igniting the fire between your thighs to burn brighter. The wetness gathering there is a sure fire sign.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice low, like he anticipated your answer to be no. His lips were hovering just above your ear, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

You nodded, your heart racing as you felt the power in his presence. “I do.”

His eyes softened at your words— an unexpected answer. His hand sliding down, fingers curling around your waist to pull you even closer. He doesn’t stop until your bodies are flush against each other. The moment was so quiet, save for the sound of your breaths mingling in the air between you. For a moment, Caracalla simply holds you as close as he can. As if he was absorbing the contact, the connection that had been years in the making. The attachment to you and yours to him— that was just his. Geta no longer mattered behind the doors of his chamber. It was just you. It was just him.

He began to move forward again slowly and carefully, guiding you onto the bed with a gentleness that contrasted the fiery passion of his earlier kiss. His hands roam slowly as he traced the outline of your form, settling on your cheek. Each of his touches lingering, savoring you, as though he could not quite believe you were there, beneath him, and in his arms. When he finally speaks, his voice soft again, almost hesitant. “I’ve been a fool to wait so long,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “But now…” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully, “Now, I can no longer pretend that this is just a passing amusement. You are not just a common whore. You are…” His voice faltered— just a slight waver that anyone else might not have noticed— but you? Of course you noticed.

You reached up as well, cupping his face with your hand. Your warm palm presses against his face— grounding him there to the moment. You were offering him the same comfort he had given you moments before. “I never wanted to be just a toy…” you admitted with a whisper, your hand moves from his cheek upwards— fingers gently brushing through reddened strands of his hair. You think about closing your hand, pulling those locks tight. But alas, you just watch how he moves under gentle touches instead. How he keens towards you, much like a cat searching for affection. Caracalla closed his eyes at your touch, a light shudder running through his body. His hands moved to your shoulders, guiding you to lie back on the bed. The coolness of his silken sheets are a stark contrast to the heat growing wild between the two of you. Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself down— hovering over you. His body is just inches from yours. His hand drifted from where he had planted it against the mattress beside your head, to your side, his thumb tracing the outline of your waist— catching on the fabric of your tunic. He was committing every curve of your body to his memory. Something for him to keep safe and treasure like this might not happen again. That may have terrified you. The thought of never having his touch, his kiss, his love again.

He leans up, his lips brushed lightly against your temple, the touch sweet, almost reverent. And then right over your cheek bone, and then your jaw. “I need you,” he confessed softly, the words barely a whisper, “more than I ever thought possible.” And then there’s another kiss to your lips. Shifting himself onto one arm— Caracalla’s fingers found the clasp of his cloak first, unfastening it with practiced ease. Like all the times he had done this dance with you before. He’s letting the heavy fabric slip from his shoulders. He gathers it up at his waist and tosses it next to the frame of his bed— letting it pool onto the marble floor beside them. The absence of its weight seemed to shift something in the air between you— he was no longer the emperor draped in finery, he was no longer a God among the people— but a man stripped down to something human. Just for you. His gaze never wavered from yours as he reached for the hem of his tunic. His movements are slow and deliberate. His hands weren’t as steady as you remembered. There’s a shake to them— a tremble. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath had deepened as he peeled the fabric upward. The rich red and gold material had gathered against his chest before he finally pulled it over his head, revealing the soft edges of his body in the flickering torchlight. The tunic joins his cloak without thought, left forgotten against the marble. His skin, warm and golden from the Roman sun. The torchlight cast shifting shadows over the contours of his chest, the sharp cut of his collarbone, the taut muscles of his chest that flexed as he exhaled. Even the softness of his tummy.

For a moment, he’s still as he holds himself above you— watching you, measuring your reaction. He’s baring himself to you in all of his glory. A gift from the Gods just for you. He was so beautiful. Your eyes scan the ridges of his chest, the softness of his tummy, the way his cock was pressed between the two of you. One shift of his hips and he’s pressing so tightly against your thigh. You had everything to be grateful for. His hands found your waist first, his touch warm, feels like it was burning a hole through the fabric of your own tunic. He was treating you as if you were something to be worshiped rather than simply taken— unlike any other treatment he had given you before. He was letting himself break. Allowing himself settle in the comfort of this privacy. His fingers traced the fabric of your tunic again, lingering, teasing, before finally starting to pull it loose, mirroring his own undressing. His breath was warm against your cheek as he leaned in, nosing against your cheek. “Let me see you, little dove,” he whispered, his lips just barely brushing your skin. “Let me have you as more than just a dream.”

Your face feels flush, burning hot from your chest outward. Your hand places against his naked chest— pushing. Which catches him by surprise. He pulls back slightly, his eyes meeting yours. Were you denying him his right to have you however he wanted? But just as you see the gears turning in his head, you place your palm against his cheek. “Lie back for me.” Your request is quiet, barely above a whisper. “I need you to.” Your thumb brushes against his cheekbone and he moves to lie his head back against the silken pillows. He’s looking up at you through his lashes— eyes at half mast. His cock hard, standing at attention between you, the tip angry and red.

You press your knees to the mattress— the heat between your thighs growing larger and larger. You finish the job of undressing that he had started by discarding the rest of your tunic. You place it into the pile of discarded clothing beside the bed. His arms fold, settling behind his head as his eyes scan over your body— devouring you with just his sight. Now it’s your turn to place your hand against the mattress, right beside his hip. You lean closer, pressing a kiss against his lips, his neck, his chest, right above his navel. You stop where his cock was curved up towards his stomach. Hard, leaking, aching for you. for anything. “Dove, please.” His words are breathy, this was a new side of him. A side you had never seen before. A side he trusts you with. Your fingers trail down his stomach, tracing the line of heat pooling just beneath his skin. Wrapping your hand around him, you stroke slowly. Spreading the leaking precum along his length. You press a lingering kiss just below his navel before taking him into your mouth, inch by inch, feeling the way his breath stutters above you. His lashes flutter shut, and his fingers weave into your hair. He’s tightening them as he exhales a shaky sigh. “By the Gods…”

He moves in slow, shallow thrusts— tentative at first, testing the give of your lips as he holds your head still. He can feel the heat of your tongue as you let him take what he needs. Albeit your patience was wearing thin. He quickens the rock of his hips— gaining a steady rhythm. He’s caught between the softness of your mouth at his groin and the firm press of the mattress at his ass, feeling absolutely incredible. You hum softly, feeling his thighs tense beneath your hands, firm under your fingertips— hair dusting the skin. There’s no rush tonight. Caracalla is all yours. The stutter of his breath breaks you out of your thoughts. His fingers tighten in your hair, holding you still as his hips slow their pace. He pulls almost out of your mouth, letting only the tip stay pressed between those two pretty lips— before he’s pushing back in, allowing your head to hit that thatch of wiry hair at the bottom of his cock. His tensed up thighs twitch beneath your touch. You don’t have to do much, just let him use your mouth to repeat the motion over and over and over again.

A low sound rumbles from his chest. You couldn’t make out if it were a sigh or a groan— but you didn’t care. Against the pillow, his head tips— barring his neck to you. His lips fall open slightly, a breath slipping through them. You let your eyes drift over him. The glow of the torch flickered over his bare skin— giving you the best view of his abdomen as it began to tense itself. The steady rise and fall of his chest showed you just how fast his resolve was waning. He’s always been a man of conquest. Always took what he wanted without an ounce of hesitation, but here— here, looking at him now, he’s undone. At your mercy. A sharp breath leaves him, his fingers curling tighter where they rest in your hair. But then— he moves them entirely. His hand slides to just under your jaw, fingers wrapping around your throat. And he’s guiding you up, cock slipping from your mouth, and forcing you to meet his gaze. His chest rises and falls as heavy breaths fill the space between you. “Come here.” his voice shakes beneath you, and you move yourself up to right where he wants you.

His thumb rubs against your jaw as you throw your leg over his hip. He lets out a breath, a lazy smile tilting his lips. “Will you take me?” He asks, the hand that wasn’t wrapped around your throat, dropping down to press a finger against your pussy. “Will you have me as I would have you?” He asks again, pressing it into you as he receives his answer.

“Yes, Caesar. Of course.” At your response, he curls his finger inside of you, eyes meeting yours. He’s making sure you’re wet enough to take it.

“Then take what is yours.” His voice wavers, like he’s unsure of giving you the command. Something you had never heard his voice do before. His fingers pull away from your heat, sliding across the skin that almost joined you, to grip his cock at the base, guiding it into your waiting cunt. The hand on your throat is squeezing, pulling you down into a kiss. Your lips captured by his, not nearly as hungry as they had been earlier. He had you where he wanted you. His touches were soft. With one shallow thrust of his hips, the tip of his dick is breaching your core. You move closer, letting out a soft breath as you feel inch after inch of Caracalla settle inside of you. When he bottoms out, your ass seated against his hips— he lets out a shaky breath. “The gods must favor me,” he whispers, almost disbelieving. He lets go of your throat, hands sliding over your skin slowly to settle on your hips. “What else could explain this? That they would place you in my path, only for me to take you, to keep you?” You dare not say a word about gaining Geta’s favor first.

Your head is spinning as you feel Caracalla’s hips start to rock shallowly into you. He’s barely moving. You place a hand against his chest. A quiet laugh escapes those rosy lips, “I have fought for everything in this life. Geta always had the best.” His fingers flex against your waist, his breath coming faster now as your hips start to move on their own, the slight bounce driving him absolutely crazy. “But you… I did not have to fight for you. You were given to me. Just me. Right from Jupiter, little dove.” His hands slip to your back, pushing you forward into his arms. His lips find the shell of your ear. “And I would not anger the gods by refusing such a gift.”

“Calla…” The first time something as intimate as a pet name had slipped from your lips in the many years you had enjoyed this treatment. Your head lolling forward onto his shoulder as his arm, heavy and strong, wraps around your middle. He’s holding you tight to his chest, moving to plant his feet against the mattress as he rocks his hips up into you. Each thrust of his hips sending friction against that spongy spot inside of you. “I… I love you.” Your head is dizzy, you weren’t sure if you would have admitted it otherwise.

A sharp breath escapes him at those words, his fingers flexing against your skin. His head falling back against the pillow for a moment. His throat bared to you as you turn your head to catch a glimpse. His lips parting slightly as his muscles tense beneath you. If he’s not careful he’d cum too soon— too soon to see you unravel on his cock for the first time and it was a sight he refused to miss. His hands guide you again, his touch firm yet patient. His breath stutters, “Again,” he breathes, his fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to leave bruises— urging you closer to one of the most special orgasms you’ve ever received. “Say it again.”

“I love you.” You’re a bit more confident in your words this time. And that’s what breaks his restraint.

Satisfied, he shifts his weight, pressing into you to keep his cock nestled right where it belongs, as he rolls your bodies over. He’s careful as he lets you settle back against the sheets. He grabs one of the pillows, propping it under your hips with a deliberate ease. And then he’s leaning down again, he presses the gentlest kiss against your temple— a quiet contradiction to the heat still burning between the two of you. “Forgive me, my Dove,” he whispers, pressing another kiss against your jaw. His breath is warm against your skin. His fingers are tracing slow, idle patterns along your thigh as he hooks them around his waist. His voice is low, close to the volume he would use in a prayer. “Because I am about to fuck you as though the gods themselves dare not look upon us.” He pauses for a moment, letting the words weigh heavy in the air— and then his lips are moving from your jaw to brush against yours, his grip tightening at your thighs— “And if they do… let them fucking weep that I have you, and they do not.” And he keeps his promise—

His hands are pressed steadily against your thighs as he pulls back just enough to have you whining. Thrusting his hips back into you with a hard snap. Your hands are searching for any sort of purchase against the silks below you, moaning out as the force of his thrust empties your lungs of any air they held. There’s a soft grunt that leaves his lips, his head tipping back slightly as he pulls himself back again. He’s finding a steady rhythm, his fingers leaving imprints against your thighs. “Calla…” you whine out, that fire deep in your belly being stoked to life so fucking slowly. He pulls his head back up, looking down at you. Moving so he’s able to hold himself above you with one hand beside your head. His opposite hand sliding to the back of your thigh to press your one leg up and over his shoulder.

His breath stutters a little as he looks between your bodies. “The beauty you hold is unmatched.” He whispers, like Venus herself wouldn’t strike him down if she had heard his proclamation. His hips roll deep deep inside of you. And that fire is growing larger and larger. That familiar itch crawling up your spine and it’s making you want to squirm beneath him. And he’s so close too. He’s holding your leg to your chest with a hand on your calf, his breathing heavier than before. “Touch yourself.” He commands, but there is no real heat to it. His eyes are scanning up from where your breasts had been moving with each of his thrusts, to your own eyes. Your lip catches between your teeth as your hand snakes down between the two of you— rubbing small, tight circles against your clit. Your breath is coming in short bursts as you feel yourself pushing closer and closer to bliss. And Caracalla’s rhythm falters. He’s alternating between frantic thrusting, chasing the high he’s been waiting for all night, and agonizingly slow rolls of his hips to just get deeper into you. “You’re going to take it.” He states, the hand beside your head scooting over as much as it can to just touch you. He’s making sure this was real, that it wasn’t just some trick from the Gods, played on him to makeup for all of the misfortune he has caused. He’s fallen in love and he can’t bear for it to be a dream.

And when you’re finally tumbling over the edge, a wave of hot white pleasure rippling through you— you moan out his name, again and again and again.

“Dove.” His voice is shaky, he’s trying to keep his hooded eyes open to watch as your body shakes and keens towards him. He’s rocking his hips through your orgasm with reckless abandon and then he’s finally tipping over into his own. His hips still, deep into you as he paints your insides with his seed. His body arching over you as he groans, eyes squeezing shut. Your breath is heavy as you lay under him, so fucking sensitive, but the way he looks right now— He’s so pretty. And when he’s coherent enough to think again, he releases your leg, letting it fall to the mattress. He’s pulling out of you, slumping back into the bed next to you— a content smile on his face as one arm comes up to slide under his head. His eyes close again and he reaches out, pulling you as close as he can get you. And he shifts his body, the two of you melting into one body.

His chamber was quiet now, save for the distant crackling of torchlight and the slow, steady rhythm of Caracalla’s breath fanning out against your skin. His weight against you was warm, his body pressed against yours with an ease that made it feel as though he had always belonged there. And maybe he would for the rest of your time on Earth— you could only hope. His head rested against your chest, his hair— rich, red like embers— soft beneath your fingers as you combed through it, your touch slow, languid. He was silent for a while longer, his fingers tracing absent patterns against the bare skin of your stomach. Circles, lines, something close to letters— maybe his name— though perhaps they held no meaning at all. Maybe they were only the idle movements of a man too lost in thought to be still. His breath, deep and even, stirred against your skin, and you wondered if he would speak again.

“Do you know what it would mean to be my wife?” His voice was quiet, his fingers still moving across your abdomen with a featherlight touch. “To be bound to me, not as a whore, not as our favorite, but as my own. Mine.” His fingers then stilled against your stomach. His palm pressing flat, as if the thought alone was something weighty enough to keep him anchored to you. He exhaled sharply, shifting his hips, though he did not lift his head from your chest. “It is not a small thing...” His voice dropped lower, carrying off for a moment. As if his lucidity had outstayed its welcome. “To be my wife… is to stand beside an emperor, to carry the weight of Rome itself upon your shoulders. It is to be revered, envied… hated by many.” His fingers began to move again— this time tracing the shape of what felt like a laurel wreath against your skin. “You would belong to me, as I would to you. No other. No Geta. No pretenses, no courtly whispers of favoritism— only the truth. Only what is ours.” At last, he lifted his head. Shifting his body again so that his gaze met yours. Those blue eyes searching, as if he might find the answer there before you even thought it or spoke it. His hand, warm and solid, came to rest against your ribs, his thumb sweeping slow across your skin. “Tell me, Dove,” he murmured, his voice softer now— the pet name searing into your heart— though no less certain. “Would you have that? Would you have me?”

Your fingers stilled in his hair, your breath catching as his words settled between you. He had spoken of power, of duty, of the weight of Rome— but had left out the most important thing to you. Love. Your hand drifted forward from his hair, sliding down to cradle his jaw. You guide him upward until his eyes are level with yours. The firelight cast shadows across his face, the edges of him softened by the quiet vulnerability that flickered in his gaze. You did not see an emperor in that moment— you saw a man wanting to be held, to be loved, to be cared for in a way no one had yet. And for all his strength, for all his iron will, he was still waiting for you— for an answer that he would never beg for, but that he needed nonetheless.

“I would have you,” you whisper— your heart beating heavy and loud in your chest as your thumb is brushing the edge of his cheekbone, “as you would have me. But… not like this.”

His brows furrowed, not in anger— never in anger again (so he hopes)— but in something closer to confusion. His grip right above your ribs tightens ever so slightly. He was bracing his body for a rejection that had not yet come. “Not like this?” His voice was rougher now, the hurt threatening to spill.

You exhaled, shaking your head. “Not as a… a whore shared between you and Emperor Geta... Not as a woman plucked from my quarters when I am to please you or your brother.” Your words are bold, even in the safety of Caracalla. “If I am to be yours, Caracalla, truly yours… I cannot be beneath you.”

The silence that followed was growing thicker by the second. His gaze searched yours, stoic. Emotions undistinguishable— something that wasn’t at all common for you around him. His fingers are still resting against your ribs, feeling every breath you make and every shift of your body. Then he slowly moved. He lifted himself onto his forearms, shifting slightly, his body now hovering just above yours. His weight is pressing into you like an anchor. His hips slotted tightly against yours— but not in a way that makes you think he’d like to go again. Just to let you know he’s here. He’s with you. He moves one hand, his fingers drifting up to your face. He’s tracing the curve of your cheek, the shape of your lips, tucking back a strand of your hair. “You would stand at my side,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin as he leans in for another kiss— soft, slow, pouring all of his love into it. “Not beneath me. Not as whore, not as shared possession… but as my wife.”

It was not a question any longer. It was a vow. Your chest tightened, a cry catching in your throat as you reached for him. You wrap your arms tightly around his shoulders, pulling his body impossibly closer. “If you will have me,” you whispered, “I will love you as no other has. I will be yours, as wholly as you will be mine.”

A slow exhale left him, something unraveling in his expression. His grip on you tightened— It wasn’t possessive, it wasn’t demanding, but it surely was certain. “Then it is done,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your temple. His fingers trailing down from where it had been tucked against your cheek, feeling everywhere they could until it stops your thigh— pulling it over his hip as he rolls onto his side— you’re impossibly close. “You are mine… and I, yours.” And as his mouth found yours again, slow and unhurried. This felt like the first promise he had ever made not as your emperor… but as a man. A man that needed you. Needed someone to trust. Someone to love and to hold him. And in that moment you found the quiet stillness that had fallen over Caracalla’s bed chambers comforting. It was the kind that settled heavy and warm in the hazy aftermath of sex. Caracalla held you tight against him, your chests pressed together, your leg still hiked up over his hip. His fingers were tracing slow, idle circles across the expanse of your naked back, his arm tucked around you. His breath was hot against your neck, but more steady with each exhale. You’d argue it was the steadiest it had been since Geta had called you into the chambers earlier that night. But you could tell there was a wanting tension still lingering in his muscles and something plaguing his mind that had not yet let him surrender to sleep. Your head rested against his pillows before you turned to face him.

The weight of his arm draped around your waist was heavy, warm, comforting. Your fingers skim over his chest, the skin there is always so much softer than you remember. You wondered if he had ever been held like this before. If he had said all of these things to another woman, another man, anyone before. He had confessed what seemed like love to you. Promised your hand. And suddenly, in the silence, everything feels like it’s seconds away from being pulled loose, like a thread from his silks. “What are you thinking?” You ask, your hand moving from his chest to cup his cheek.

Caracalla’s eyes close as he huffs out a breath— it sounds like a laugh, but it comes out strangled and tired. His fingers curl against your thigh, tugging you impossibly closer. Your bare hips slotting against his, it’s not sexual— it’s just… nice, comforting. A needed touch of skin to skin to remind one another you were here, you were real, you were together. “That I have not known a peace like this before,” he admitted, his voice no louder than a whisper, “and that I fear I may never know it again if you are not beside me… I’ve promised you marriage, but I don’t know if I can bear ever being apart.”

You lifted your head slightly, tilting it just enough to meet his eyes. The torchlight had begun to simmer, the orange cast only slivers across his face, but his eyes— those pretty blue eyes— “Then you need not fear at all, my love,” you whispered, brushing your lips against his jaw, the name rolling off your tongue like it had meant to be there. “Because I am here. You promised. I’m not going anywhere.”

His arm tightened around your waist. His other hand slipping up to cradle the back of your head, thumb rubbing against your scalp as he exhaled slowly. “Good,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Because I would raze the world to keep you close.”

The silence grew comfortable between you after that, the weight of the day— of everything; sex, love confession, marriage proposal— finally pulling you both closer to the edge of sleep. You both had barely noticed your breaths syncing. But your bodies slotted together as if molded for one another. Your legs intertwined and he’s moving downward. His head is finding a home against your chest. And for once, Caracalla allowed himself to rest. And so did you, holding your husband to be as close to your body as you could.

At least, until that next morning something stirred.

There’s a small nimble touch against your hair. An odd rustling sound that was just too soft to be Caracalla and a chirping you couldn’t place. Your brow furrowed as you stirred awake, blinking your eyes only to find yourself face-to-face with a pair of dark, beady ones you had only heard rumors of. Tiny fingers were combing carefully through your hair, twisting a few strands before releasing them again. You blinked again, slow and unsure if you were dreaming or not, and the creature— small, dressed in fine silk, and entirely unbothered— cocked its head as if studying you in return.

“Dondus.” Caracalla’s voice was gruff with sleep, his grip on you tightening instinctively— like this monkey was trying to steal you away from him— before his mind caught up with his waking reality. You felt his body shift against your body, his breath exhaling sharply against your skin as he finally lifted his head from your chest to take in the sight before him. His eyes— still heavy with sleep— landed on the small diapered figure perched beside you, its tiny hands now patting curiously at your forehead. “Dondus,” he repeated, his voice firmer this time as he shifted upright. Much like a voice a father uses to discipline their child. He’s careful not to disturb you more than the monkey already had, even if you looked as beautiful as ever in the early morning rays that were beginning to peek out from behind the clouds, pouring in from the window. The monkey barely reacted, as if completely unimpressed by the emperor’s tone.

You bit back a quiet laugh, watching as Caracalla ran an exhausted hand over his face. How dare he be pulled from the best sleep he’s ever had. Just a few more hours and he would have been fully rested for the first time in a long time. He’s exhaling before muttering, “Little beast, I should have you tossed into the Tiber.” Though every living being in the room knows Dondus is one of the single most important things in Caracalla’s life and he’d never entertain the idea. Dondus simply blinked at him, entirely unbothered by his master’s lack of amusement. Caracalla sighed once again, pushing the blankets away and shifting away from you to sit on the edge of the bed. You already missed his warmth. With a practiced ease, he reached out. He allowed Dondus to scamper up his arm and onto his shoulder. The small creature curled around his neck like he belonged there. He glanced back at you, a smile settling on his face. He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your lips before murmuring, “Do not move, my Dove. I will return.” And he keeps that promise when he’s clambering back into bed after a quick trip from the chambers— his arm sliding around your waist.

Later that same morning, a cool breeze wafted through the open palace windows. The marble halls of the palace still heavy with the hush of early dawn. The scent of honeyed bread and ripe figs lingered as you walked beside Caracalla, his grip firm around your wrist— it was not harsh, not demanding, but that of a man who couldn’t bear to let you slip away. He had barely let you go since waking, other than to take Dondus off to a place to play. When he had returned, his body stayed naked and still warm and curled around yours in the hours before dawn. His breath was warm against your skin as though afraid you might vanish in the night. But now, the softness of the quiet morning was completely gone. The coldness of his reign had returned in full just as the laurels that adorned his head. Emperor Caracalla was a stark contrast to the man who invited you into his bed last night.

You could feel the tension in his body as he led you into the dining hall, where Geta already sat. He was reclining with an ease that did not match the weight in the air. The older emperor, by mere moments, plucked a fig from the golden platter before him. He bit into it leisurely, though his sharp gaze flicked from Caracalla’s hold on you to the way your tunic, hastily draped in the early morning, bore the unmistakable creases of the night before. A knowing smile curled at Geta’s lips. “I assume you bring your morning appetites with you, brother?” His tone was light, teasing— something edged with amusement, perhaps even curiosity. You’re not sure if his words are aimed towards you or the way Caracalla’s stomach growls.

But Caracalla did not humor him. His grip on you tightened ever so slightly as he pulled you forward with him, guiding you to stand just behind him as he lowered himself onto the sofa across from Geta. He did not release you, even as he reached for a goblet of watered wine. Only after taking a long sip did he speak, his voice low, unwavering. “I will have her.”

Geta exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he leaned back against the cushions. “You already do, brother. Clearly.” The annoyance in his voice hadn’t gone unnoticed. Geta had brought you to the palace. Geta had been the one to give you his favor first. And here you were, besting him for his little brother.

Caracalla’s jaw tensed. “Not as she is.” He set his goblet down with a quiet thud, reaching for a chunk of the honeyed bread as his eyes lock onto Geta’s. “Not as one of our toys. Not as plaything. As a wife. Not something shared between us any longer.” The words hung in the air, the weight of them sinking between the two brothers like a blade waiting to be drawn. You felt your breath catch in your throat. One of your hands is clasped in a fist in front of you, the other is hanging over Caracalla’s shoulder as he grips tight to your wrist. Geta studied his brother, then you. You drop your gaze to the floor of where you stand, the only thing visible is the expanse of Caracalla’s silk covered back in your peripheral.

“You would wed her?” Geta’s brow arched, “You, who scoffed at marriage? You, who dismissed every noblewoman I had brought before you?” He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “And now you would break tradition, cast away the role she was given, all for—“

“I would have her,” Caracalla interrupted, his voice was sharper now, laced with impatience. Geta did not understand. He could never understand. “Not because she is owed it. Not because it is expected of her. Because I will have no other. She is what I want.” A silence stretched between them. You could feel Caracalla’s fingers flex against you, his thumb now brushing idly against the inside of your wrist. His grip on reality was starting to waver— needing you to bring him back down to Earth.

Geta sighed, setting his half-eaten fig down onto the plate that had been held beside him, before finally meeting his brother’s gaze. “And what of Rome if you must do this?” Geta asked, tilting his head. “What of the Senate? You would take a woman not of noble blood, not of lineage, and place her at your side? You know what they will say. You will bear heirs with her. You know what our mother would think if she were breathing?”

Caracalla’s expression did not waver in the slightest. If anything, he looked amused now. His lips curling into a smile as he leaned forward, his voice dropping low. “Let them say what they will. Let her think what she will, for she is in her grave. I am not asking, Geta.”

Geta exhaled again, shaking his head. He turned to you then, studying you for a long moment. He noticed the way you seemed to tense when his eyes were on you— and one run of Caracalla’s thumb against your wrist seemed to soothe the tension plaguing your body— and then he’s speaking. “And you?” His tone was different now, more of the Emperor in him than you had seen in person before. “You would have him? You would stand beside him, knowing what that means? Knowing what it will cost?”

You swallowed, your pulse thrumming beneath Caracalla’s grip, but your answer was clear, it’s all you have wanted— Caracalla no matter the risks. “I would.”

“Then I suppose us making a freedwoman out of you is a small price to pay for my brother’s happiness.” Geta clicked his tongue at your answer. Now shaking his head with something like a reluctant laugh. Then, after a long moment, he lifted his goblet in a silent toast, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “May the gods have mercy on you both.”

(if you’re comfortable reblogging, please consider doing so! I appreciate it more than you know! And if you’d like to comment or drop me a message just to chat (and or gush about the emperors) feel free! i’d love to make some friends!)

tags ;; @x-vadon

#female reader #emperor caracalla #emperor caracalla x reader #emperor caracalla x female reader #emperor caracalla x you #cw: groping #cw: touching #cw: kissing #cw: oral sex #cw: oral m receiving #cw: unprotected sex #ca: pinv #cw: swearing

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