#emperor Caracalla

[cherrysweets-world]

Eyes of the Gods XII

series masterlist - part eleven

Pairing: Caracalla x fem!Reader x Geta

Summary: You rise to the challenge set before you.

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

Word Count: 8.1k

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

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

This was, after all, your fault.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Caracalla- “you began.

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

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

“You left,” his lips curled.

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

“I came back,” you said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you pray for?” you whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do not,” you admitted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s for you.”

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

“This is for me as well?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sleep,” Geta instructed.

“What about you?” you asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How?” you asked, stunned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In a week, you would be empress of Rome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Romulus and Remus,” you said to yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Empress of Rome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you, Caracalla,” you answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could not,” you answered honestly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[anyplaceisparadise]

The way Caracalla looks at Geta :(

[getagirlie]

joseph quinn as EMPEROR GETA in "gladiator II" (2024)

[snazzynacho]

Yeah <3

i mean yeah

[gothicloverdream]

"Joe Quinn is such a lovely partner, so it was very easy to work with him. We talked constantly. We spent so much time together in the leadup to this. I feel like I don't know how we didn't get kicked out of our hotel, because I feel like in the middle of the night, we would like go over scenes and screaming crazy things at full volume and coming up with movements and all these ideas."

Fred Hechinger on working with Joseph Quinn: Landmark Cinemas Canada

[causeimhappinesss]

Rome's Devotion (part 9)

Warnings: Emperors Geta & Caracalla are warnings themselves, (slight?) blasphemy, slight non-con/dub-con, misogyny (Ancient Rome, so…)

Pairing: Geta x Christian!reader x Caracalla

Words: 4,7k

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

Masterlist

-

The soft scent of lavender and herbs lingers in the air as I close the door behind me. The quiet of the room greets me, the only sound the rustle of my wet nightgown as I step further inside. The bath had been a welcome escape, the heat of the water soothing the tension in my muscles, though my thoughts were never far from the weight of the day. The dinner, the absence of the emperors, and Claudia’s presence instead had all left a strange sense of peace, a calm I wasn’t sure I trusted.

I walk to the bed, the soft fabric of the gown brushing against my skin, my hair still damp, cascading down my back in loose waves. The cool night air that filters in from the balcony feels refreshing against the warmth of my body. Kneeling in front of the bed, I reach for my necklace, the small Ichtus pendant cool against my fingers. My hands are steady, but my mind races, even as I prepare myself for the comfort of the prayer. I bring the necklace close, a silent reassurance that I hold on to, my fingers curling around it as I begin.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…” I murmur, my voice quiet, steady, “…Hallowed be thy name.”

The words come easily, practiced, familiar. The weight of the world doesn’t feel so heavy at this moment. Each breath I take settles my soul a little more, the comfort of the words wrapping around me like a cloak.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.” I close my eyes for a moment, imagining a peace that has always seemed distant, as if the prayer itself could be the key to something more.

“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever, Amen.”

The words slip from my lips with a gentle ease. They are a request for mercy, for strength, but also for grace, something I feel I need more with each passing day. When the final word hangs in the air, quiet but resolute, I make the sign of the cross. My fingers linger on the necklace for just a moment longer before I let it fall back against my chest. A deep breath escapes me as I stand, my body tired in ways that go beyond just the physical. Exhaustion pools in my limbs, in my mind, but it feels different tonight, probably less overwhelming, less fraught with the turmoil of the day. The prayer managed to calm my mind. Without a sound, I move toward the bed, the softness of the sheets inviting me to rest. The room is silent now, the dim light from the moon casting faint shadows against the stone walls, accompanied by the candles’ light. As I slide under the covers, a sense of relief, a respite I wasn’t expecting, engulfs me. The emperors had not tormented me today. For once, there had been a moment of calm.

I close my eyes, feeling the cool night air on my skin and the weight of the day’s quiet wash over me. The strange peace of the evening lingers, and for the first time in a long while, I drift into sleep without the sting of worry or the sharpness of fear trailing behind me.

The night whispers secrets through the thin curtains of my chamber, the air heavy with the scent of jasmine and the distant echo of the city’s revelry. I lie on my bed, the silk sheets cool against my skin, my mind adrift in the haze of an erotic dream. In the realm of slumber, I am wanton, unshackled by the daylight virtues that bind me.

Caracalla, with his golden wavy hair and eyes like the clearest summer sky, stands before me, an emperor in every sense, yet in my dream, he is mine alone. His pale skin glows with an otherworldly light, his features so angelic that it seems a sin to even gaze upon him. He reaches for me, his hands sure and strong, igniting a fire within my core that I have never known. I’m hot, wet, and aching for his touch. My body responds to his phantom caresses, my hips undulating in search of something to quench the burning desire that courses through my veins. The soft button on my womanhood throbs with anticipation, and I can feel the slickness between my thighs, a testament to the power of my dreams. I flutter my eyelashes and frown.

Gradually, the veil of sleep lifts, and I find myself lying on my side, my night dress up on my hips, the remnants of my dream still lingering. A man’s body is pressed against mine, his torso a warm, solid presence against my back. Panic flutters in my chest as I twitch with fear, but a familiar voice murmurs reassurances in my ear.

“Shh, my sweet [real name], it’s only me, your Emperor…” he whispers, his breath a gentle caress against my neck.

Caracalla.

My heart skips a beat.

For a second, I forget how to breathe.

His hand splayed across my belly, stilling my tremors. I can feel his erection, hard and insistent against my behinds, and despite my initial fear, there is an undeniable thrill that races through me. Something warm spread in my veins, in my whole body, and is poisoning my mind. Heat spreads on my cheeks.

“Please…” I beg, my voice barely above a whisper. “I am a virgin. I can’t give you what you seek.”

His giggles are soft, a sound that sends shivers down my spine and make me bite my lower lip.

“Don’t worry, my dear. I would never take from you what is not freely given. The others can't say the same.”

Somehow, his words apply a balm to my racing heart, and I relax into his embrace, allowing myself to feel the warmth of his skin against mine. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my inner thighs, each touch sending strange jolts straight to my core. I’m embarrassed by how wet I am, but the sensation is too exquisite to resist. I find myself rocking my hips, seeking more of his touch, and he chuckles, clearly pleased with my response.

“You are a temptress!” he teases, his voice thick with desire.

The pleasure builds within me, a tide that threatens to overwhelm my senses. I am too hot, flushed with a need that is as primal as it’s unexpected. I feel as though I’m in heat, an animal driven by instinct and the promise of release. Caracalla’s manhood, slick with my arousal with each slow thrust, slides between my thighs, the head grazing that perfect spot on my womanhood, that strange button. I can’t help but moan, the sound echoing in the quiet of my chamber. We’re both lost in the moment, our bodies moving in sync, driven by a hunger that cannot be denied.

“Gods, you feel incredible…” he groans, his lips trailing kisses along my shoulder. “I want to bury myself inside you, to feel your tight pussy clenching around my dick.”

The thought of it sends a thrill through me, but fear holds me back. At the same time, my eyes widen, I’m horrified by his filthy words.

I have to make this stop… I’m not allowed to accept this…

“No, please, you mustn’t…” I plead, even as my body betrays my words, my hips chasing the friction of his cock against my entrance.

He battles with himself, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“By the gods, you test my resolve…” he whimpers like me, his forehead pressed against the nape of my neck.

The door to my chamber creaks open, and the sound of footsteps sends a jolt of fear through me. I try to pull away, but the movement only serves to increase the friction of Caracalla’s cock against my warmth, causing me to gasp.

“Brother, I told you not to try anything.” a familiar voice chides.

Caracalla’s twin, his golden hair a shade darker than his brother’s, his eyes the color of rich, fertile earth, looks at us. Caracalla grumbles in response, his grip on me tightening.

“I could not resist. Her beauty, her womanhood, was calling to me, begging for my touch.”

 Geta’s gaze rakes over me, a smirk playing on his lips as he takes in my flushed cheeks and the way my body trembles with need, with a full view on my naked lower half, my half opened thighs, coated with wetness.

It’s a nightmare… It has to be…

“I see that. Her pussy is glistening, swollen with desire. She is ready to give what her body craves.” He comments, his voice a low purr.

I shake my head, my protests weak against the onslaught of sensation.

“No, I can’t!" I insist, even as my hips involuntarily undulate, seeking the release that is just out of reach.

Geta steps closer, his eyes locked on mine, while mines catch the hardness under his golden tunic.

“Do not deny yourself. Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind is afraid to admit it.”

In the dimly lit room, the scent of desire hung heavy in the air, mingling with the musky aroma of our shared arousal. Geta’s eyes were locked onto mine, his breath hitching as he worked his hand up and down his hard length, his golden curls tumbling around his face.

Caracalla’s lips find the sensitive spot behind my ear, and I can’t help but moan as his cock started to tease my entrance.

“Let go, my sweet [real name]. Surrender to the pleasure…” he whispers, his voice a seductive melody that resonates deep within my soul.

You’re sinning… You have to stop… I keep telling myself.

At this moment, I’m torn between fear and desire, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. As Caracalla’s fingers find my sweet button once more, all thought is driven from my mind, replaced by a singular focus on the exquisite sensations that are building within me.

“Oh… I….”

I almost say the name of Jesus, the son of God, biting my lips before it’s too late.

I gasp, my body tensing as the first waves of something amazing crash over me. Powerful waves slash at me from my intimacy, blunting the rest of my body, like sea foam. My body arches, my toes curl and my fingers clutch Caracalla's arm, while my sex throbs around nothing. Caracalla’s cock throbs in response, his own need clearly etched on his face.

“By the gods, you are magnificent…” Geta murmurs, his eyes dark with lust as he watches his brother and me.

There is no jealousy in his gaze, only a shared appreciation for the beauty of the moment. Caracalla’s control finally snaps, and with a groan, he pulls away from me, his cock slipping from between my thighs. Hot, white ropes of spent spurt from his tip, painting my belly and thighs with the evidence of his desire. Geta approaches the bed, his gaze still fixed on me.

“You have bewitched us both… It feels like the Gods sent you as a gift for their Emperors.” he says, his voice filled with admiration.

“Fuck…” he groaned, his voice thick with lust. “I can’t… I can’t hold back any longer.”

His right hand moved faster, his grip tightening as he chased his release. I could see the tension building in his body, his muscles taut as he teetered on the edge. And then, with a guttural groan, he came, his seed spilling over his hand as his body shuddered with pleasure.

Quickly, I kneel the bed, the weight of what I’ve done pressing down on me, the reality of what happened sinking deep into my bones. As my hands shake, I clasp them together and press them against the cool stone floor. My breath comes fast, uneven. I try to push away the images of their faces, the feel of Caracalla’s skin on mine, but they keep flooding back, overwhelming me.

My heart aches. I have sinned. I have betrayed myself, betrayed my beliefs, betrayed the Lord.

I lift my hands to my face, closing my eyes tight as I press my fingers against my temples. It’s as if I can push the shame away, shove it out of my body, but it only digs in deeper. The pleasure… The heat… It has clouded my mind.

I let them do this. I let them take my dignity.

I think of my prayers, my devotions. They feel so far away now. I’m not who I was before. Not pure. Not worthy. I’m not sure I can even look at myself again.

Lord, forgive me. Please, forgive me.

My voice cracks, the words breaking apart as I whisper the prayer, the only thing that has ever kept me grounded, now sounding like a desperate plea to a distant God. My chest aches as I speak the words I’ve said countless times before, but this time they feel hollow. I don’t deserve forgiveness. I don’t deserve mercy.

I feel dirty. I feel lost. How could I let myself fall into this?

Suddenly, the impulse takes hold of me, like a tidal wave crashing over my mind. I need them to leave. I need to push them away, to reclaim what little dignity I have left. I look up at them, standing too close, their eyes filled with something I can’t quite read, and I open my mouth, my voice breaking as I shout.

“Leave! Leave now!”

My voice is raw, desperate, like a wounded animal trying to claw its way out of a trap. I want them gone, I want this all to stop, but it doesn’t. The reality presses down even harder, and the tears start, hot and unchecked, running down my face. I can’t stop them. I can’t stop anything. I stand, staggering back until I’m pressed against the cold wooden head, my chest heaving with frantic breaths. It’s as if my body doesn’t belong to me anymore, as if I’ve lost control over every part of it. My eyes flicker toward Geta, then to Caracalla, who remains eerily still. Neither of them moves. I want to scream again, but my throat tightens.

“Y/N…” Geta’s voice is soft, but it only makes the sound of my Roman name seem even more painful. His hands are raised, like he’s trying to comfort me, but I can’t let him. I can’t let anyone near me.

“No!” I scream, stepping away from him, pressing myself harder into the stone. My body shakes uncontrollably, like the force of my emotions is pulling me apart. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. The shame is too much. Geta doesn’t approach further, his hands falling to his sides. He looks at me with something like confusion, but I can’t read it through the fog of my own mind. I want him gone. All of them. A soft knock on the door interrupts the tension, and I freeze, every muscle in my body locking up. I feel as if I can’t breathe, as if the air has been sucked from the room.

“Y/N?” Claudia’s voice, filled with both concern and shock, cuts through the silence.

I don’t want to look at her. I don’t want anyone to see me like this. The door opens, and I flinch instinctively. Claudia’s eyes widen as she takes in the sight of the room—Caracalla and I in our undress state, the intimacy of the moment clinging to the air like smoke. Her gaze flicks between the two of us, understanding too much, but she doesn’t say a word. Geta stands closer to my friend, a silent command in his posture.

“Help her. We will leave.”

Claudia’s gaze softens, but she moves quickly, not questioning, not hesitating. She goes to the table and grabs the cloths and water. The noise of the small pitcher fills the room, the gentle sound a stark contrast to the tension in the air.

“I’ll take care of her.” she promises, her voice firm, though there’s a softness beneath it. She shoots a glance at the emperors, her words clipped. Caracalla looks reluctant, his eyes flicking between me and my friend. His lips part, like he’s about to say something, but Geta is already taking him by the arm, pulling him away with his clothes. The door closes with a soft sound, and the room feels smaller, suffocating, but at least they are gone. Claudia hurries over to me, her hands gentle as she takes my face in them, forcing me to meet her gaze.

“What happened?” She whispers, her tone filled with concern, but there’s no judgment. Not yet.

I feel the tears come again, like a flood.

“I… I let them… I let them take something from me. They took a part of my purity.” I sob, my words coming out in broken gasps. “I’ve… betrayed everything. I’ve betrayed Him.”

“Shhh…”

Claudia hushes me softly, her voice a balm against the jagged edges of my pain.

“You haven’t betrayed anyone. You’ve been hurt. But you are not beyond saving.”

I shake my head violently, my hands clutching at her arms as I pull away slightly.

“I’m not pure anymore. I’ve… I’ve let them defile me. I can’t even face Him. How can I?”

She doesn’t pull away. She stays close, her hands never leaving me, her presence steady.

“Your faith is not in your body. It’s in your heart. Don’t let them steal that from you, too.”

She doesn’t really understand, but she tries…

I choke on a sob, the weight of my actions crushing me. The warmth of her hands, her calmness, only makes me feel worse.

“I… I’ve lost it.” I whisper. “I’ve lost everything.”

“No. You still have everything that matters. Your heart, your spirit, your will to be better. You can move forward.”

I feel her hands moving over me as I help her to clean my body, washing away the remnants of what I’ve lost, what they’ve taken. Even if I don’t want her to touch me, I let her.

“Let me help you. You don’t have to be ashamed. Not for this. Not for something that was beyond your control.” She insists again, her voice steady.

The tears won’t stop. They never do.

“I’m so sorry. I keep annoying with all of this…” I whisper over and over, but Claudia doesn’t say anything. She simply continues to clean me, wiping away the remnants of my shame, of my loss.

And I wonder if I can ever forgive myself.

*

I lie in bed, the sheets tangled around me, but I don’t care. The sun spills through the curtains, casting its warm glow across the room, but I hardly notice. My eyes are fixed on the balcony, the vast expanse of Rome unfolding below, the busy streets, the distant sounds of life. I know I should get up. I should play the part they expect of me. But today, I can’t. I won’t. Someone knocks on the door.

“The emperors request your presence for lunch, Y/N.”

Guards.

I turn my face into the pillow, feigning a cough, a groan.

“I am ill.” I whisper, voice rough and weak. “I cannot join them. My head aches terribly.”

After that, the silence comes back. I lie still, waiting for the sound of their retreating footsteps to fade into silence. My heart races, but not from the illness I pretend to have. It’s from something deeper, a gnawing emptiness that grows inside me every time I think about the twins. The men who have claimed pieces of me, pieces I never meant to give away.

I close my eyes, feeling the coolness of the pillow against my skin, and for a moment, I let the tears come. I should be grateful. I should be thrilled by the power I hold here. Many women would do anything to be in my position. They would pray for the attention of the emperors, for the riches, the comfort, the fame. But I don’t want any of it. Not like this. Not when it feels like my soul is being torn in two.

“Lord.” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Please forgive me. I know I have no right to complain. I should be grateful for what I have. But my heart is heavy, and I feel lost. I have failed you. I have betrayed myself.”

I pause, waiting for an answer, though I know the silence will be all I hear. But still, I ask, my voice breaking. “Should I accept their plans, Lord? Should I go along with this? Or should I resist?”

I don’t expect an answer, but something stirs in the air, a shift I can’t quite place. I open my eyes, and that’s when I see it. A white butterfly flutters into the room, its delicate wings moving slowly, almost as though it’s drawn to me. It hovers for a moment, circling once, then gently lands on my chest, just above my heart. Its weight is light, almost imperceptible, but it feels like a message, a sign. I watch it in awe, my breath caught in my throat. It’s so fragile, so pure against the backdrop of the room. The butterfly doesn’t move, doesn’t flutter away. It simply rests there, its wings rising and falling with my breath.

A feeling washes over me then, one I can’t ignore. It’s not just the presence of the butterfly. It’s the sense of something greater, something divine. I feel the weight of it in the pit of my stomach, an understanding that settles deep within me.

This is a message from God.

The thought strikes me with a jolt. I don’t know how I know, but I do. The butterfly is His answer. I don’t have to hear His voice to understand. This is His will. His plan.

The butterfly stays for a moment longer, its wings beating gently against my skin, and then it lifts off, its delicate form disappearing through the open window. I watch it go, my heart racing, a sense of peace mingled with fear. I sit up in bed, the confusion lifting from my mind. I may not understand all of it, but I know now: nothing happens without reason. Even this. Even my place here, even the emperors. It’s all part of His plan. I don’t know what the future holds, but I know I have no choice but to follow it. To trust that what has happened, and what will happen, is not by chance. It’s His will. And I must accept it, no matter how unsettling it feels.

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes, and whisper a prayer of surrender.

*

I wander through the imperial quarters, the stone beneath my bare feet warmed by the midday sun. The air carries the faint scent of burning incense and distant roses, but I find no comfort in it. My body feels heavy, as if weighed down by an invisible burden. Each step is careful, deliberate, my hands clasped before me, my gaze lowered whenever I pass a servant or a guard.

I don’t know why I walk. Perhaps because lying in my chamber suffocates me. Perhaps because I am not yet ready to face them, and yet the walls of my room press in too tightly. I don’t belong here, and I never will. But for now, I am trapped.

The garden calls to me.

Stepping outside, I let the sun warm my skin, but the heat is stifling rather than soothing. The early breath of summer clings to my night-blue stola, the rich fabric a reminder that I am dressed as they expect me to be, as they have adorned me. I move toward the fountain, drawn by the gentle murmur of water cascading over marble.

The basin is pristine, the surface clear enough to reflect the sky above. I lower myself onto the fountain’s edge, the stone cool against my palms, and trail my fingers through the water. The cold soothes the warmth gathering at my throat, but it doesn’t reach the ache within my chest. I close my eyes.

Footsteps.

I know them before I see them. A heaviness settles over me, my body stiffening.

“Y/N.” Geta’s voice is quiet, but firm.

I keep my eyes on the water. My pulse beats in my throat. I say nothing. He steps closer, his shadow casting over me.

“We owe you an apology.”

The words hang between us, fragile yet weighted. My fingers tighten around the fountain’s edge, my knuckles pale against the marble.

Am I dreaming? The Emperors? Apologizing? It sounds like a joke.

Silence.

Geta shifts, exhaling through his nose, as if gathering patience.

“We overstepped. We hurt you. We know.” He sighs.

The admission makes something inside me twist.

Caracalla stands beside him, arms crossed, shoulders tense. He watches me closely, but his expression is guarded. I avoid to meet his beautiful gaze. Geta nudges his brother, forcing him to speak. Caracalla’s jaw tightens. He shifts his weight.

“I thought you wanted it.”

The words strike like a blade, dull yet deep. My breath hitches.

He hesitates, clears his throat and his fingers flex at his sides.

“I thought you had changed your mind. That you enjoyed it.” His voice softens, as if the admission is difficult for him.

My heart pounds against my ribs. I swallow, forcing myself to look at them. The sight of Geta’s quiet remorse and Caracalla’s unreadable stare makes my stomach churn. I wet my lips and nod.

“Thank you, Caesars.” The words feel foreign on my tongue. “I accept your apologies.”

Something flickers in Geta’s gaze, relief mixed with something else. Caracalla exhales, as if he had been holding his breath. The weight in the air lingers, but the moment has passed. A presence shifts behind them and I listen to the whisper of silk. I rise before she speaks, lowering my head in deference.

“Julia Domna.” I say and lower my head as a greeting.

The former empress stands before me, her presence towering despite her graceful stature. Her dark eyes scan me, slow and deliberate, as if measuring my worth. A slight tilt of her head.

“How fortunate you are…” she murmurs, her voice smooth as oil over marble. “For a mere peasant.”

The words cut sharper than any blade. My spine straightens, though I keep my gaze lowered. I know my place. I know better than to respond. As I stay silent, I can feel how the twins stiffen.

“Mother, that was unnecessary.” he replies, his voice polite but firm.

She arches her thin eyebrow, a cold smile on her lips and she adjusts her palla.

“Is it?”

Her gaze lingers on me, something unreadable in her expression. Then, a soft chuckle, a whisper of amusement.

“I see. The past always catches up.”

My stomach turns to ice.

She’s not speaking of me. It’s all about Decima, the woman they loved when they were young boys. Her presence lingers in their hearts, except not for the same reasons. Her name still clings to the walls like an unspoken curse.

Caracalla takes a step forward, irritation tightening his features.

“She has done nothing to deserve your scorn.”

Julia Domna doesn’t reply. Instead, she turns away, her silk robes trailing behind her like shadows Geta follows, murmuring something to her, something I don’t hear. My pulse thrums in my ears. I exhale slowly, pressing my fingers against the fountain’s edge to steady myself.

Caracalla watches me, his fingers twitching at his side. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he turns away from the path Julia Domna took, as if to shake off the weight of her words.

“Come.” he says. “Help me with Dondus.”

I blink at him. “Your monkey?”

He smirks, though the tension lingers in his shoulders.

“She is more pleasant company than most people I know.”

A distraction.

I nod. Anything to chase away the ghost of Julia Domna’s words.

-

Okay, that was the first smut scene! I wanted to go gradually because she would never have agreed to go all the way. She also has regrets, which makes sense, because she has sinned. Now, she has to face her desires and contradictions, brought on by these two perverts. Some people thought they would calm down, but… no. Even if they're endearing, they're assholes able to do anything to get what they want! Even if it means playing with the limits of consent (as stated in the warnings).

So, what do you think? What do you imagine will happen next? I've already started writing it.

Btw, I also wrote this about Fred Hechinger : Where Love Stands

-

My AO3: BetrayedWriter

My Instagram: carolinemertz_

-

⚔️ Taglist: @duckyhowls @babey-fruit-bat, @punk-in-docs, @t6gse370, @angelcloudxxsblog, @miragens-para-uma-vitoria, @himikoquack, @chloe-skywalker, @bocreep, @littlemissholy, @yeoldebytche

Ask to be added in the list! :)

[babs4reblogs]

need a man who will look at me like this😣

[cottoncandiescupcakes]

adorb

I need to kiss him and cuddle him and cradle him and spoon him so bad it’s not even funny

[esta88]

[bbrainr0t]

For when you flower V

Masterlist

Pairing: Emperor Caracalla x Greek!woman/reader x Emperor Geta

Warnings: 18+, minors dni, hints of PTSD/bad mental health, imbalance in the relationship (sexism, oppression, etc.), toxic, sexual/sensual content, mentions of violence, blood, death, and slavery

Tags: Enemies to lovers (?), slow burn (?), triangle drama/love (but no incest!!), unhealthy/toxic dynamics, slave x masters, no use of y/n, 1st person narrative

Summary: She awakes in the role of being Caracalla's pet, but what does this mean to be this pet and what is expected of her? There is so much to remember for this Hellen, but soon the feelings overwhelm and it seems that gratitude takes on a whole new meaning for her and maybe even for the emperors.

Word count: 3.7K

Dictionary for this chapter:

Hellas = the ancient greek name for ancient greece

I spent the whole evening thinking of Alexandra, watching Caracalla try to entertain himself. He was drunk on wine, so it was an easy job. I was still pained and somehow, he seemed to understand. He petted me lightly and had a separate room made for me, where I got to spend the night. Supervised, I laid afraid.

All night, I could hear moans.

Back in Hellas I never participated in rituals with ecstasy, because I was afraid of what I might do to me. All my life, I had gotten told how it ruined people’s moral compasses, and how they went wild. Men, women, boys, and girls. Some were even killed in the midst of the practice.

Once and only once I accidentally walked near a holy land, where a ritual was taking place. Their moans lured and so I looked. Never had I seen such a sight before. I was conflicted with feelings. There was blood mixed with wine, saliva with seed of life. They were hitting, slapping skin against skin, rolling across the grass like animals. A boy overpowered by men; a woman jumped. But they were enjoying it. I was aroused but filled with fright. I felt a need to join, but I never did. My mother told me to keep my distance.

The cult of Dionysus were people I never got to understand. Celibacy had taken a big part of my life as I was waiting for the hands of Apollo to feast upon me. No other man was allowed. I was kept behind walls like any other young girl of Hellas. The only boy, I had ever talked to, was my brother. He was younger than me, but his dreams were so much bigger than both me and him combined.

We were partners in crime as we would cause trouble around the house. We would misplace our mother’s clothes and pick the pretty flowers from our garden. Everything was right. Each night he would have me tuck him in and kiss him goodnight, just a peck on the cheek. I adored how he would look at me with such light in his eyes. He was the reason I believed the Gods were good - they had given me him.

One day he got the silly idea that he would be a soldier.

I never found out what happened to him, when he was at war, but something had truly changed him. There was no light left in his eyes.

At night when I was about to tuck him to sleep, he began speaking of horrors, but they were none of my understanding. He lost the ability to talk.

I found myself praying for his health every waking hour, but it never helped. Our parents started to blame me for the absence of his well-being. They started calling me names. They asked me questions like: what good am I, if not to help my brother? I was to be the oracle of Apollo after all.

The night before his death, I had tucked him in for the last time. I did not know at the time, but something tells me he did. He smiled at me for the first time in months. He spoke of my name. I was over-joyous.

When I finally fell asleep last night, I dreamt of him. He was smiling.

Then I was awoken by a servant who fed and dressed me like a child. It is as if they are accustomed to treat their masters in such manner. But I did not dare to tell her off as I was afraid of Geta hearing me speak.

It feels like his eyes never left my lips.

I am being summoned to a party – why? I do not know. The servant who told me seemed urgent and so I hurry, afraid that time might be fatal for the outcome of my punishment, if I were to be late. I don’t know what kind of punishment they give their pets, and as of yesterday I’ve decided to live till the day I’ve avenged by brother. I must flower. I must fulfill the prophecy.

Though I am also afraid of what I will meet. Who, I might meet. And what they will put me to - the moans of the night echoing my mind. I ache for peace at heart.

As we reach the doors that I can hear hold back a war of chatter, I get anxious once more. But still, I try to put it aside. All night up until my long-awaited slumber, I thought of all the outcomes. I have nothing to return to back in Hellas - I can only imagine how my home looks today. And so, if I must think of a future, it would be foolish of me to believe the thought, the lie that is “my family is waiting for me to return.” They are not. For that sole reason I must make my efforts last now; I must get close to the emperors so that I can strike them, where it hurts the most.

I could see the burdened’s eyes cry those sapphire tears, the sparrow fail to spread his wings. It hurt, but I am sure, I must succeed. I should not feel bad for them.

I calm myself as I embrace the change of atmosphere. The doors open and I am met with sunlight and song. Beautiful servants all around grabbing at men and women, seducing with their God-given charm. A table full of food and decorated with dead animals in all their lost pride. There’s a light breeze, pushing the delicious smell of wine to my nose. I must not. What is this longing for wine?

Remember my brother’s smile.

I continue to follow the servant as we make it through the crowd. Everybody is busy with each their form of lust, so we glide through smoothly, quickly, thankfully. There is so much life in here that I truly wish not to be a part of. So many deeds that I hope, I only will continue to hear the echoes of in the halls.

Suddenly the servant stops before a clothed table, pointing towards it.

She wants me to go under it.

At first, I am confused, but as I look down at the table, I see a foot slightly poking out. Cautiously, I bend down to slowly remove the cloth to which the foot disappears, scared. I pull my hand back, maybe equally as scared. I take one deep breath as I make my way beneath the table, once again unsure about what, I am about to meet. My heart racing with the beat of the crowd. The temperature rising just well enough, so I feel a small sweat break. I am shaking. But to my surprising, there is an unexpected calm which settles in my heart as I see Caracalla the burdened dressed in his own erratic attire. Messy hair, sleepy eyes, and shaking hands, he is holding around legs, hugging his knees. There are no tears in his eyes, only a biting fear, ill-suited for the occasion.

I had hoped that it was him.

He stares at me, processing, I think, and I just sit and look at him. I must not talk. Caracalla doesn’t move a single bit, but it looks as if his breath slows down. He is regulating himself, and I do the same. His eyes softening by the second as he slowly crawls over to me. “What happened, meus flos?” He looks so concerned. I almost can’t hear him over the crowd.

“…?” I must not talk, so I merely look at him, feeling my eyes lightly flutter. Does he see something I don’t? There was a switch.

He reaches out a hand to go to my throat, and instinctively I flinch, aching my entire being. I hit my head into the table leg behind me. Almost embarrassed, I try to cover it up with a weary smile, but that does not seem to fool him. Another panic grows, confused and fused together with curiosity. I suddenly feel like the one who’s out of her mind, like we’ve switched roles. His eyebrows furrow lightly. “Let me see. Come here.” His voice so soft, astray.

I was wrong, this is not Caracalla the burdened nor the erratic – this is a whole new side to him. What is he doing here? How has he deprived me of all my sense and taken it for himself? A prey and a predator with soft paws and no claws.

Caracalla’s hand reaches my throat and trails a pain all around. His fingers so kind. I look at him and see only worry. The fear is gone as if it never existed. The noise miles away, him so close in body, in mind. I try to pick the pieces together for the puzzle that is him, but I can’t. The same I do for me, but I cannot.

“Who did this to you?” He meets my eyes.

Eyes on my lips. A hand on my throat. The images of yesterday flashing, overruling my reality. Geta’s arm holding me up as if I am nothing, a strength unfit for his figure. An act so fit for his position, but not towards me – a mere nothing compared to him. Hatred, a pure desire in the eyes of a madman. The fire within. He burns.

Caracalla plays along and holds his hand there like Geta - but it’s not the same.

It’s like he dances with the flame, so it tires out. Caracalla knows and so he acknowledges. He might not know the whole truth, but he dares to see the pain which has been inflicted on me. His touch almost healing.

God, I long to be drunk on something.

I feel myself on the verge of eruption. I dare think, I want to tell him, in hopes he will help. Foolish. Remember my brother’s eyes.

“My emperoooor? Ceasar… Caracalla, where are youuu?”

And there I see the burdened return. He removes his hand quickly as he crawls back, further in, underneath the table. Seemingly, he doesn’t know where to put his hands. I yearn for them to be put back on my neck.

The cloth behind me moves as I feel a hand graze my shoulder. I yelp as it drags me out from underneath the cover with such brute force, throwing me up at my feet. Though the world slightly shaken, I am met by a man much taller than I with slobber hung from his lips, his eyes dark with lust, his breath drunk on desire. “You’re not him…”

I stare at him blankly, afraid to move. He seems thoroughly disappointed. At my ancle I feel Caracalla’s fingers nudge me, pulling me carefully to come down again as if he is warning me. The man lets his eyes wander all over me as he licks his lips.

Then I hear them again, see them in his eyes. The bodies from the cult all intertwining in a mess of ecstasy. It’s lust, a feeling so raw and vicious known for tearing even the best of man to his knees, to atoms. It’s a feeling that does not mirror in me yet something my curiosity won’t let me settle about. I feel repulsive and even more when admitting to myself that I am curious to hear this man’s thoughts - to figure out the mysteries of the Dionysus cult.

Caracalla nudges me once more, this time a bit more like a yank at my sandal.

“I haven’t seen you here before…” The man inspects my entire being inch by inch with a heavy gaze, seemingly finding an interest at my throat. I can only imagine what he must think. He talks some more from which I only understand a few of the words. “Let me see …, won’t you, …?” His hand reaches out for me to take while a grin spreads on his face, wine having colored his teeth red. It’s first now I notice the smell of opium that this man reeks of.

I blink. There is such a strong want inside my heart intertwining with my logical reasoning. For a moment I see him not as a man but as a ticket to the bottle, even if it just is a small drop. I long for the numbness. Have I lost my moral compass already?

“Quintus.” Another speaks.

Saved by chance, perhaps. I correct my back and look towards the voice.

“Emperor Geta!”

The sparrow wears new clothes but still the crown. “For how many times must I remind you not to attend these events?” Geta’s voice is stern.

“Well this servant-“

“Out.” He doesn’t let him finish. It’s not only a warning. Geta waves over some guards and they arrive swiftly.

They grab at Quintus and try to pull him away, but he gives them a fight. He dares to throw a punch, making one of the guards drop his helmet. A little victory, yet it is to no effort for his apparent escape, because four more guards gather up close. He fights until he is knocked out. A guard smashing his staff to his head, blood splattering from nose in front of and on Geta and I.

Solely, I stand shocked, perhaps even more scared. I seem to be watching it all happen before me, but I struggle to apprehend the reality. Dissociated. I feel as if I take blame of this man’s struggle. I blink again.

Geta stands unbothered, wiping the blood off as if it was dirt. However as soon as the man is out of the room, he switches just as Caracalla did just before. A puzzle piece unfit for the big picture of the emperors. “Where’s my brother?”

For a second I see myself reflect in his eyes. Reflect in him. Foolish. Perhaps I should ask, where is my brother, tyrant?

“Please.” It’s only a whisper.

The whole image I had put for Geta in shambles right in front me. I see how he wishes to have the courage to cover it by how it looks to pain him to say that word to me, to the woman he had threatened the night before. I see how the wine has settled between his lips and left its mark. Is this him without sense?

I point to the cloth, covering the table. I notice how Caracalla’s hand still lingers at my feet, his rings cold on my skin. I don’t want them to move away, but I see Geta and the ticket to the senselessness. Geta, the worried.

I might not understand him, but I think I understand this worry.

My brother dead in the sea. My own voice repeating in my head, praying: Hades, please lead him safely into death and let his soul perish but beautifully, carefully into your hands. The cold coin in his mouth, tugged under his tongue.

His gorgeous, gorgeous smile.

Geta pulls his brother out from underneath the table, both looking disarranged, but it’s not long before the sparrow puffs his feathers, his responsible-brother gown. They talk briefly, quietly, so that the crowd steal their words and throws them around. The only words I hear is Geta, speaking to me in my tongue: “Take him to his chamber.”

“Why are you speaking that language, brother? You know, I don’t understand.” Caracalla marks.

“Do not worry.”

I nod at Geta. Maybe out of fright or perhaps of a mutual understanding. The man who had me at the brink of death just yesterday now barely feels like a memory, more of a nightmare. A distorted depiction of the reality before me. I must not forget how he pained me. But… oh, how I understand. I am split in two.

I want to hate them so bad. I do; I must do. The Gods knows I must.

Caracalla looks at me with eyes so trusting. A fragile and troubled soul trapped behind a fancy façade. A will so unwilling. He holds my hand and walks off, dragging me along. Geta gaze follows yet he is frozen in place. A parade of pride waiting for him to perform before the party, I am sure. Intoxicated, incompetent of his role, I am sure.

But he stays, loyal to his duty, and here I hold Caracalla, incapable of the duty.

The Gods must know this empathy is only human. My brother must. Alexandra must.

What would they have done? I do not know. I am only human after all. Please, Apollo, bear over with my own fragile soul.

We make our way to Caracalla’s chambers. His eyes daring only to remove themselves from me to look ahead, to find his way. I try to take mental notes where and when to turn. He seems curious of my thoughts, but I know to not tell. I only wonder how it might shamble him to hear them, the truth of how I wish to be gone, and how I wish not to forget. Too much is already disappearing from my head.

My brother’s smile.

“Do you like wine?”

I look at him. I think I must not, I mustn’t. It will do no good for my mind, for my conscious. My guard will be gone; who knows what might happen?

The Gods know that I want to do well, when I nod.

I’ve had enough of these thoughts.

Caracalla calls over servants, handing me a glass as we enter through the ports of his chambers. The red poured almost to the top; they’ve been accustomed to do such. The drink of the Gods, I think, it must be good for something. Is it not?

I take a sip. Two. I can’t get enough of the taste that touches my tongue, the way it tingles as it goes down my throat. I feel it warm almost instantly, much more than the sun preying from outside. I feel Caracalla watching intensely as I do. His eyes on my lips. He takes a sip or two as well. He watches my lips just as his brother did - with such pleasure.

I calm my nerves with another sip or two, and it seems to spark a laugh for Caracalla.

“Careful now, meus flos! So eager…” He giggles and shakes his head. It’s like his earrings play a sweet symphony, glowing in the light of day. Playfully, they call to me. Caracalla says my name as he walks towards his bed, patting on the silk for me to sit.

My heart is beating so fast, yet my head is not flooded with thoughts. The sweet, sweet symphony flowing in my blood. I sit. “Good girl.” He praises me as his pet, flashing his golden tooth.

Those words do something to me. My cheeks heat. He chuckles and takes another sip. I watch how his finger holds the glass so delicately yet so possessively. How they grasp the neck softly, not letting go.

I go to take another sip, but before the sweet liquid reaches my mouth, he snatches it from me. I yelp, trying to get it back, making him hastily remove his hand from out of my reach. He laughs and drinks the rest. “You have to make yourself deserving of this drink, meus flos.”

He’s messing with my insides.

“Lay down.”

And I do so, my head on the pillow.

Caracalla puts down the glasses and crawls over to me, lowering himself to lay his head on my stomach. A feeling so odd crawling beneath my skin. Usually, my nerves would be alarmed, infected with filth, but I cannot deny this feeling that his touch feels good.

His hands crawling on the side of my legs, caressing and feeling on top of the fabric. The warmth of his touch and the wine keeping me from hesitating, from being frozen. Curiously, I let my fingers linger in his hair, watching as his entire body tenses but then relaxes. God, his hair is so soft beneath my touch. I take a joy in petting his hair, twirling it in between my fingers and pinching the ends. Sensation after sensation as his own hands wander from my hips to my waist, feeling the curves almost a bit too carefully, inspecting my body.

I notice a pit in my stomach that I never knew I had.

It’s like he inhales me as he breathes at a pace I haven’t seen before. It’s heavy as if he barely carries the heavy weight of it, so slow as if he is afraid of seeing the end of the next minute to come. I copy this manner and feel how our bodies flow into one, feel how his hair entwines and melts. I melt beneath his weight.

He starts banging his fingers to my side as if they were drums, tickling me to the point where I jolt - I feel a giggle escape my lips.

“no-“ A word escapes as well. I stop completely. Fright replacing every nice thought fluttering in the depths of my stomach.

But Caracalla looks up at me with such delight. Light shining from his eyes, endearing to look at. His smile is so wide, so bright, and pretty. It looks so pure. “I knew you could talk.” His voice like grains of sand falling through a strainer. Raw but so delicate. “I’ve thought of your voice from that night, every night.”

I blush. He chuckles once more.

“Keep it safe for me. I want it to be mine to hear. And mine alone.” The words are so sour but coated so sweet. There are sparkles all over the sea within the blue orbs. The alcohol starting to numb even further.

“Now. Hold me as I sleep.” He nods. “Will you do that for me, meus flos?”

I nod.

“Will you?”

“Yes.” I answer, quietly.

He smiles satisfied and lays his head back down, humming a joyous melody. My hands getting lost within his goldish locks.

A part of me feels as if I should be alarmed, warned even, remembering the harsh touch, the peeking which the sparrow threatened me with, but I do not. And I know, I shouldn’t take pleasure in this moment, but the Gods know. They know how a human must have its flaws. It’s how they intended it to be. Is it not?

I fear this new feeling in my stomach is far from done.

A/N: Okay... it's getting there guys... the tension. I am a bit nervous about this chapter, so I hope it's for your liking :,) Please do give me feedback as it helps me and motivates me! Any like, comment or question will do - it is all very welcome!! And I quite enjoy answering them/hearing your thoughts!!

Next chapter: 23rd of February (?)

Taglist: @syraxnyra, @omg-hellgirl, @t6gse370, @duckyhowls, @littlemissholy, @naysha140, @lover-rep-fanfic

[snazzynacho]

HE IS SO CUTIE PIIIEEE 🥰🥰🥰❤️❤️❤️✨✨✨✨🩷🩷🩷🩷💖💖💖💖💖💖💝💝💝💝💝💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💘💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💕💕💕💕💕💕

Literally, how I feel:

[ekkkkey]

I love you because you are my brother.

My commission by @spiiicysoda

[anyplaceisparadise]

We've talked about the twins cosplaying generals/military men but can we appreciate their dedication? And then feel bad because we know they were embarrassing themselves?

Geta's laurels (and bonus cape for no real reason)

Caracalla's laurels

In comparison with the laurels they crown Acacius with

The twins have thinner, more delicate looking laurels. The way they wear them is different too, but we also see Geta wear his farther back on his head like Caracalla later on, so. Not really the point of the post. My point is that Acacius has wider laurels.

Later on, Caracalla's laurels are much wider than he's worn before, more like the ones worn by Acacius:

And I'm not going to pretend like I'm an expert on laurels and what was intentional in the film and what wasn't, because I'm definitely not, but I thought it was cute and interesting but also kinda sad.

It made me think about Caracalla's two lines about war. Once, in the beginning when he says that Romans can eat war, and again towards the end, when he yells out "this is war! Real war!" (oh baby, its not). They're just boys playing dress up :(

[holyhech]

we were so spoiled with content during gladiator ii press now fred's disappeared i'm in drought

[rhaenyrathecruell]

Guys I will pop a titty out for some

who’s dick do i gotta suck to get more fred hechinger fics on this app, im getting desperate y’all