#emperor Caracalla

[squeegin]

W!!

vestal (chapter I)

summary: Livia, a young Vestal Virgin, is bound to Vesta’s eternal flame and the vow of sacred duty. In Rome, it’s common knowledge; touch a Vestal, and the wrath of the gods will descend upon you. But what if someone dares to defy that rule?

warnings: 18+ minors dni, dubcon, violence, blood

tags: caracalla is a freak, darkfic, no softboys here

word count: ~3k

"No vow of chastity or sacred duty could restrain him who deemed himself a god, for he believed himself above the laws that bind mere mortals."

-Decimus Rufus, Gods Among Men: The Erosion of Roman Law.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

"This is wrong!" Livia protested, though her outrage came more from personal feeling than from a desire to argue with her mentor. "There are countless priests for that!"

Caesonia, her sworn sister, was ten years older, but always so gentle and easy to talk to that Livia could be honest with her. As long as no one else found out.

"You know how things are," Caesonia said, her voice flat with boredom as she absentmindedly smoothed an invisible wrinkle on her snow-white tunic, making it clear that the matter was settled. "The emperors want to win back the people’s love, and what does the crowd love more than the games?"

"Let them win it without us! Only love for the immortal gods and my homeland make me happy, not mortals who crave power over everything!" She didn’t even understand why she was so passionately opposed, but she couldn’t hold back her fiery outburst.

"Careful, sister," Caesonia warned, her brow furrowing. "You speak of sacred love, but the fathers of Rome are sacred too. Besides, love comes in many forms. Doesn’t love for your family, your loved ones, mean anything to you?"

Livia flinched, her gray eyes drifting into the distance, her lips trembling.

"I don’t know that kind of love," she replied quietly. "I loved my father, my sisters, but that love doesn’t compare to what I feel for the great teachings of Vesta. My father, my mother, my sister—they’re all gone, gone forever, and the gods are eternal. Immortal."

Caesonia sighed deeply, rising from her seat. She tucked her chestnut curls behind her ears and walked over to Livia, gently taking her hands and looking straight into her eyes.

"You didn’t grieve properly, I understand…"

"I don’t need grief," Livia cut in quickly, though her voice trembled. The older Vestal always said Livia was too emotional and fiery. "I only need repentance and service."

"Then serve! The Emperor is the embodiment of Jupiter, Rome itself. And now we have two of them—twice the work, right?" she giggled. Livia, giving in, smiled in response. "Or should I say, the embodiment of Romulus and Remus?"

They were alike in one thing only—both greedy children, far from the greatness of their famed ancestors. And yet, they’re emperors, which makes them the fathers of all living in Rome.

Livia didn’t love the world of mortals, didn’t like leaving the villa or the temple, just as she didn’t enjoy being in large crowds. Until now, the emperors had cared little for the Vestals. They had always dealt with uprisings and discontent with bloodshed, needing no help from them. But now… everything had changed.

The famous and beloved Lucilla, daughter of the late Emperor Marcus Aurelius, had adopted the current emperors, showing her favor. Why and for what, no one knew, and even if they did, they wouldn’t say, knowing how the emperors dealt with loose tongues.

Lucilla was now their mother, General Acacius was replaced by Fulvius Plautianus, who had served under Septimius Severus and was known for his brutal temper, and the Senate was filled with all kinds of scoundrels and sycophants. Livia, like the other Vestals, did not involve herself in politics, but she knew a lot, listening to the gossip of the wives of high-ranking officials who came to make offerings.

"Offer a prayer to Vesta, to Jupiter, anoint yourself with sacred blood, and the priest will tell them what they so desperately want to hear," Caesonia continued. "Then the games will pass, and we’ll return to the temple. It’s an honor, Livia, not a punishment. You’re young, not even fully trained, and yet you drew the lot!"

She really had drawn the short straw when it came time for her and the other sisters to decide who would make a sacrifice to the gods.

"Rituals should remain sacred," Livia replied, less confidently now, not really expecting an answer.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

The first day of the games marked the start of autumn, right in the midst of the festival season, and the city hummed with excitement. The last games had been only recently, but after a string of executions, deaths, and tortures, people were desperate for something lighter. And really, what’s more entertaining than watching someone else die?

Draped in a flowing, snow-white tunic, Livia walked alongside the other Vestals, surrounded by stern-faced Praetorian guards, as they arrived at the Colosseum just as the sun hit its peak, bathing everything in blinding white light.

The crowd showered them with lilies and narcissus, desperate for a glimpse of the sacred priestesses. There were five of them—the sixth had stayed behind to tend the sacred fire. Usually, that was Livia’s role, but today, her duty was different.

She couldn’t hide her awe at the sight before her—flowers scattered everywhere, a roaring sea of people, thousands of voices merging into one. As they passed through the gates and reached the stands, she noticed the shift. These weren’t the same poor and desperate souls who had thrown flowers at her feet. Here, the crowd was wealthier, brighter, draped in a riot of colors and excessive finery.

To her displeasure, Livia understood that in this sea of bright hues and mixed fashions, there was a lack of respect for Roman customs, a disregard encouraged by the emperors, who, by all accounts, dressed quite unusually themselves.

"Over here, Livia," a priest, old and dry as parchment, took her hand, gently pulling her away from the others as they hurried to their designated seats. She turned her head, watching them go.

From a distance, their small platform gleamed—four pristine white figures, dazzling against the chaos of color. It made her smile.

The priest’s grip was light, his skin thin and fragile. He was the only man allowed to touch the Vestals, for he himself was not a man in the eyes of the people, but a vessel of the divine.

When they led her onto the arena floor, the sun blinded her. A thin white veil covered her face, a flower crown resting on her head, and beyond the sheer fabric, the world was hazy. She barely saw the thousands of faces watching her, barely heard the deafening roar of the crowd. Only the scorching heat of the sand beneath her bare feet felt real.

The drums beat. The noise swelled. The herald called out—she didn’t hear what he said. Instead, she lifted her face toward the sun, whispering a prayer under her breath, over and over.

"It is time, child," the priest said, removing her crown and veil. Her dark hair tumbled down over her shoulders, but her gaze remained fixed on the sky. That’s where her true audience watched.

A primal, animalistic scream made her flinch. She finally lowered her face and looked around. Through the central gates leading to the arena, they brought in a massive white bull. The beast was so enormous that six burly men, their faces hidden behind golden masks, struggled to hold it.

The majestic creature tossed its horned head and bellowed loudly, frightened by the crowd. She was scared too, but she didn’t move. Instead, she took the crown from the priest’s hands, waiting as they led the bull closer.

"Behold our sacrifice, Jupiter!" the priest calls loudly, not in the voice of an old man, raising his hands to the sky. Several young boys are gathered nearby, holding a cup and a crooked bronze dagger.

They lead the bull to the center of the arena, forcing it to bow its head, tightening the thick cords around its neck. The animal freezes. Livia does, too, staring directly into its frightened black eyes. Its horns are coated in gold to honor the gods, so with each turn of its neck, they gleam and shimmer.

Slowly, she takes a few steps forward, and the stands fall silent, the rumble quiets, and the drums cease.

Such beauty, such strength—all for the glory of the gods. They love beauty, and they love when the blood of such magnificent creatures is spilled in their name. Back when human sacrifices were still allowed, beautiful, innocent youths and maidens were offered to the gods. Livia only tilted her head in sympathy, silently thanking the animal.

"In ancient times, I could have been in your place."

Her hands tremble slightly, but not from fear; it’s the solemnity of the moment. She was wrong to resist, wrong to argue with her mentor, because now she is living the best moment of her young life.

The black eyes meet hers, gray, and she could swear that these are not the eyes of an animal, but of a human! The bull no longer struggles; on the contrary, it stands still, bowing its head. Solemnly, she places the crown between its golden horns, kneels before it, bending her hands in prayer and closing her eyes.

The beginning of the ritual is marked by the continuous beat of the drums and the priest’s loud prayer. The emperors want to wage war again, to enslave more and more countries and peoples, and now, armed with a fearsome general, they await the gods’ blessing. That’s why she is here, and that’s why blood will be spilled today.

"What do you ask of the gods, amata?" the priest calls out, raising his hands to the sky.

Not opening her eyes or lowering her hands, she shouts as loud as she can in response:

"For blessing, for victory, for the greatness of Rome!"

The drums pounded like a storm, the bull let out a mournful cry, and she kept whispering her prayer, even as her heart pounded harder, even as a terrible unease settled in her stomach.

A moment. A sound—low and guttural.

And then, warmth. Hot liquid splashed over her, soaking her from head to toe. She knew what it was. This was why she knelt—to be anointed, to receive the gods’ answer, to be purified.

The thick, metallic scent filled her nose. Blood stung her eyes, slid down her face, dripped from her lips. It filled her mouth with every breath, stuck in her throat like a swallowed scream. But she didn’t stop. She whispered through bloodied lips, through the deafening drumbeats, until the very last word of her prayer left her tongue.

A bright flash illuminated her, though her eyes were closed, and she saw light—brilliant, beckoning. A good omen. The gods had accepted the sacrifice.

The priest leans down to her, and she whispers the good news to him, and he hoarsely repeats it to the entire Colosseum. The crowd, frozen in eager anticipation, bursts into cheers.

Livia rises to her feet, wiping her face. The blood has already begun to dry, pulling at her skin uncomfortably. The bull lies lifeless at her feet, its black eyes frozen forever. Part of it will be burned as an offering to the gods, and part will be cooked and eaten at the feast after the games. The thought of how it had looked at her with such intelligent eyes makes her sick. She quickly turns away, facing the imperial box, adorned with vines, flowers, and purple banners.

Both emperors raise their right hands in greeting, and the crowd erupts in cheers. How fickle people are! Not long ago, they wanted to tear their rulers apart, and now they celebrate them like divine saviors.

As she leaves the arena, the last thing she sees is the bull’s body being dragged through the opposite gates, a trail of blood smearing across the burning sand. A strange, uneasy feeling grips her, but she pushes it down, too shaken to dwell on it.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

They let her wash her hands and face, change into a clean tunic, but her dark curls, now stiff and heavy with dried blood, still reek of iron and death. She tucks them beneath her veil and hurries back to her place among the other Vestals.

The row where the Vestals sit stands out as a white line among the dressed-up guests. Their platform is on the left side of the imperial box. Livia sits to the right of the senior vestal and keeps her eyes fixed on the imperial box, even though the first fight has already begun. How could she not stare? She’s never been so close to those who rule the world.

Both of her sisters were married to senators, and she doesn’t know either of their husbands. But the Senate was one thing. This was something else entirely.

The emperors are strikingly young. Livia leaned forward slightly, eager to get a better look. The one sitting closest to her taps nervously on the golden armrest with his thin white fingers. Red-haired and pale, he doesn’t give off an impression of greatness or awe. Painted like a maiden, dressed the same. Livia doesn’t accept long garments on men; she sees it as a sign of effeminacy and a betrayal of traditions. A toga would have been more fitting for a man in her view, but then again, these are not just men.

He sat in profile, so no matter how much Livia strained her neck, she couldn’t make out his face. In another fit of curiosity, she rose slightly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ruler’s face, but immediately found herself facing the mocking gaze of blue eyes. From behind his brother’s shoulder, the second emperor looked at her, leaning in and smiling shamelessly.

Embarrassment floods her, and Livia sits up straight, closes her eyes, cursing herself for her tactlessness and curiosity. She rarely takes an interest in other people, even less often men, so the very fact that she got caught staring, right after having just shown all of Rome the will of the gods, stings her deeply. She liked that the people treated the Vestals with awe and reverence, but in the emperor’s smile, she saw neither respect nor awe, only mockery.

"I’ll introduce you to the emperors later, behave properly," the senior vestal instructs her sternly, and Livia lowers her head in shame.

Today, there weren’t many killings; the festival shouldn’t be tarnished by too many deaths, so the games ended quickly. They were escorted into the halls inside the Colosseum, and as they walked slowly, still surrounded by the Praetorian guards, the crowd parted before them, eyeing them and whispering. The last time the Vestals had appeared at the games was under Marcus Aurelius, so their appearance was truly a momentous event for all of Rome.

"Raise your head, child, here are our rulers," her mentor commanded, and Livia obediently looked ahead.

Their arrival was met with a swell of voices, loud exclamations ringing through the air.

The first of the two, the one she had noticed in the stands, was tall and stately, but no warrior. His features were fine and well-defined, his dark eyes sharp with intelligence, but the set of his full lips betrayed a restless, nervous nature. A golden laurel nestled in the soft waves of his reddish curls, and his slender frame was draped in a black trabea trimmed with deep purple. Beneath it, a long tunic of the same black, embroidered with gold, shimmered in the light. He looked more like an eastern king than a Roman emperor. She didn’t like him.

While she was studying one of the emperors, the other had already been studying her. She could feel his gaze like a touch, sharp and deliberate. Quickly, she turned to face him.

Oh, he was nothing like his brother.

Shorter, narrower in the shoulders, he moved with a slow, fluid grace, completely at ease. Livia tilted her head slightly, and he mirrored the gesture with an amused glint in his eye. Was he teasing her?

Livia knew that fashion required women to whiten their faces and paint their eyelids, and appearing without blush was considered bad taste—but she had never seen a painted man before. The first emperor’s lids were dusted with a soft, ashy gray, subtle but noticeable. The second’s bright blue eyes were rimmed with warm peach, a color so vivid against his pale skin that it caught her off guard. A shade she had never seen on a man.

He wore a short-sleeved tunic of rich purple, cinched at the waist with a wide golden belt. Her gaze caught on the huge gold medallion hanging from his white neck down to his chest. The sign of Fortuna, the goddess of luck. Did he even understand its meaning? Judging by the many rings and bracelets that gleamed along his fingers and wrists, she doubted it.

Finally, the Praetorians parted, and they, along with the other Vestals, stood face to face with the emperors. The tall one bent slightly and extended his hand, as if expecting the senior Vestal to offer her hand for a kiss. Livia couldn’t help but smirk. Vestals were forbidden to be touched by men, even by the emperor himself. Didn’t he know this?

The awkward moment was broken by the mocking laughter of the second emperor. His brother straightened up, pressed his lips together in irritation, and cast a glance first at his brother, then at them.

"We are glad that you honored us with your presence," he said loudly. His voice was deep and low, yet there were still nervous notes, as if he were anxious.

"And we are grateful for the invitation, Emperor Geta," her mentor replied with a respectful nod.

Geta.

Livia turned her gaze back to the other brother. So this was Caracalla.

"This is Livia," the senior Vestal introduced her. Livia stepped forward, her back straight as a blade, chin raised. "She brought good news to the arena today."

"I see," Caracalla finally spoke. His voice was hoarse, starkly contrasting the softness of his features.

Standing beside him, Livia noticed that the powdered skin, which had appeared so flawless from a distance, was marred by tiny wounds, some of which hadn’t healed and were hidden under layers of rouge. The emperor, sensing her gaze, immediately furrowed his pale brows and lifted his chin, wounded by the thought that she had seen his imperfections. It must be difficult to consider oneself a god when one’s earthly vessel is so far from perfect.

"Oh, that was quite a sight," Geta continued warmly, looking directly at her. His hand twitched forward as if he wanted to take her hand, but she immediately pulled away, causing another burst of laughter from Caracalla.

"You’re too kind, Caesar," she answered with measured dignity. "The scale of the spectacle was truly impressive."

"There will be a feast this evening," Geta said, nodding to her and her sisters. "Join us."

"I’m afraid we must serve at the temple, Emperor."

"What is allowed to Jupiter is not allowed to the bull," Geta quoted, hinting that, with their status, they could do much more than the common citizens of Rome.

"What is allowed to the bull, is not allowed to Jupiter," she replied, and his smile faltered. "Had he not turned into an bull, he would never have approached a defenseless maiden, would he?"

Once again, the young emperor looked wounded, unsure of what to say, helplessly turning to his smiling brother. Livia realized who he reminded her of—the sacrificial bull in the arena today. He had the same dark eyes, vivid and strangely sorrowful, but no trace of wisdom, no matter how hard she tried to look. Geta noticed she was studying him and fluttered his long eyelashes in confusion, then smiled again.

"You’re wise, though young," he tried to compliment her, smoothing over the awkward conversation.

To some, he might have seemed charming. Handsome, even. To someone who hadn’t devoted her life to the glory of Vesta.

"Thank you, Caesar."

The little show ends, and the eldest priestess steps up, leading them away with the emperors.

"They’re quite charming, aren’t they?" Caesonia says quietly, glancing at her with a smile.

Livia tensed. Curious gazes followed them from all sides, high-ranking guests watching their every move. A strange feeling crept over her—guilt. As if she had thought too harshly of her emperors. As if she had been unfair.

"Dignified and charming, yes," she answers calmly, suppressing her negative thoughts.

Order in the mind—order in the heart, and that’s how one must serve the gods. She ran her fingers under the veil, letting her dark curls slip through, trying to focus. Her hair was still soaked in blood, dry and tangled. She stared at her hand, pink from the blood stains, the smell of iron in the air.

"I mean them as men, child," the elder priestess smiles slyly.

Livia paled, a crease appeared between her brows, and her lips tightened into a line.

"You know your vows better than I do, sister," her voice rang with tension.

"Look, don’t touch, darling," the elder priestess continued, her tone unchanged. "We can admire them like beautiful trinkets. You wouldn’t scold me if I were to admire an intricately carved box, or…"

"I need to wash my hands," Livia interrupts her, causing Caesonia to laugh.

They weren’t stone, they had feelings, emotions, struggles. And desires too. Other Vestals sometimes spoke of men, but Livia had never joined in those conversations. And she wouldn’t now. Her training was ongoing, and the last thing she wanted to think about was worldly, base desires.

A bowl of water stood by one of the columns, meant for purification. Livia walked toward it, the crowd parting before her, holding their breath. She was flattered by this. Now, surrounded by gazes brimming with admiration, adoration, and quiet awe, she couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. Later, she would ask the Goddess for forgiveness for her vanity, but for now, the young Vestal basked in the attention.

She dipped her hands into the cool water, and it immediately bloomed with pink.

"Smells like blood," a voice said behind her.

A strange sense of anxiety gripped her, and her heart began pounding so strongly that it made breathing hard. On the outside, she tried to remain calm, as always. After finishing washing her hands, she turned toward the speaker.

Emperor Caracalla was grinning wide, showing a gold tooth. It seemed the young ruler was in a great mood.

"It is blood, my Caesar."

"Watching you there, kneeling on the arena’s sand, bathed in blood, was the greatest pleasure of the day. I fear even tonight’s feast will not bring me such…delight," his voice was soft, smooth, flowing like honey, and his eyes gleamed with slyness. He was teasing her in a bold, shameless way!

When she was very young, living with her father and sisters, Cassandra and Claudia used to tease her, taking advantage of the fact that they were older. But in the emperor’s words, there was something different. Caracalla didn’t say anything outright offensive, but something about it felt improper. Was it the way he smiled, the way he stood, nonchalantly leaning his shoulder against a column?

In every movement, she sensed how utterly unserious he was—how he tilted his chin, half-closed his eyes, and stretched his painted lips into a lazy smirk.

He reminded her of a cat. The one that lived in the gardens of the Temple of Vesta, rolling from side to side, stretching out its fluffy body under the sun. That one was ginger too.

"It’s an honor to serve Rome, to serve you," he grinned wider, "And your brother," his smile immediately faded, and Livia was stunned at how quickly his expression changed.

For the first time, she was looked at with such disdain. She blinked, trying to convince herself she hadn’t imagined it. No, Caesar still stood there with a deep furrow between his brows, his nostrils flaring. Livia stepped back, unsure what had triggered his anger.

Almost as if seeking support or comfort, she turned, only to meet the black eyes of Emperor Geta. He stood at a distance, surrounded by a crowd. A beautiful copper-haired girl was speaking to him, but his gaze was fixed elsewhere, cutting through the sea of people—on her.

She faltered, then suddenly realized—this had nothing to do with her. The emperors were watching each other.

She mentally pictured herself from the outside: innocent, chaste, in white garments, she should remain dignified and focused. Livia was a priestess of Vesta, not a cunning and ambitious matron, so the emperors’ quarrels didn’t interest her.

Leaving Caracalla behind, she hurried toward the other Vestals, but was suddenly, shamelessly grabbed by the arms and pulled into an embrace. If this had been a man, they’d have been crucified in the Forum by morning, but…

"Livia, my dear!" she hardly recognizes the face of the girl in front of her.

"Claudia!" The calm mask slips from her face for a moment, and she smiles at her sister, whom she hasn’t seen in ages.

"You’ve grown so much! A real beauty! And you look just like Cassandra! Your nose, your lips, your cheekbones," Claudia’s finger traced her face, and Livia shuddered at the unfamiliar sensation of someone else’s touch. "But your eyes… they’re from our father. Ah, our dear sister was so gentle…" Her voice wavered, and her hand dropped.

A man’s arms wrap around her shoulders, and only now does Livia notice the rounded belly of Claudia, the gaunt look on her face, and how feverishly her cheeks shone.

"Congratulations!" she quickly changes the subject, not wanting to speak of Cassandra.

"Yes, yes, this is my husband, Senator Appius, I don’t think you’ve met him, have you?" Claudia’s smile suddenly fades, but her husband grins broadly.

The exchange of pleasantries drags on for too long, and then her mentor arrives.

"It was good to see you, Livia," her sister whispers one last time. "We live at the palace now, visit me, I get so lonely sometimes…"

Livia nods sincerely, promising to visit, and hurries to join the other Vestals. The grip of her mentor on her arm is tight, and her gaze is nervous.

"What did you do to anger the emperors?"

"Me?" her voice sounds genuinely surprised, but then she remembers Caracalla’s hateful gaze, and she too asks herself the same question. "I don’t know, I’m sorry."

Suddenly, the crowd around her—the murmuring guests, the admiring stares—became unbearable. What had once flattered her now felt suffocating. Hundreds of eyes watched her with reverence, with curiosity, yet only one pair—bright, piercing, burning with something close to fury—ruined her mood completely. She didn’t belong here.

Still, before she could leave the Colosseum and return to the Vestal House, she would have to face them once again.

Caesonia noticed her growing unease and linked arms with her, trying to comfort her.

"Once again, we thank you for the honor you have shown us and hope to see you again," Geta began, locking his hands together.

"We are pleased that the bond between our temple and the emperors has been restored," the senior Vestal responded politely.

"Oh, and one more thing," Geta said, theatrically raising his hands, "Our mother wished to visit your temple…"

"Yes, mother," Caracalla mockingly drawled, cutting off his brother. There was something in his tone that Livia didn’t like again. That’s not how you speak about your parents, even if they’re not by blood. "She can get so lonely, and we’re not always around to entertain her properly."

Her cheeks flushed, and Livia didn’t understand why, but Caracalla noticed her brief pause and grinned, his mouth opening slightly, pleased that he had provoked some emotion from her. She lifted her chin, refusing to seem vulnerable, even though inside she was embarrassed.

The moment of farewell came. She longed to return home as quickly as possible, to forget all these strange glances and words. There, among the other Vestals, she would be safe, and no troubling thoughts would haunt her.

"Until we meet again," Geta said politely, licking his upper lip and adding, "Amata, I hope next time we can do without the bloodshed."

Amata. Beloved.

She only nodded, unwilling to show how much she disliked being addressed that way by a stranger.

Caracalla didn’t say a word, looking away as if he didn’t even notice her.

And just as she exhaled, walking past him, quietly relieved by the absence of his attention, she felt it.

A touch.

A featherlight, teasing touch traced from the tip of her pinky, gliding up the soft curve of her hand—barely noticeable, yet it burned like fire.

She stopped, glancing back over her shoulder, but the emperor wasn’t looking at her; on the contrary, he was leaning toward his brother, speaking to him.

It felt as though she’d been struck. The heat spread across her cheeks, sank lower into her chest, then froze in her stomach. How dare he?! No one had the right to touch them. Neither mortal nor immortal man would ever dare touch a Vestal Virgin. But he… He turned away, pretending nothing had happened, though that single gesture had shaken everything she had believed in for so long.

Trying to suppress her anger and confusion, she hurried toward her sisters, unaware that both emperors were watching her leave.

Without realizing it, Livia had started a new game.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

note: this story is directly connected to there will be games! Livia is the sister of Cassandra, the protagonist of that story. It’s been about two months since the events of the finale and what Geta did.

[glassbxttless]

Columbina

emperor caracalla x fem!reader

word count: 11.1k+

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, there’s silence settling into the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least, until that next morning something stirred. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

tags ;; @x-vadon

[inseparabiles]

This dork but in more pixels for @getaapologist. He's two inches off the camera focus and I think we need to sue the team for this crime

bonus: his very in-focus brother and Lucilla being the only sane person around.

[ygelita]

Empress of His Heart

Characters: Caracalla x F! Reader *Y/N*

Synopsis: Caracalla punishes a senator for disrespecting you, then returns to your side—ruthless to others, but utterly devoted to you.

Warnings: Violence, Threats, Mild Gore, Possessiveness, Themes of Power and Dominance in Historical Settings, etc!

The imperial palace of Rome was a cold place—full of whispers, treachery, and men who smiled while sharpening their daggers. But none dared scheme against you. Not when Caracalla, your husband, your emperor, stood as your shield, his love for you as fierce as his wrath against the world.

He ruled with an iron fist, a man of war and bloodshed, yet in your presence, he softened, as if the gods themselves had woven his heart from steel only to let you be the one to bend it.

Tonight, a grand feast was held in your honor. Rome’s most powerful men gathered in the great hall, their eyes flickering between their cups of wine and the emperor who sat at your side, his arm draped possessively on the arm of your chair.

Then, a senator, emboldened by arrogance, dared to speak.

“An empress should be seen, not heard,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips. “Surely even the great Caracalla knows that Rome is best ruled by men?”

Silence fell. The air grew thick, suffocating. The room itself seemed to hold its breath.

Slowly, Caracalla turned his head toward the man, his golden blue eyes gleaming like a predator who had just spotted its prey.

“What did you say?” His voice was quiet—dangerous.

The senator chuckled nervously, trying to wave it off. “Only that—”

“You have lived too long if you think you can insult my Empress and leave this room whole.”

The emperor stood, his imposing form towering over the room, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The senator paled, stumbling back, but there was no escape. The guards had already blocked the doors, awaiting their emperor’s command.

Caracalla tilted his head, considering. Then, with a lazy flick of his wrist, he gestured toward the senator. “Break his jaw. If he cannot speak with respect, he does not deserve to speak at all.”

The guards seized the man. His protests were drowned out by the sound of the first punch landing. Caracalla turned away, unimpressed, his attention already back on you.

His fingers brushed over yours, his touch gentle in contrast to the violence behind him. “Are you pleased, my love?”

You smiled, resting your hand in his. “You did not have to do that for me.”

His lips curved into a rare, soft smirk. “No, but I wanted to. Let them all know—whoever disrespects you disrespects me.”

And as the hall trembled under the weight of his power, you knew one truth—he was Rome’s terror, but to you, he was love itself.

[squeegin]

Wooow!!!

damnatio memoriae: PART I

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

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

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

warnings: mentions of parental death, mentions of war, ancient rome as a warning all in itself.

notes: there’s a lot of backstory here but I promise it is all pertinent to the story! I really did my best to research and make sure to write something I’m proud of. The dates are 100% not correct and I also pulled characters from the show “Barbarians” on Netflix. Some of this is not historically accurate (for instance, their mother didn’t die till years later.) Caracalla is also the elder brother here per historical accuracy. This idea, however, was born from A. Me being insane and B. Many sleepless nights. The events of this fic begin before Gladiator II and will not exclusively follow the movie’s timeline or chain of events (aka Caracalla’s brain isn’t fried in the beginning and no one important is dead… yet) also, big thanks to @trashmouth-richie for listening to me scream about this for months and @londonfog-chan for beta’ing and becoming a fast friend.

⟡ Imperator- Septimius Severus

⟡ Augustus- Marcus Aurelius Antoninus “Caracalla”

⟡ Caesar- Publius Septimius Geta “Geta”

I

Rome, Fall AD 205

“You have his favor, Prima,”

Varus had said, his words echoing in your mind like the toll of a distant bell. He spoke casually, the sun casting long shadows across the marble courtyard while the Imperator was being formally welcomed home by a group of high-born Romans, the elite nobility of the court.

“Mother, what did Varus mean by that?” you asked later that night, your voice muffled as you chewed a piece of bread at dinner. The flickering candlelight danced in the air, illuminating the empty chair across the table where your father should have been—his absence a perpetual reminder that Rome was his first wife, his first love, his everything.

“The Imperator favors you,” your mother began, her tone measured yet distant. “It is obvious that he has taken a special interest in you.”

Her words hung heavy in the air, laden with unspoken truths.

“Do you think the Augustus had his wife killed?” you questioned, your innocence shining through like pure snow under the midday sun.

Visibly annoyed, your mother sipped her wine, the deep red liquid swirling in the glass like her thoughts. She paused, searching for the right words to quell your endless questioning.

“Plautilla and her brother were exiled after their father’s death, which followed the confirmation of his treachery,” she said, her voice carrying an air of finality, as if she were divulging information that should be inherently understood, “No one is dead except the traitor.”

It was all she would give you, a riddle wrapped in a mystery, until you would later stumble upon the truth.

__________________________________________________________________

“Ari,” you whispered, pulling back the sheer curtain to reveal his figure, his back turned to you.

“What’s the matter?” you asked, joining him at the balustrade, looking out into the distance.

He shook his head, his expression somber.

“I’m being made prefect.”

He stood gazing longingly over the view of Palatine Hill, the moonlight casting a silvery glow on his breastplate. As he turned to face you, his eyes met yours, holding a depth that mirrored the ocean on a sunny day. To call Ari German would only be half true. When Varus had taken him from the Cherusci tribe as a child, a mere eight years old, he was intended as a token of their submission to Rome. Raised in the image of Rome under the guardianship of a renowned general, Ari had found himself instead in the care of your mother, surrounded by slaves, servants, tutors, and nursemaids. An unmarried Roman general had neither the place nor the time to be a father. Ironically, despite these circumstances, Ari had molded himself into your life as naturally as the turning of the tides. His hair, dark as the endless night sky, was flecked with subtle highlights, and his muscles tensed beneath the fabric of his tunic. For all intents and purposes, Ari was the epitome of a Roman citizen, a Roman officer—tall, broad, with a face chiseled from marble. It only made sense that he stood guard of your household when your father was away, which, admittedly, was frequent.

“Wow,” you replied sarcastically, “shall I pretend to be shocked?” Your gaze lifted to meet his, a rueful smile playing on your lips.

“It is the natural order of things, is it not?”

Ari nodded, his silence a heavy cloak around him.

“Tell me,” you pressed on, “do you believe the young Augustus had his wife killed?”

“Why?” Ari’s eyes sparkled with a playful smile, “Are you afraid you’re next?”

You sighed, the weight of the world seeming to press down upon you. “What are our fathers planning?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted honestly, his voice low, “But I’m not sure either of us have a choice in the parts we must play.”

__________________________________________________________________

Babylon/Parthia, Spring AD 206

When the moment for travel arrived, a goat was sacrificed on the altar in honor of Neptune, its blood soaking the ancient stones. You, alongside Ari, your father, Varus, and two of your most trusted servants, then embarked on a ship bound for Parthia.

“I understand why you’re here,” you said, peering at Ari through the blur of his swaying figure as the ship rocked on a particularly rough set of waves, “But I don't understand why your father is involved.”

“Germania,” Ari began, leaning in to make himself heard over the sound of the sea, “He has been appointed governor.”

You shook your head, a mix of surprise and concern flickering across your face.

“I wasn’t aware of that.”

Ari nodded solemnly. “We’re leading three legions.”

Varus, despite his strengths, had always struggled with acknowledging his faults. When he had taken Ari from his home—where he was born to their leader, the Reik—he viewed it as a rescue. However, his decision to revoke the agreement that exempted the tribes from paying tributes to Rome had sparked rebellions.

“I assume you’ll accompany him once this brief meeting concludes?”

“No,” Ari replied, shaking his head. “Father will present his plans to the Imperator and update him on recent events. Afterward, he and I will journey to meet with the nearest legion.”

“What?” You couldn’t hide your astonishment, “You’re leaving me?”

“You’ll be assigned a new set of guards soon,” Ari reassured, though his tone carried a hint of uncertainty.

You eyed Ari suspiciously just as Varus and your father descended the small set of steps, their gazes meeting yours expectantly.

Together, the two men had always been a force of nature. Varus, at the peak of his military career, had aligned with Septimius Severus when he seized power, claiming new territories in the name of the Imperator. A power vacuum had emerged following Commodus’s death, which your father exploited, advancing from the senate to being elected consul by the people—an office he maintained through each subsequent election. Where Varus led, your father inevitably followed, the bonds of their shared childhood—reared by the same nurses and tutors—unbreakably strong. It was only natural that the two of them would undertake this journey together—the culmination of their ongoing efforts to please the Imperator.

Upon your arrival in Parthia, the chaos unfolded before you, its impact muting your entrance. The once majestic city was a shadow of its former glory, stripped of its power and reduced to ruins.

Parthia had been devastated, its lands desecrated by the advance of the Roman army. Although your four-day voyage was free from conflict, your nerves raged, mirroring the tides after a fierce storm. Most of the Roman forces had moved northward, heavy with the spoils of war. This included hundreds of slaves and treasures beyond all imagination. Every village in their path had been ruthlessly flattened and set aflame. Every well poisoned, livestock slaughtered, the surviving Parthians–few and unfortunate– were mercilessly sent to meet their gods.

Formal greetings were promptly exchanged among the men. Nearby, two boys observed you intently. They were presumably the young Augustus, Caracalla, and his younger brother, Geta, who had not yet achieved the rank of his elder sibling, having only had the title of ‘Caesar’ bestowed upon him. You recalled meeting them years ago when their father had briefly governed Sicilia. All of you were mere children then, no older than six. Your father counseled as needed, allowing you to run freely with the two boys within the confines of the governor's villa under the strict eye of the nastiest nurse you had ever met. You had crossed the threshold of eighteen now, the elder brother barely a year your senior.

They stood an arm's length apart, arms crossed over their chests, eyes squinting as they scrutinized you from head to toe. You wondered how they hadn’t melted under the sun, their skin milk-white despite the unforgiving heat searing down.

As you approached the Imperator, you were taken aback when he grasped your hand and placed a chaste kiss on the back of it before you had even had a chance to bow your head.

“Prima,” he bellowed, his deep voice startling the servants behind you, “welcome to our humble camp.”

‘Humble’ was certainly a choice word. Even with half the army marching back towards Rome, numerous tents filled with officers, praetors, and generals were arranged in a grid-like formation along the wall that surrounded the city.

“Thank you, Imperator,” you replied with a smile. “It is my honor to be here.”

Next came a tour of the grounds and an explanation of the recent pillaging and destruction, led by Septimius with his two sons beside him and the rest of the men following. You were ushered away, escorted to where you would be sleeping, your servants trailing behind, pleasantly surprised to find your belongings had already been neatly arranged inside the elegant, yet functional, tent.

The antechamber was lit by two oil lamps, casting a warm glow that highlighted the tapestry emblazoned with your family's crest, a striking sight upon entering. The structure itself was supported by ornately carved wooden poles, strategically placed throughout the space. Fabric partitions divided the tent into designated areas for sleeping and dining, creating a sense of order and privacy.

A wooden bed, adorned with light bedding atop a plush feather mattress, promised comfort. Next to your sleeping quarters, a separate section was reserved for your servants, ensuring that both privacy and accessibility were maintained. Nearby, multiple chairs and folding tables were arranged, with the floor beneath them covered in luxurious animal skins.

"What do we do now?" asked Aeneas, your trusted servant and longtime friend.

You shrugged as you sat down on a chaise. "We wait."

__________________________________________________________________

Being seated between the two brothers at an early dinner was far from what you had expected. You knew they would be close, but having you sandwiched between them was less than ideal. As soon as you entered the room and saw them snickering, you could sense their mood. It had been years since you had been this close to either of them, but the memories of the insults hurled back and forth during your childhood were vivid. You quickly remembered the streak of cruelty that seemed to run deep in both brothers.

As a servant pulled out the chair for you, you smiled, bowed your head, and took your seat.

"How nice of you to finally join us," Geta remarked, his smile dripping with sarcasm as he took a modest sip of wine. Caracalla giggled beside you, prompting you to sigh.

"I came as soon as I was called," you assured him, picking up your glass for a sip.

"Brother, are you sure she wasn’t the servant? That slave they brought in was much better looking." Caracalla chimed in. At that moment, you knew exactly what game they were playing.

You huffed, but your smile never wavered.

"You know, the women in the palace snicker as you walk by. Caracalla, what exactly is a ‘penis aciculatus?’" you asked, maintaining a casual, laid-back smile.

"If you hadn't grown tits, I would’ve sworn you were a boy all this time," he retorted. "Perhaps you still are."

"And you would like that, wouldn’t you?" you spat back, leaving Caracalla speechless as Geta picked up the slack.

"Someone must tell the servants to stop feeding dogs at the table," Geta said as he grabbed your plate and handed it to the nearest servant.

"May I please have more olives?" you asked politely, receiving a nod from the servant who took your plate away. You sighed, relieved that a scene had been averted.

All three of you exchanged fake smiles, appearing to get along splendidly to the other men at the table, who were lost in their own conversations.

"I’m going to marry your father and have you both crucified," you smiled, letting out a faint laugh.

"Not if we kill you first," Caracalla retorted.

"I heard your father sent out a search party just to find someone willing to marry you, Prima," he added with a giggle.

"I’ve heard they had to hire servants of a certain height to follow you around just to reach things up high," you responded, eliciting a laugh from Geta, which in turn caused Caracalla to clench his fist, nearly rearing it back to land a punch in his brother’s direction.

“Prima,” Septimius called out, his booming voice cutting through the tension that was nearly turning physical between you and the brothers, “do you ride?”

“She does,” your father interrupted before you had the chance to respond, “I’ve always said she would have made an excellent charioteer in another life.”

Septimius smiled, nodding approvingly.

“Good, because there’s something I’d like to show you after dinner. A quick ride will get us there in no time.”

“Sounds excellent, Imperator,” you replied, offering him a genuine smile.

“‘Sounds excellent, Imperator,’” Caracalla mimicked in a high-pitched tone.

“No wonder your mother died,” you retorted calmly, “She probably couldn’t bear the thought of spending another moment with either of you.”

“Magae,” Caracalla hissed through clenched teeth, “You filthy little wench.”

You responded only with a smile, echoing his signature giggle back at him.

___________________________________________________________

Septimius rode at the center, astride his horse with Caracalla on his right and you on his left, flanked by a number of guards. The knowledge that the Praetorians had secured the surrounding blocks of Babylon, creating a protective bubble around the heart of the empire, did little to ease the knot of fear in your stomach. The possibility of a stray arrow, one capable of changing the fate of the empire, laid heavily on your mind as you rode through the town.

Caracalla was deep in conversation with his father about Alexander the Great, barely pausing for breath as the three of you approached the ornate building ahead.

“That building houses Alexander’s deathbed.” Septimius announced, slowing his horse.

His eyes sparkled as he glanced at Caracalla, offering him a glimpse of the past as if bestowing a wish upon him. You found it strange, recalling what little you knew of Alexander and his rise to the level of a god. Dismounting, Septimius assisted you down while Caracalla rushed ahead, his expression a mix of awe and fervor.

You wandered away from them towards the residential quarters of the palace, accompanied by two guards. The decor was as lavish as it was ancient, befitting a ruler though only governors had resided there for years. Entering a room, you stumbled upon a modest scene consisting of a bed raised on a three-step dais, a small tiled pool, and a simple podium. It was unremarkable, and you felt no urge to call out until Caracalla burst into the room, exclaiming, “This is it.”

“You like Alexander,” you observed, watching his reaction closely.

“No, I admire him,” he corrected sharply. “He expanded a small nation to rival the expanse of Rome in just thirteen years.”

“Julius Caesar also idolized him,” Septimius added, entering the room.

“And he was stabbed twenty-three times,” you blurted out impulsively.

Caracalla’s piercing gaze met yours, charged with an intensity that made the air around you feel heavy. Septimius smiled, as if you had made his point for him.

"Since you know everything, what do you know about Alexander?" Caracalla hissed, his eyes narrowing as he sized you up, testing your knowledge.

Septimius stood at the edge of the room, leaning against the doorway with baited breath, watching the exchange unfold.

"I know of his triumphs, his beginnings, his end," you began, your voice steady, "But I was always more fascinated by his mother, Olympias."

"They say she slept with a bed full of snakes." Caracalla interrupted with a dismissive wave.

"And she secured the throne for Alexander by orchestrating the death of his father and his young bride," you countered firmly.

"She had their newborn daughter dragged across a hot brazen iron oven. His wife slit her wrists and bled out in a warm bath because of her grief," Caracalla retorted, challenging your morality.

"Olympias ensured her son's legitimacy and handed him the empire on a silver platter," you responded, emphasizing her role in Alexander’s rise without highlighting her alleged brutalities.

"That's why I’ve brought you two here today," Septimius interjected, stepping forward and looking between you both. "Who we surround ourselves with is crucial—family is important, our legacy is important."

You exchanged a glance with Septimius, then Caracalla, absorbing the gravity of his words.

"The two of you will be married once we return to Rome," Septimius declared with a smile.

You quickly masked your surprise, bowing your head respectfully. Caracalla crossed his arms, his face contorting with disdain.

"I am grateful for the honor, Imperator."

"I am not marrying this witch, father," he spat vehemently.

Septimius gave you an almost apologetic look. "Prima, please leave us."

You exited as requested, their escalating argument fading behind you. Caracalla’s insult hung in the air.

"She probably sleeps with snakes!"

"Enough!" Septimius’s voice thundered.

Stepping outside, you exhaled deeply, not realizing you had been holding your breath.

Caracalla brushed past you, his shoulder bumping yours.

"Witch," he muttered under his breath as he mounted his horse.

"I assure you, the only snake I will ever lay with will be you," you shot back sharply.

For a moment, a smirk flickered across Caracalla’s face, almost pleased by your retort. But then his expression darkened, his jaw clenching as he grabbed the reins and rode off.

⟡ latin translations ⟡

⟡‘penis aciculatus’- prickly penis

⟡ magae- witch

Let me know if you’d like to be added to my tag list.

dividers by @ghoulbloggerrr

[1niihs]

"Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire,

et quod vides perisse perditum ducas.

fulsere quondam candidi tibi soles... "

[smallratboy]

'Their Beloved' - Chapter 5

Geta X reader X Caracalla

You were a concubine, a servant of the emperors. Below them, grateful for even being given the chance to be near them. You had developed feelings for them over the course of your servitude, but you never expected those feeling to be reciprocated. You start to notice, however, that they start to treat you as more than just a favorite toy.

smut! 18+

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It didn't take you long to move into your new room, as you had only a few sets of clothes to call your own. Your new room was spacious, with a window open to a balcony so you could enjoy the sunsets from your room. Your previous room was much smaller than this, and you shared it with three other concubines, so you greatly appreciated the change of scenery. 

What worried you, however, was the proximity to the emperors. As much as you wanted to be near them, you were anxious about what it meant to be their ‘personal attendant’. Your future, which had been laid at your feet since you were old enough to understand your position, was now a new and uncertain road. 

 Once you had moved into your room, dusk was falling. You decided to try and get some sleep, thinking you would need your rest for whatever was to come. Even the bed was ten times nicer than anything you had before, the mattress plush and the blankets soft and thick. Still, even surrounded by all this luxury, you found it hard to sleep. Your mind whirled all night long, uncertain thoughts fluttering like anxious birds. 

You rose with the sun as you always did, but now you didn't know what to do. Usually, you would make yourself presentable and go wherever you were instructed by the master who oversaw all the imperial concubines. On days when the emperors did not need you, you were often sent as a token of goodwill to their allies. There were times when you would be away from the palace for weeks at a time, serving the senators or men like Thraex, who was a favorite gladiator-owner of the twins’. 

Today, though, there was no master, and nobody to serve. You enjoyed the feeling of lingering in bed for a few moments, stretching your tired limbs and basking in the warm glow from the sun. After this, you got up and washed your face in the basin of water, and dressed in plain yellow robes, the finest you had. Your room was still quite bare, and you had none of the board games you and your companions would play when the days got slow. 

You sighed, trying to figure out what to do. As you sat contemplating, there was a knock on the door and a praetorian guard entered. He looked almost sheepish, and didn't meet your eyes when addressing you. 

“Pardon me,” He said, “But the emperors have asked for you,” 

“Thank you,” You replied, following him into the hall and letting him lead you to emperor Caracalla's room, even though you knew the way by heart. 

“Caesars?” You called, entering by yourself. It was unusually early for Caracalla to be awake, but he sat at his desk with his brother by his side. Geta waved you over, his expression unreadable. 

“You must address us by our names,” Caracalla said with a smile. You nodded, and corrected yourself. His name, though you had said it many times in the throes of pleasure, felt foreign in this context. 

“Did you sleep well?” Geta asked, looking you up and down as you approached them. You nodded. 

“I did, thank you,” You said. “Forgive me, but what exactly is happening?” You tried to sound polite, but you were quickly getting sick of this uncertainty. 

“You are ours now!” Caracalla declared, taking your hand. 

“What my brother means,” Geta said, clearing his throat, “is that you have caught our eye, dianthus,” The petname made you shiver, “and we want you to serve us personally. Always by our side, and you will do what we ask of you. Do you believe yourself to be up to the task?” 

Geta's gaze was piercing, and you swallowed thickly. You felt your hands dampen in Caracalla's grasp, and you felt the seconds of silence drag out. If you said yes, your future would remain in this uncertain limbo. But if you said no, what were you losing?

You looked from one twin to the other, trying to decide. Caracalla squeezed your hand, the soft reassurance calming you. You took a breath. 

“Yes,” You said firmly, looking Geta in the eyes. 

“What did I say?” Caracalla said to his brother with a chuckle, “He's sturdier than he looks!” 

Geta approached you, and wrapped his arms around your neck. You sucked in a breath, but realized he was fastening a small silver chain around your throat. You reached up to touch the pendant that hung from it, a small gold sun which hung at the divot of your collarbones. 

“So you are ours,” Geta murmured, just barely audible. You fought the urge to reach up and kiss him, your bodies incredibly close. 

“You must wear something finer than this if you are to serve the emperors,” Caracalla interjected, grabbing at the thin yellow fabric which adorned you. “You shall wear our favorite colors!” 

“Of course emperor,” You said. Caracalla scowled, and you corrected yourself. “Caracalla.”

“Come!” He said, standing up and tugging you deeper into his quarters, to a pile of robes. He began sorting through them, looking for one in particular. 

“He will need his own clothes, brother,” Geta said, coming to stand behind you. “He cannot just wear your spares.” 

“I do not mind, Geta,” You said, turning to face him. His features softened, and he put a gentle hand on your shoulder. 

"Well, I shall have some made, nonetheless.” He replied. Then, to his brother, “Dress him to your liking for today, just don't forget we have a feast to attend.” With that, Geta left the room. Almost immediately, you missed his presence. You once again touched the sun, your heart aflutter. 

“Here!” 

You looked up to see Caracalla holding a set of bright purple robes, the edges embroidered with gold. You had seen him wear those before, and as he held the material up to your body, you felt that it was thick and silky.

“Oh emperor, I couldn't possibly-” you started, your face flushed with embarrassment. 

“You will wear it,” Caracalla interrupted. “You will call me Caracalla, and you will accompany me to the feast as my guest.” His gaze was fierce, and his tone, which was surprisingly lucid, left no room for argument.  

“Yes, Caracalla,” you said, bowing your head respectfully. “Is there somewhere I can change?” 

“There is no need for modesty,” Caracalla chuckled. You nodded, face flushing further still. Of course you had seen one another naked before, and of course you had called Caracalla by his name before, but this sudden domesticity left you reeling. 

You turned your back to him and pulled the robes from your body. You heard his breathing pick up, and when you turned around to take the purple fabric from him, his gaze was heady with arousal. 

His eyes did not leave yours as you dressed, and you tried to focus on the feeling of the fine cloth against your skin. It was thicker than anything you owned, and silky soft. You were not used to all these fine things which had been bestowed upon you, and you felt the embroidery on the robes absentmindedly. 

“You're gorgeous,” Caracalla breathed, breaking the silence. You smiled, unsure how to respond. Your hand found the sun at the base of your throat, tracing its small details with your fingertips.

Caracalla saw the pendant hanging at your throat, and reached out to touch it. His hand rested above yours, his palm warm and soft. 

“Our mother used to call us the sons of the sun,” He said, almost to himself. He looked up at you and offered a small smile, his gold tooth glinting. You understood the inspiration behind the name. The twins’ fiery hair, vibrant nature and intense personalities made them seem like droplets of sun were imbued in their blood. You wondered, if you cut them open, would they bleed gold? 

Caracalla stepped away, leaving you surprisingly cold. He began to adorn you with his jewelry, heavy cuffs with big gems and gilded circles to hang from your ears. Your neck was left alone, save for the thin chain Geta had placed there. 

“Shall we, Caracalla?” You asked, feeling strange adorned in all his clothes. None of this was yours, but it could be if you reached out and took it. Would they deny you anything, if you asked? 

The feast was large and loud, and the smell of food made your mouth water. Geta's voice was booming, and the guests laughed at everything he said. At the head of the table, where there would usually be just the two thrones, there was a third chair wedged between them. On the table, there was a third plate laid for you, and a goblet of wine. 

All around the table, servants brought food and took plates, while guests ate and enjoyed the pleasures of the palace concubines. You recognized many of their faces, and you felt out of place eating at the table rather than serving the guests. 

You sat between the emperors, and offered each of them a smile. Geta grinned at you, his eyes alight. As you settled into your seat, you didn't notice any of the usual glares or sidelong glances you were used to receiving. It occurred to you how different you must look from the rest of the concubines, how changed you were all of a sudden. 

“Don't worry,” Geta said, leaning over to whisper in your ear. “Enjoy yourself, please.”

He offered you your cup, which you took. The wine was sweet and rich, like everything else you had been given. You drank slowly, savoring the taste and the warmth that spread through your chest as you drank it. You smiled at Geta, which he returned. Your face flushed, and your heart fluttered in your chest. You could picture it as a small canary, longing to go to your loves. 

But, despite all that had changed, you had to remind yourself who you were to them. As close as you may be physically, socially you were worlds apart. You would always be below them, no matter what you wished. 

So, you took a deep breath, and enjoyed the food and wine. Geta turned out to be quite the conversationalist, eager to share with you his political ideas. Even though you didn't know much about running an empire, you were happy to listen. Caracalla was not quite as intellectual as his brother, but was happy to hold your hand and whisper you sweet promises. 

Partway through the night, Caracalla pulled you into his chair, insisting he was cold. Dondus, who had accompanied him to the banquet, squeaked indignantly but quieted down as you stroked his chin. 

You wrapped your arms around Caracalla's shoulders, settling into his lap. You looked up at him, eyelids heavy from the wine and the warmth of the man beneath you. The world seemed to draw away, the hum of conversation settling to a low drone. 

“Are you warmer now?” You asked, soaking in the minute details of his face. His slight blonde stubble, the small scars on his skin, the way his lips parted ever so slowly. He nodded, and ran his tongue over his lips. 

“Are you hungry?” He asked, reaching forward onto the table. In his fingers was a purple grape, ripe and glinting in the candlelight. He pressed it against your lips, and you opened your mouth. The sweetness of the fruit exploded across your tongue, and you chewed it slowly. His eyes did not leave your lips as you chewed and swallowed.

His fingers were heavy against your mouth as he fed you another grape. Again, you accepted, your lips brushing his fingertips as you ate. You licked your lips and tasted the saltiness left by his fingers. 

As the night drew on, the party waxed and waned. Guests moved from the grand table to the ground as drugs were passed around, gold plates of rhino horn which set peoples inhibitions aflame. After helping himself, Geta passed the plate to you with a smile, encouraging you to divulge. Caracalla showed you how to inhale the fine powder, and you soon found yourself a part of the sea of bodies on the marble floor. 

Your body burned, and you found yourself kissing one pair of lips and then the other. Your hands tangled in fiery hair, and you saw piercing blue and honeyed brown eyes. You did not know who was who, but it didn't matter so long as they kept touching you. 

When you woke up in your new bed, the sun was high in the sky. You sighed and stretched, and rubbed your eyes. You didn't know how you got there, but you were still dressed in Caracalla's robes and jewelry. You took the bracelets from your wrist and the gold hoops from your ears and let them clatter to the floor. The robes still smelled of Caracalla, so you kept them on. Your head pounded from the activities of the night before, which were a blur in your mind. 

More comfortable now, you were about to drift back to sleep when you heard shouting in the other room. You were going to ignore it when you heard your name. You opened your eyes, and listened intently. 

“He's mine!” A voice that sounded like Caracalla's echoed through the walls. “He came to us because of me! It was my idea!” 

“We can share him!” Geta shouted back, trying to reason with his brother. “We share everything, why not him?”

“You don't need him the way I need him!” Caracalla yelled, sounding like he was on the verge of tears.

“How would you know?” Geta retorted angrily. You were stunned, unsure of what to make of this conversation. Your heart broke for them both. 

Despite wanting to go to them, your limbs were still heavy with exhaustion, and your head throbbed with any movement. They would still be there when you awoke, you reasoned, and so you let yourself slowly fall back asleep as images of red hair floated through your mind. 

an: if you liked this, please reblog!

[justasmallbean]

Seeing photos of Fred Hechinger in the White Lotus has me imagining a younger Caracalla when he was still healthy and it makes me cry a little 😭

[esta88]

[cummodus]

him

[getaapologist]

WHEN, Geta. Hurry up.

I loved this 💚

The Obedient Wife

Pairing: Geta/Caracalla's wife!reader, Caracalla/Wife!reader

Summary: Geta longs for Caracalla's sweet, obedient wife.

Dividers By: cafekitsune

Author's Note: So this is a pretty short one. This actually came from a longer fic I was working on but I'm unsure if I'm ever going to finish it and so I decided this short piece could work on its own. For background context, Caracalla's wife used to be in his entourage, always following him around with hearts in her eyes. He could do no wrong in her eyes but now they're married and she has to put up with all sorts of things from him. Girly is beyond stressed and sad with his behavior but she was taught to always be obedient to her husband no matter what.

Geta had always noticed her.

Even in those early days, before she wore the title of empress, before the jewels and purple silks, she had lingered in Caracalla’s world as if she were his star-struck shadow. She was so small then, not exactly in stature, but in presence. Quiet. Eager. Eyes always fixed on his brother as though he were Bacchus in the flesh and she a devoted follower.

Geta used to think it was pathetic, how she trailed after Caracalla like some adoring little pet, desperate for affection, laughing at every crude joke, flinching at every outburst but never once pulling away. But now that she was his brother’s wife, now that Geta had seen her cry in secret and hold herself too tightly in her own arms, he couldn’t look at her without feeling that same old thing burn in his chest.

Pity.

Longing.

Possession.

He wasn’t sure where one ended and the other began.

She wasn’t like the women who flirted with him at feasts, all coy glances and knowing smiles. She wasn’t like his favorite concubine, bold in the bedchamber and even bolder in court. She didn’t know how to want things for herself. She didn’t even seem to realize she could.

She had been taught to please. That was all. To be an obedient wife. To smile. To stay quiet when her husband struck the table or barked in rage. To pretend not to notice his frequent coming and goings with concubines right in front of her. To accept any and all of her husband’s transgressions. To ignore how much it wounded her heart. To nod when he told her she was his, even as he disappeared from her bed for nights at a time.

She never defended herself, Geta thought. Because she doesn’t know she’s allowed to.

And gods help him, it stirred something in him.

He didn’t know what it said about himself, what kind of man he was, that her meekness made him ache. That every time she flinched at Caracalla’s anger, Geta wanted to wrap her in furs and lock her away in some secret tower where no one could touch her. Where she wouldn’t have to flinch. Where no one would raise their voice. Where he could keep her like something delicate and breakable and his.

Maybe it was because he’d spent his youth protecting Caracalla. Taking the beatings. Covering for him. Keeping him safe from their father’s fury. Maybe it had made something inside him hungry for soft things. Vulnerable things.

She was all of that. And more.

She was the kind of woman who cried quietly. Who smiled even when her eyes betrayed her. Who never asked for comfort but clung to it like a drowning thing when it was offered.

Geta didn’t touch her.

Not yet.

But the thought of it lingered in him like a fever.

One day, he swore, he would pull her from that quiet torment she lived in. From Caracalla’s chaos. From the way she’d been taught to live with pain as if it were normal. He would teach her she didn’t have to flinch. That she didn’t have to smile through tears because with him there would be no tears.

He would keep her.

And she would never be afraid again.

[josephquinnswife]

i mean yeah

[rxqueenotd]

damnatio memoriae: PART VI

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

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

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warnings: major character death, crucifixion, rough sex, swearing, mentions of menstruation, ancient Rome as a warning in itself, read previous warnings.

notes: I am posting this at 2:57 AM EST. I had no intention of posting this today or touching this fic, but I have written 6 different variations of this chapter alone and finally weaved them all together the way I liked. This has not been beta'd at all so please forgive any mistakes. I argued with myself about making this chapter smuttier just for my reader's pleasure and what not, but the plot outweighed the horny this time. Once again, this fic is a labor of love and really has pushed me to become a stronger writer. I can tell that my style is changing and evolving, so thanks to everyone who has pushed me to keep going. This has almost been like therapy.

VI

The road to Rome stretched before you like a serpent, winding through the countryside and coiling as the company rode without slowing. The rhythmic pounding of hooves against the packed dirt was the only sound filling the tense silence between you, Caracalla, and Geta. The heat of Caracalla’s body behind you was grounding, his arm wrapped around your waist in a firm grip, as if he sensed you might slip away into your thoughts if he let go.

Geta rode beside you, his posture rigid, his face unreadable. The tension between the brothers was palpable, taut like a bowstring ready to snap. You felt the weight of their unspoken words pressing down on you, suffocating in its heaviness. But you were not thinking of them. Your mind was elsewhere—on what you had left behind in Baiae, on what waited for you in Rome, and on the bitter taste of something you had not yet named.

Surrounding you were the Praetorians, their polished armor gleaming under the midday sun, their silent presence a constant reminder of the power that enclosed you on all sides. Their formation was tight, disciplined, ensuring that no one, whether from ahead or within your own group, could act without consequence.

It wasn’t until the outskirts of Baiae came into view that unease settled deep in your bones. You had not expected such a crowd as you passed through. The streets were unusually dense, the hum of voices growing louder as you entered. A slow dread curled in your stomach as you took in the gathered masses, their eyes fixed on something ahead. The murmurs were thick with cruel delight and hushed horror.

The horse beneath you slowed as Caracalla pulled on the reins, a low chuckle vibrating from his chest. “Ah,” he murmured, amusement lacing his tone, “Baiae always loves a spectacle.”

At first, it was just a shape against the sky, something out of place in the sea of bodies. Then the sun glinted off gold—bracelets, delicate and familiar, still clinging to limp wrists. Dread rooted itself deep in your stomach as realization struck.

There, raised high above the crowd, was a cross. And nailed to it, her body battered, her golden bracelets still glinting in the harsh daylight, was Prosperina.

The world constricted, narrowing to that single point of horror. The delicate curve of her throat now bore the grotesque bruises of strangulation. Her lips were parted in eternal silence. The silk of her stola was torn, stained with blood that had long dried in the heat of the sun.

You barely registered the way Caracalla’s fingers tightened against your waist, or the low murmur of the crowd. The only thing you could hear was the rushing in your ears, the sharp thrum of blood pounding against your temples.

Geta’s voice, quiet yet sharp, cut through the haze. “You look pale, Prima.”

You swallowed hard, your nails digging into your palms to ground yourself. “I did not expect such a… crowd.” Your voice was steadier than you felt, but even that small victory felt hollow.

Caracalla’s lips brushed the shell of your ear, his breath warm and thick with something unreadable. “Fitting, isn’t it?” he murmured. “She should have known better. You do now, don’t you?”

A tremor ran through you, though you masked it well. The weight of his words was heavier than the bodies they strung up for sport. You forced yourself to turn, to meet his gaze with something softer than defiance, though the battle within you raged hotter than ever.

“I do,” you said, voice quiet but firm.

His smirk softened, but he said nothing more.

The horse continued forward, but your mind remained rooted to that cross, to the woman who had, for a brief moment, shown you something outside the prison of power and control.

As the procession moved through the streets, as Baiae faded behind you on the road to Rome, you knew something had shifted, something within you now lost—dead, like the woman left hanging in the sun.

____________________________________________________________________________

The gates of the imperial palace groaned open just before sunrise. The courtyard stood empty, silent, and dark, the usual watchful presence of stewards and servants absent. No warm towels, no priestly incense, no wine. Just shadow and the faint scent of oil burned low in the sconces.

You dismounted without assistance, your hands steady as they gripped the saddle though every movement pulled at the flesh along your spine. The bandage there had begun to stiffen, tugging each time you shifted, a constant reminder of what had happened—what had been taken, and what had been allowed. Your sandals struck the ground with more weight than grace, and you straightened slowly, letting the pain sharpen your focus as you adjusted your cloak around your shoulders.

Caracalla said nothing as he passed beneath the archway ahead, his stride even, his guards flanking him in tight formation. He did not glance back. He hadn’t looked at you since Prosperina. Geta lingered behind the procession, his mount moving at a slower pace, his posture upright but not tense. His eyes moved across the palace walls, the dark windows, the empty balconies, watching, calculating, but not speaking. When his gaze fell on you, it stayed there.

You crossed the threshold last, stepping beneath the arch into the quiet weight of the palace. Once, this place had felt like a stage—alive with light and movement, voices echoing through marble corridors, laughter tucked into every shadow. Now it held the stillness of something recently abandoned. The torches flickered low and uneven, their flames too faint to chase away the gloom. You could smell old smoke, dust, and the faint rot of laurel leaves gone brittle.

Nothing had changed. But something in the air whispered that everything had.

Your footsteps echoed in the silence, a sound too loud in a space that used to absorb it. You felt eyes on you—servants tucked into doorways, guards watching from behind columns, the unseen murmur of slaves pressing themselves into corners, all of them waiting for the measure of what had returned. You said nothing. You met no gaze. You walked slowly, each step purposeful, letting your silence speak for you.

When you reached your chambers, the guards stationed there snapped upright, too quickly, as if your presence had startled them. Neither spoke. One inhaled sharply and didn’t release the breath until you dismissed them with a single word. They bowed—not deeply, not confidently—and stepped back into the shadows, grateful not to be summoned further.

The door closed behind you with a soft thud that felt heavier than it should have, sealing you inside a room untouched since you left it. Everything was as it had been. Your robe hung neatly behind the changing screen. A scroll lay open beside the chaise, its parchment curled at the edges. For a moment, you simply stood there, letting your eyes move across the space, cataloguing the unchanged. A strange stillness settled in your bones, as if you were no longer sure whether this room belonged to you, or if you had returned to it too changed to belong anywhere at all. You didn’t reach for the lamp. You didn’t undress. You only peeled back the poorly wrapped bandage and studied your palm.

The wound had stopped bleeding, but it was far from closed. The gash ran diagonally across the softest part of your hand, shallow but angry, pulsing faintly with each beat of your heart. It had been carved clean, and though you had bound it tightly with linen, the wrap had grown damp with sweat and the faint trace of blood that still seeped through.

You flexed your fingers slowly, testing the skin. The pain was sharp, but not unfamiliar. It wasn’t the first time you had bled for someone else’s power, but this time, you had drawn the blade.

You moved to the chaise, lowering yourself with more care than grace. Each shift in weight pulled at your back. The bandage you’d wrapped there before leaving Baiae had begun to tear away from the wound. You could feel it loosening beneath the fabric of your shift, the blood that had dried into the cloth threatening to pull again with every breath.

You didn’t call for assistance. You hadn’t since you returned. There would be no one to see you undress, no one to lay out clean robes, no one to scrub your fingernails. That, too, had been intentional.

The knock came only once before the door opened.

The healer entered without ceremony, without hesitation. She was older, her skin darkened by years of sun and work, her frame lean and steady. A long scar crossed her jaw, but her hands were clean and bare. She carried a basin of water, steam curling upward, and a folded cloth tucked under one arm. She did not speak. She did not bow.

You said nothing as she crossed the room and set her things beside you. She did not ask where the wound was. She simply moved behind you, lifting the hem of your cloak, then your shift, and found the bandage.

You had done your best with it, but it had slipped out of place during the journey. Her fingers worked quickly, unwinding the fabric, peeling it free from the broken skin beneath. The salve you had used was nearly gone, the cut reopened from the motion of riding. You inhaled through your nose and held still. The cloth pressed against your back, soaked in vinegar and lavender, stung sharply. You didn’t flinch. Her touch was practiced and methodical.

You remained seated for what could have been minutes or hours. Time stretched strangely in the hush that followed. The cloth beneath you had begun to cool, clinging faintly to your skin, when the healer, who had not yet left, cleared her throat softly.

Without waiting for your response, she moved toward the adjoining room, gesturing with a subtle flick of her fingers.

“Come,” she said, not unkindly.

You rose without speaking.

The air in the balneum was warm and heavy, scented with steam and oil. The water in the sunken bath shimmered faintly, moving only by the slow, steady trickle of a fountain built into the far wall. Steam curled from the surface, catching in your throat with the faint sting of rosemary and crushed mint.

The healer moved without commentary, setting down her basin and cloth on a low bench before stepping to the edge of the water. She reached for a slender bottle of warmed oil and poured it slowly into the bath, the surface blooming with a slick sheen.

You untied the sash at your waist and let your shift slip from your shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor without ceremony. She did not avert her gaze. She had seen bodies broken before—this was simply another kind of ruin.

As you stepped down into the balneum, the warmth enveloped you immediately, rising to your thighs, then to your waist. The ache in your muscles softened, only slightly dulled by the heat. You sank into the water until it covered you up to your chest, your elbows resting on the smooth ledge at either side.

The healer knelt beside the bath, wetting a cloth with the steaming water. She didn’t ask permission. She began with your shoulders, then your neck, dipping the cloth again and again, scrubbing the remnants of dried sweat, blood, and travel from your skin.

When she lifted your arm, her breath caught for only a second.

The bite mark there had darkened overnight. Bruises ran in parallel lines down the inside of your arm—grip marks, unmistakable in shape and intent. She did not ask questions. She dipped the cloth again and moved to your side, where the worst of it lay.

Your skin told the story: across your ribs and hips bloomed the handprints of possession, bruises deep and uneven, the imprint of knees, knuckles, teeth. The lash mark on your back-- a gift from Caracalla’s whip– ran like a line of red ink beneath all of it, angry and swollen, and had barely been held together by the fresh bandage.

She traced a cloth along the curve of your spine, carefully avoiding the wound. Then she tilted your chin gently upward to wash your face, the only moment of softness in the entire exchange.

“Tell me,” she said, not sharply, but with the steadiness of someone accustomed to damage.

You opened your eyes and met hers.

“What would you have me say?”

Her expression didn’t change. She dipped the cloth again and began to clean your hand, the diagonal gash now swollen, the edges faintly pink.

“This one was your doing,” she said quietly, wrapping her hand lightly around your wrist.

You didn’t answer.

Her thumb brushed a smear of dried blood from your palm. The heat from the water brought the sting back to the surface. You held still, letting her work.

Once she finished, she poured a ladle of warm water over your shoulders, letting it run down your back, over your thighs, between your legs. She did not look away. She was not here to pretend. Her fingers found a spot at your side, near your hip bone, where the bruises had layered over each other in a wash of purple and yellow. Her touch paused there.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

When she finished washing you, she retrieved a soft cloth and motioned for you to stand. You did, slowly, water cascading from your skin in thin rivulets. She dried you without comment, beginning with your arms, then your legs, moving around your body like a ritual performed too many times to need instruction.

At last, she said, “There are places they strike where the bruises fade quickly. Yours will not.”

You nodded, the ache behind your eyes sharp and steady, but no tears came.

“I know.”

She took one final look at you—naked, marked, upright—and then turned from the bath, speaking only once more as she reached the door.

“Someone should see what Rome does to its daughters.”

The door shut behind her, and this time you truly were alone.

The warmth from the bath clung to your skin, but it couldn’t reach the cold settling in your chest. You moved slowly to the marble bench, wrapped the drying cloth tightly around your shoulders, and sat. Your eyes flicked to your reflection in the dark water—distorted, distant, but yours.

You weren’t thinking about shame.

You were thinking about how blood keeps score.

And how long it might take for the empire to answer for yours.

____________________________________________________________________________

Rome did not welcome you back. It endured you.

By midday, the palace had resumed its rhythms—or appeared to. Bread was baked. Bronze was polished. Scribes whispered over scrolls. But something vital had gone missing in your absence, and whatever remained behind smelled faintly of rot masked with perfume.

The silence was heavier here. It did not serve as awe but as insulation—thick, padded, suffocating. And those who moved within it did so carefully, as if afraid to wake something sleeping beneath the marble.

Your footsteps echoed where once they would have been muffled by murmuring courtiers. You passed no one in the colonnades, no senators trading favors in shaded alcoves. Even the priests walked lighter than usual, their vestments trailing behind them like funeral cloth.

Word had traveled faster than your horses. You saw it in the way the servants looked away when you passed, in the way the guards stiffened—shoulders too tight, hands a breath too close to their swords. You heard it in fragments from behind curtains and in the dry coughs of those who pretended not to see you.

They didn’t know what had happened in Baiae. But they knew something had.

And more than that, they were watching to see how you’d carry it.

You were dressed in dark linen bound with a thin gold sash at the waist, the fabric carefully chosen to obscure the worst of the bruising along your hips and arms. Cassia had helped you braid your hair back from your face in a style too severe for mourning but far too austere for court. It sent a message. You hadn’t come back soft.

The hall leading to Septimius’s quarters had once been a place steeped in lore and legacy—lined with oil lamps and veiled attendants, always humming with the quiet urgency of those who waited for the voice of a god. Today, it felt like a tomb.

No guards stood outside the door. Only a single servant boy sat on the floor beside the arch, nodding off in the warmth, his tunic wrinkled and damp at the collar. When you approached, he startled upright and scurried away without speaking.

You entered without being summoned.

The air inside was thick with incense and decay. The curtains had been drawn back slightly to allow the afternoon light to filter in, but it did little to soften the room. A copper basin sat unused beside the bed, the cloths inside it already stained. Flies hummed near a bowl of half-eaten dates on a table that had once held treaties and letters from distant provinces.

And there, in the center of it all, lay Septimius.

The emperor. The imperator. The father of Rome.

His body had shrunken beneath the linen blankets, the shape of his frame no longer divine but withered, as if some greedy thing had already begun to feed on him from within. His skin was the color of parchment left too long in the sun. His lips were cracked. A faint wheeze rattled in his throat with each shallow breath.

He did not notice your entrance. Or if he did, he gave no sign.

You stood at the foot of the bed for a long moment, unsure whether to speak. There was no court here. No audience. Just you and the dying breath of a god who had once moved nations with a glance.

Then, without opening his eyes, he spoke.

“I know that walk.”

His voice was paper-thin, barely audible, but it scratched through the stillness.

“I heard it once… in my mother’s house, just before the storm hit Antioch.”

You said nothing.

He turned his face slightly toward the sound of your breath, his eyelids fluttering open just enough to expose the bloodshot blue beneath.

“I thought you were her,” he whispered. “Or the other one. The dead one.”

You stepped closer.

“I’m none of them,” you said.

“No,” he rasped. “You’re what’s left.”

A long pause. Then, with startling clarity, his voice sharpened—not in strength, but in tone.

“They were my balance. And now they tilt the world.”

He blinked slowly, his gaze going glassy again. His hand moved under the blanket, weakly fumbling for something—perhaps for the past, or for a name he couldn’t quite recall.

“One sun rises…” he murmured. “One must fall.”

You stood still, your arms at your sides, the cloth of your robe suddenly too heavy across your shoulders.

“The gods mock me,” he said softly, almost dreamlike. “I made them emperors… and they make war within their own walls.”

His head turned toward the window, the faintest trace of light gilding his temple. For a moment, it was possible to see the man he had once been—the marble-cut silhouette, the fury, the mind. And then it passed.

His eyes found yours again, focused for the first time.

“You… you are my weapon The clever girl they say will outlive us all.”

Then he blinked once more, and the recognition faded.

He drifted back into silence, the breath in his chest shallow, the sound of it barely distinguishable from the rest of the still room. You stood there longer than you meant to, watching the rise and fall of the blanket over his chest, wondering how long it would continue. Wondering who would be the first to stop pretending that Rome was still being ruled at all.

____________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t return to your chambers after leaving Septimius.

Instead, you walked the eastern colonnade, where the light was thinner and the arches opened onto the inner garden. The breeze moved through the cypress leaves in slow spirals, rustling the ivy along the carved stone pillars. It had once been a place for midday gatherings, performances, quiet conversations about music and law. Today, it was empty.

Or so you thought.

You had just rounded the corner, the hem of your stola brushing against cool marble, when you heard voices ahead—quiet, controlled, just beyond the curve of the wall. You slowed.

One voice—measured, low, unmistakable.

Macrinus.

“I do not believe in omens,” he said, his words carrying in the stillness. “But I do believe in patterns. And Rome follows them as surely as blood follows the blade.”

There was a pause, then the quiet rustle of someone shifting their weight.

Geta’s voice followed, cooler, more restrained. “And what pattern do you see now?”

You stepped back into the shadow of an arch, letting the folds of the stone wall swallow your form. The corridor ahead twisted gently, a sculpted bust of Juno obscuring you from view. From where you stood, you could see neither man—but you could hear them clearly.

Macrinus spoke again, his tone almost casual.

“Two emperors. One fading. One fracturing. The court divides itself like a carcass under knives. And the lady? She returns cloaked in silence, and everyone steps back as if she carries fire.”

“She carries something,” Geta replied. “Though I haven’t yet decided what.”

A soft laugh from Macrinus.

“She carries the memory of Baiae. That is enough.”

There was a stretch of quiet between them, broken only by the sound of water trickling in the distance.

“You think her dangerous?” Geta asked.

“I think she is still breathing,” Macrinus said. “And in this palace, that makes her dangerous enough.”

More silence.

Then Macrinus added, “He’s unraveling, you know. Our beloved Augustus. Rome sees it. The senators see it. Even the gods must be tired of watching him clutch the empire like a spoiled child refusing to share.”

Geta didn’t respond.

“You could have it,” Macrinus said softly, not a whisper, but something close. “With the right voices behind you. The right faces at your side. Even the right silences.”

There was a long pause before Geta finally spoke again.

“I’m not in the habit of collecting poison in exchange for power.”

“No,” Macrinus said. “But sometimes, poison is the only thing sharp enough to cut through rot.”

You felt something tighten in your chest—not fear, not quite. Something sharper.

There was movement then—footsteps shifting, the echo of a sandal against stone.

“You’ve said enough,” Geta murmured.

Macrinus replied, “Only because you let me.”

The sound of their footsteps retreated in opposite directions, and the space between them stretched once more into silence.

You waited until you could no longer hear them before you stepped from the shadows.

The garden beyond the colonnade was still, the breeze faint. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the empire tilted just slightly off its axis, and you, tucked inside its heart, stood still as marble, listening to the silence where power had just passed.

_________________________________________________________________________

You had not summoned him. You hadn’t seen him all day. But the moment the doors slammed open, you knew who it was.

Caracalla stormed into your chambers with the force of a man who had not slept. His cloak was half-undone, one fastening swinging loose at his shoulder. His jaw was tight, his eyes wild, a flush rising under the skin of his neck. 

You did not rise. You did not greet him.

He stopped only once the distance between you had disappeared, standing over where you sat, his breath sharp and uneven. His hands were clenched at his sides, his fingers twitching.

“They’ve begun invoking it,” he said, barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loud would make it more real. “The edict.”

You looked up at him slowly.

“The one my father signed,” he continued, voice cracking, “naming me and Geta as co-emperors.”

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, too short to be real.

“A senator quoted it to me this morning. Quoted it, as if I needed reminding. ‘It is the will of the Imperator that his sons rule together.’ As if his will matters more than mine. As if I’ve already been replaced.”

You didn’t answer. There was nothing in your voice that would have softened this. Nothing in your silence that could have made it worse than it already was.

“They’re not even pretending anymore,” he snapped. “They speak Geta’s name in the baths, in the temples. They look to him in the council chambers. And they look at me like I’m the rabid dog my father failed to leash.”

He began pacing, his sandals scuffing softly against the marble, the weight of him heavy in the silence. He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers trembling slightly.

“And you,” he muttered. “You say nothing. You do nothing. You walk these halls like you don’t belong to me.”

You kept your voice level. “Perhaps because I belong to myself.”

He turned.

He was on you in an instant, crossing the space in three furious strides. His hand gripped your wrist, the one still wrapped, and then released it just as quickly to shove you back into the chaise. The cushions caught you, but it knocked the air from your lungs.

He followed, pressing down, his knee between your thighs, his weight sudden and possessive.

“Have you bled this month?” he demanded.

The words landed with more force than the shove.

“What?”

“Have you bled at all? Since we were married?”

You stared at him. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t believe you.

His hands were already at your waist, pulling at the sash, yanking the fabric aside. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t help him either.

“You don’t know if you’re carrying my heir,” he muttered. “You don’t know.”

He looked down at you, his breath ragged, the fear behind his anger beginning to rise to the surface.

“If you are—if you are—then I win. If you're not…”

He trailed off, hands trembling against your thighs.

“… then there’s nothing left.”

He pushed inside you with the desperation of a drowning man, his pace brutal, rhythm unforgiving. You felt the sting of it immediately—the pain layered over bruises not yet healed, the pressure where your body hadn’t recovered from the last time he’d taken you like this.

“Mine,” he said against your throat, voice harsh, fractured. “You’re mine. They can doubt me, they can whisper about Geta, they can quote edicts like scripture—but you, you will not be theirs.”

You didn’t cry out. You didn’t speak. You lay beneath him like stone.

“One empire,” he spat, hips slamming into yours. “Two heads. That’s what they say now. Like it's a prophecy. Like I’m already dead and he’s already ascended.”

He bit down hard on the curve of your shoulder. You turned your face away.

“Do you know what they'll do if I let them?” he growled. “They'll raise Geta on a dais and drag me behind him in chains. They'll offer him Rome with one hand and hand me the dagger with the other.”

He came with a strangled sound, half growl, half sob, collapsing over you. His weight crushed your ribs. His hand found your face, but you pulled away.

Stillness followed.

His breathing slowed. He didn't speak. You felt the heat of him slowly drain, the tension in his limbs unraveling inch by inch.

When he finally rose, he didn’t look at you. He pulled his cloak over his shoulders, fastened it without care, and walked toward the door.

He paused there, one hand resting on the frame, his back to you.

“I will not be erased,” he said quietly. “Not by the Senate. Not by my brother. And not by you.”

Then he was gone.

You lay still, every part of you aching, your breath shallow, your skin sticky with sweat and something else. You reached between your thighs and felt the wetness there. Not blood. Not yet.

But your stomach turned all the same.

____________________________________________________________________

The Temple of Fortuna stood quiet on the western slope of the Palatine, half-sheltered by cypress and laurel. You hadn’t set foot there since your return—not because you lacked faith, but because you had long since learned that gods, like men, only answered when it suited them.

Today, though, appearance required more than silence.

You brought a guard, just one. He remained at the base of the temple steps, far enough not to hear your thoughts, close enough for others to see. The act was carefully measured. A lone woman making a public offering for her dying Emperor would be theater. A lone woman without a guard would be weakness.

You carried only a small oil lamp and a sprig of laurel, cut fresh that morning from the edge of the garden near Septimius’s quarters—where no one spoke above a whisper now, where the lamps were kept burning long after dawn.

The steps of the temple were warm beneath your sandals, heat rising through the pale stone. The outer columns rose tall and pristine, casting long blades of shadow across the marble floor. At the center of the inner sanctum stood Fortuna herself—unchanged, unmoved, her face carved in calm repose. One hand cradled the horn of plenty. The other held the rudder, steady and silent, as if fate itself were a thing she guided with one finger and no effort at all.

There was no congregation inside. Only a priest, old and silent, who tended the nearest brazier and then faded into the dark.

You crossed the threshold alone, your sandals whispering against the polished floor. The air inside was heavy with resin and something metallic—old offerings, old prayers, old failure.

You knelt—not for spectacle, but for the act of it. Because once, long ago, you had believed in the weight of kneeling. You laid the laurel at her feet, then lit the oil with a deliberate tilt of the wick. The flame caught slowly, a small blue tongue of fire curling upward, flickering but unafraid.

You didn’t pray aloud. You didn’t believe she would hear you differently if you did. But you let the thoughts sit there, between the offering and the heat.

Let him go. Let him go before he witnesses the demise of Rome at the hands of his sons.

You rose carefully. The stone had left its pattern in your knees. The air no longer smelled only of incense. You could feel the sun reaching through the archways again, drawing long shadows across the floor.

It wasn’t until you turned to leave that you heard the footsteps behind you.

You didn’t reach for the guard at the base of the steps. If the gods wanted to test you here, they’d chosen a familiar instrument.

“I thought it might be a soldier,” you said without turning, your voice quiet and dry. “But soldiers don’t move so carefully when they think no one’s watching.”

The sound of the steps paused, then resumed—closer this time. You stepped out onto the marble platform at the top of the steps and turned just as he reached the base.

Macrinus looked exactly as he always did—well-dressed, expressionless, and vaguely unimpressed by anything that had not been crafted by his own hands. He wore a dark cloak pinned with a brooch you recognized as provincial. Subtle. Intentional. A reminder that his power came from places the court forgot to look.

“I didn’t think you were the praying type,” you said.

“I’m not,” he replied easily. “But I know when others are trying to be seen praying. That’s worth observing.”

You tilted your head slightly. “And what did you observe?”

“That your offering was small,” he said. “Which means you still believe in economy, if not mercy.”

He ascended the steps slowly, two at a time, until he stood just below you—close enough to speak without raising his voice.

“There are men,” he continued, “who pray in temples like this asking for favor. For victory. For sons. You come for none of that.”

You didn’t answer.

He smiled faintly, though it did not reach his eyes.

“You’re not here to ask Fortuna for anything. You’re here to remind her that you’re still watching.”

There was no reason to confirm it.

He looked past you, through the arch of columns, toward the altar where your lamp still burned in its dish.

“She’s a strange one, Fortuna. She gives generously and then takes with both hands. But she rewards steadiness. And patience.”

You narrowed your eyes. “If you’ve come to deliver a proverb, you can leave.”

“I’ve come to deliver a reminder,” he said.

“Then do it quickly.”

He looked back at you.

“You’re not sentimental. That’s why I trust you to understand what others will pretend not to see.”

A pause.

“Septimius is dying. Rome is tilting. The Senate is restless, and the gods are quiet. That leaves men like me.”

“And what do men like you want?” you asked, voice calm.

“Survival,” he said. “Preferably the kind that leaves us in power.”

He stepped closer.

“One of them will fall. Your husband, or your brother-in-law. It won’t be both. It never is.”

You remained still.

“Back the right brother,” he said.

“And if I don’t choose?”

His gaze flicked once to the flame behind you, then back to your face.

“Then I imagine I’ll see you here again soon. But the offering will be blood.”

You studied him, searching for something behind the mask of diplomacy.

“Will you be the one to spill it?” you asked.

He tilted his head, almost amused.

“Domina,” he said gently, “I’ve never needed to spill it myself. I only need to know where it will fall.”

Then he gave a slight bow—precise, rehearsed, not quite mocking—and stepped back down the steps.

You watched him walk away, his cloak lifting faintly in the wind as he disappeared along the garden path.

Behind you, the lamp on Fortuna’s altar blew wildly in the breeze but did not go out.

___________________________________________________________________________

The walk back from the temple was longer than the one to it.

The air had thickened with heat, and the garden paths were quiet, too quiet, as if the city itself had drawn a breath and forgotten how to let it go. You took the northern colonnade back to your chambers, avoiding the inner halls where the servants clustered. You didn’t want more eyes today—not curious ones, not sympathetic ones, and certainly not ones that flinched.

Your guard peeled away once you reached the door, and you stepped inside expecting silence.

Instead, you found Geta.

He was seated in the corner of your chamber, half-draped in the long afternoon light spilling from the window. His back was straight, one leg crossed at the knee, hands resting loosely on the arms of the carved chair. He didn’t rise. He didn’t look startled. He had been waiting.

You shut the door behind you and let the stillness stretch.

“I sent no summons,” you said.

“I know,” he replied.

You crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate. You passed the table where Cassia had left a half-filled cup of wine. You didn’t drink from it. You let your fingers rest lightly on its rim.

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough.”

You turned.

“If you're here to speak of your brother, I suggest you do it quickly.”

He said nothing for a long moment. Then, with that same quiet control he always carried like armor, he answered:

“I’m not here to speak of him. I’m here to speak of you.”

That, more than anything, made you pause.

He rose from the chair, not aggressively, not with ceremony, but with the intention of a man who’d decided the conversation would now happen on equal ground. He stepped closer—not close enough to touch, but enough that you could feel the air between your bodies shift.

“You haven’t changed,” he said.

“Neither have you,” you replied. “Still slipping through shadows pretending they don’t belong to you.”

“You’re wrong,” he said calmly. “They belong to me now more than ever.”

You studied him, the elegant cruelty of his restraint, the way he wore silence like a weapon. It was what separated him from his brother—the refusal to waste blood when silence could do the same work.

“Do you know what they’re saying in the senate halls?” he asked.

“I know what they whisper.”

“They whisper more loudly now.”

You moved past him toward the window, your hand trailing along the edge of the stone sill.

“They’ve started invoking the edict,” he continued. “Quoting my father like he still belongs to this realm.”

“Perhaps because his is the only voice left that isn’t shouting.”

His lips twitched. “Or because it’s the only one that still scares them.”

You turned back to him. “And what scares you, Geta?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

He stepped forward again.

“I saw what he left you with,” he said, quieter now. “In Baiae.”

You held his gaze. “I walked out of Baiae under my own power.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No. But it’s enough.”

The pause that followed was sharp.

“You cannot change him,” Geta said. “But you can help end him.”

You said nothing.

“So that’s why you came,” you murmured. “To recruit me. To turn the ruin of my body into leverage.”

“To offer you what he never could,” he said.

You stepped toward him, closing the space entirely, your voice like silk drawn tight.

“Tell me, Geta… if I am with child, will you have it slain at birth? Or will you simply cut me down before I am able to deliver your brother's heir?”

His face didn’t move, but something in his eyes flickered—cold, calculating.

“No one would need to lay a hand on the child,” he said. “Not if its father dies disgraced.”

You studied him.

“So you’d let it live. Not out of mercy. Out of strategy.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I’d let it live,” he said, “because sometimes a child is more dangerous than a sword. A child is a memory. A mirror. A threat without ever having to lift a hand.”

You gave a soft, almost soundless laugh. “How generous.”

“I’m not generous,” he replied. “I’m smart.”

You moved past him, pouring the wine you hadn’t touched into a basin. When you turned, he was watching you again—this time with something harder to name.

“You’re not afraid,” he said.

“I was. Once.”

“You’re wasted on him.”

You didn’t speak.

He turned toward the door, hand on the frame, and paused.

“You came into my chambers uninvited,” you said.

“I know.”

“To ask for an alliance.”

“To offer one.”

“How would you have me show loyalty?” you asked. “With silence? With blood? With the body that’s already been spent like coin?”

He didn’t turn around.

“With a choice,” he said.

And then he left.

The door closed softly behind him—not with violence, but with finality.

________________________________________________________________________

Sleep would not come.

You had tried, lying still beneath the soft linen canopy with your back to the door, the flickering, but rest remained just out of reach. The silence pressed too tightly, not a comforting hush, but a heavy, listening sort of quiet that settled between your ribs and stretched into the spaces behind your eyes. 

You rose without dressing further, tying your robe at the waist and leaving your feet bare on the cold floor. You did not call for Cassia. There was no need. The palace was not asleep; it merely played at sleep. It was a thing that breathed shallowly in the dark, hoping not to be touched.

You moved through the corridor like mist, your steps quiet, your breath even. The sconces had burned low, their flames little more than embers behind their glass. The palace, always grand in daylight, shrank at night—its arches heavier, its halls longer, its grandeur reduced to echo and stone. You passed under painted ceilings you’d stopped noticing months ago, past statues that had once looked majestic and now seemed to watch as you passed. There was no clear purpose to your wandering, and yet your feet carried you with certainty, as though they had chosen a path your conscious mind had not yet accepted.

You passed the west gallery where poets once read aloud from scrolls, their voices full of measured elegance; you passed the old fountain court, where Septimius had once received an envoy from Alexandria beneath a canopy of hanging roses; and then, finally, the cracked mosaic of Minerva—a favorite of his, once, before it had fallen into disrepair. He’d claimed the flaw made it real, that even gods deserved a fault. You remembered that, the way he’d said it like he believed it, like he thought he was being generous.

And then you were there.

The corridor narrowed and quieted, the torches fewer, the air warmer with the scent of fading incense and thick, sour sickness. You moved slowly, your shadow stretching ahead of you in soft, flickering lines. There were no guards. No stewards. No attendants. The doors to the emperor’s private chambers stood half-open, and the silence beyond them was not peaceful, but final.

You stepped lightly, one palm resting against the frame.

The fire inside had burned low. The embers pulsed a dull orange in the hearth, casting thin slats of light across the bed, the drapes, the room that once held more power than the entire Senate combined. Septimius lay beneath the covers, his body diminished, his chest barely rising. His mouth was open, his skin slack and yellowed, his breath so shallow it barely moved the air.

You might have thought he was already dead.

But he was not alone.

Macrinus sat at the edge of the bed, facing the emperor. He was dressed simply—dark tunic, sleeves rolled to the elbows, no insignia to mark his station, no ring, no blade. He looked like a man preparing to smooth out an old account, not a conspirator, not a killer, just... a man with a task.

You stood still.

He leaned forward, adjusting something at the head of the bed—quiet, practiced, not rushing. And then you saw it: his hands closing around the pillow, lifting it gently, and bringing it to rest atop Septimius’s face.

There was no sharp movement, no dramatic shift of weight. Just pressure.

Septimius twitched once, a weak, animal reflex beneath the linen, more instinct than resistance. His hands, thin and spotted, didn’t even lift from the blankets. His feet pushed faintly against the mattress, but Macrinus didn’t budge.

The emperor made no sound. Not even a gasp.

Only the rustle of fabric, the faint strain of dying breath, and then nothing.

Macrinus held the pillow down longer than he needed to, his back straight, his arms locked in position. His face remained neutral. There was no satisfaction, no hesitation—just the calm resolve of a man who had waited too long to act and had finally chosen his moment.

When he lifted the pillow, the emperor’s head lolled slightly to the side, his mouth falling open farther, his eyes glassed over and staring somewhere no one else could follow. Macrinus did not reach to close them. He only reached to smooth the sheets over the man’s chest, tucking the fabric gently, almost tenderly, as though he were sealing something away.

You had not moved.

He never looked up. He never turned. You remained still, just outside the door, the column at your back like a second spine, and watched in complete silence as a god was undone by human hands.

When he stepped away from the bed, he paused to adjust his tunic, glanced once at the fire, and then turned toward the door—not yours, but the other, the inner one, the one that would lead him out unseen.

You slipped into shadow before his footsteps began.

You walked away slowly, your hands loose at your sides, the hem of your robe catching faintly at the corners of worn stone. You passed the same mosaic, the same court, the same doors—but they felt different now, less like places and more like ruins. There were no tears. No curse. Only the faint knowledge settling behind your eyes that history had shifted while no one watched, that the seat of empire had emptied with no witnesses save you.

No trumpets. No declarations. No blade. Only a breath. And then nothing.

And somewhere in the quiet that followed, Rome exhaled—and turned toward its next act.

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[littledozerdraws]

casually posting ship art before the movie's even had it's public release 🫡

[cottoncandiescupcakes]

Gladiator II: this a manly movie for MEN

Has: pedro pascal playing a general daddy, paul mescal in barely any clothes, joseph quinn in three different kinds of eyeliner, fred hechinger playing a sick baby with a pet monkey

Do you even KNOW women lol like at all