#emperor Caracalla x reader

[prettycalla]

|| devotus ||

Pairing: Caracalla/Reader

Summary: Sometimes Caracalla goes where you cannot reach him.

Tags and warnings: Some angst, mentions of Caracalla's illness, minor injury detail, gender neutral reader, no use of Y/N.

Word count: 1k (approx.)

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You know of Caracalla’s affliction.

A disease that has spread to his mind, was what you had been told.

It was not long before you were to fall victim to it.

Caracalla has a ferocious temper, one to rival Mars himself at his worst. Sometimes, there were tell-tale signs, warnings of what was to come. You could calm him, then, hold him close to you until the storm threatening to break in him had passed.

This time, as the heavy pot in his frantic hands collides with your arm and shatters into pieces on the floor, there is no warning.

Caracalla is beyond reason, even yours. He paces and screams like a wild animal, as terrified as he is enraged.

He shrieks of usurpers, of assassins, of phantoms in the palace walls with knives and vials of poison.

It takes every ounce of your willpower to remain still and quiet, so as not to draw attention to yourself, despite the throbbing pain in your arm.

But you know that you must leave. As much as it pains your heart, you know that there is nothing you can do for him now.

You seize your chance when Caracalla’s back is turned for a brief moment. The guilt that fills you as you slip out of the room is overwhelming, but you know that there is little point in trying to intervene. There is no reasoning with him, not when his eyes are glassy and clouded as they are now.

You lose track of time as you stand out of sight in an antechamber, but at last, the cacophony suddenly stops. You peek into the room to find it empty.

Relief washes over you. You know that he will be safe. His guards will ensure that no harm comes to him or anyone else.

The adrenaline that has been holding you steady quickly drains from you and you collapse to the floor. You look down, inspecting your arm with a grimace. Mercifully unbroken and uncut, but already there are faint bruises blossoming across your skin.

It is Geta who eventually finds you. He looks unnerved, his eyes dark and frantic as he observes you.

“Where is-“ you begin to ask.

“His guards are with him,” he replies. “He will tire soon.”

He frowns as he notices how you clutch your arm.

"Did he do this?" he asks softly.

"It was an accident," you reply with a stubborn shake of your head, your eyes brimming with tears. "I will recover."

He does not press, instead retrieving a small cloth from the folds of his robes and handing it to you.

“I need for you to make yourself presentable,” he says.

His words would sound harsh to one less knowing, but you hear the gentleness that lies beneath.

You nod with a shaky exhale, patting the corner of the cloth along the waterline of your eyes.

“Not a word,” he murmurs as the door opens again with such force that it ricochets off the wall.

Geta straightens up as Caracalla bursts into the room. He looks around frantically. When he finally spots you, he all but throws himself to the floor in his haste. His eyes are wide and afraid as he reaches for you.

“What happened?” he asks softly.

His fingers graze your bruises so gently, as if he holds fear of hurting you. His brows knit together as he looks up at you.

“Did someone do this to you?” he murmurs.

You already know, but the confirmation leaves a wound on your heart.

He does not remember.

You open your mouth to speak, when a faint noise from above draws your attention. You turn your head to find Geta’s gaze fixed on you. He shakes his head ever so slightly.

A warning.

You hold his gaze for a brief moment, chin jutting out in defiance. You know that it is not the wisest decision, but you have no appreciation for being treated like a child. You would not dare to hurt the man in front of you, regardless of his brother’s feelings.

You turn back to Caracalla, a smile pulling at the corners of your mouth.

“No one, my dove,” you reply, your smile widening as his nose scrunches at your little term of endearment for him. “I lost my balance, and I fell. Nothing more.”

The tips of his fingers trace patterns along the faint smattering of bruises on your skin.

“Clumsy,” he says, and a faint giggle escapes him.

You laugh too, a quiet breath of a sound, your hand closing over his to gently prise it from your arm.

“Sweet boy, you worry yourself so much about me,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles.

He tilts his head as he looks at you, casting his gaze across your face.

He leans in close to you to speak.

“You will be careful from now on,” he murmurs.

Not a command, but a plea.

“I could not bear to lose you.”

His expression is one of such boyish reverence, his eyes bright and clear. It is not his affliction that speaks now, yet it still breaks your heart to look at him.

“Of course, my dove,” you reply, tears once more beginning to well in your eyes.

He laughs then, loud and brash and so innocent. He claps his hands together once before rising to stand. You follow suit, wincing under your breath as you move your arm in a way that it does not appreciate. You quickly school your expression into a smile before Caracalla has a chance to notice.

Geta’s eyes still follow you, but they have since softened. He nods at you: a small sign of appreciation. You turn your attention back to Caracalla, who has quite quickly returned to his old self as he rambles excitedly about the upcoming games, his hands animated in their movements.

"I will have you by my side,” he says.

Though subtle, you hear the lilt at the end.

Not a command, but a request.

You bow your head. “Of course,” you reply with a smile.

He claps his hands together again, a grin spreading across his cherubic face as he turns to leave.

You follow after him, so natural is it for you now to follow in his shadow.

Damned or blessed, you know that you will follow him until the end.

[cherrysweets-world]

Eyes of the Gods Masterlist - Complete

Pairing - Caracalla x fem!Reader, Geta x fem!Reader, Caracalla x fem!Reader x Geta

Summary - It takes only once for them to notice you. Nothing will be the same after you have caught the eyes of gods.

Warnings - minors dni, 18+, unedited, blood, background character death, gladiator fighting, dub-con, pining, obsessive affection, historical inaccuracies, mentions of past domestic violence + child abuse, induced vomiting, reader is intoxicated at certain points, threesome, possessive/obsessive/unhealthy relationships and behaviours, attempted murder, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of miscarriage (not reader’s),more to be added

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Part Ten

Part Eleven

Part Twelve

Mood board

Helpful Info

. Caracalla does not have syphilis in this fic - his illness is more so caused by issues at birth

. Questions/asks I have been sent about this fic are tagged with- #eyes of the gods asks - in case you want to read more tidbits and other people’s thoughts

. Lotsss of mentions of pregnancy + breeding kink but we will not actually see the Reader pregnant/giving birth (apart from one-shots) for those who hate pregnancy trope

pictures from radio times article and google

I do not give permission for any of my works to be posted elsewhere

ao3 - cherrysweetswrites

[cryobabiess]

Pairing: Emperor Caracalla x concubine!reader

Summary: After a public tantrum at a senator's gathering, Geta sends Caracalla's most beloved concubine to comfort his mad brother. Tags: hurt/comfort, slightly NSFW, implied/mentioned sex, Caracalla has serious mommy issues, nipple play, breastfeeding :/ (sorry), short fic, Caracalla is obsessed with your big naturals I guess idk AN: I'm not sure if there's any Otessa Moshfegh enjoyers out there, but this lil mini fic is inspired by Lapvona. Caracalla's man-child vibe reminded me of Merek, so naturally I had to write the most strange and off-putting fic to satisfy my weird-girl impulses. Enjoy, freaks!

Hurt by his brother’s callous words, the divine emperor Caracalla had fled the senator’s banquet in a fit of rage. It only takes a single tense glance from Emperor Geta for you to receive his silent command to follow after his mad brother. It does not take long to find him.

Like always, he hides away under a golden table tucked in the far corner of the throne room. His sniveling echoes off the tall marble walls. You slowly approach his curled up form, as if not to startle a wild hare.

“Caracalla. You must come out now.” You call his name softly.

“I will not.” He croaks through his tears, turning his back towards you. With a sigh, you sink to your knees, extending your open arms towards him.

You wait for Caracalla to find his sense. After a few moments, He finally turns to you to reveal his face—pale, rosy, and wet.

“Has brother sent you to scold me? I am no child!” Spite coats his words. You smile at the absurdity. He could order your head on a pike if he so pleased, but prefers for you to indulge his brooding. A god-king with the whims of a spurned child.

“No, I do not seek to scold, little prince. Come now, so that I may hold you.”

And with that, the emperor crawls to you.

He settles into your arms and you cradle his torso, the luxurious fabric of his ornate robes pooling at your lap. His cheek rests atop your bosom like a newborn babe—he weeps like one too.

“It is unjust! Brother always has the last word, yet I am eldest!” Caracalla laments, his tears wet the bodice of your stola.

You use your free hand to smooth tendrils of copper hair away from his damp face. A tantrum of this magnitude was not uncommon for the young emperor, though you often wondered how a man could display such behaviors at the age of twenty and one. Caracalla was distinctly tender, despite his blood lust. His ego was delicate, easily wounded by Geta’s pragmatism and rigid sensibility.

“He wishes to be rid of me, I know it.” He sniffles, his hand reaching to fiddle with the pendant resting at the base of your neck. You smile softly despite growing weary of this routine.

“Don’t be without reason, mea dulcis. You are invaluable to Rome and all her subjects. Geta speaks without tact when he is cross. You must know this too, hmm?”

Caracalla thinks for a moment, brows knitting together in contemplation.

“He is unkind. It should have been him to suffer in the womb, not I.”

You can’t help but laugh at his juvenile description of his brother's malicious cruelty. Frustration flashes across Caracalla’s face as water threatens to brim his eyes again.

“Peace, my lamb. No more tears.” You coo, using a thumb to swipe away at the wetness—but it is too late. Your laughter invited a new wave of angry tears. He buries his face in your breasts, jeweled fingers dragging down the fabric of your stola. His mouth quickly finds your nipple. You hiss, resisting the urge to pull him away from your flesh.

It brings the emperor great comfort to suckle you. Geta had explained Caracalla’s affliction once before.

“Our own mother denied him her breast; she believed him to be cursed. Perhaps he held on to that trangression. He called for a wet nurse until the age of ten and two. My brother has always suffered from madness, you see.”

You had taken prior notice of this habit. After he fucks you like an animal in heat, he often drifts back to your tit, lazily sucking and nibbling until sleep takes him. You thought nothing of it until emperor Geta revealed it’s cause to you.

And though you had no milk to bear, tranquility came over the man as if he had been fed. Eyes closed and breath even, he plays with a tendril of your hair as he rolls your swollen nipple in his hot mouth—lost in bliss. It is odd, but you pity him. With his lips so flush against you and his expression finally at peace, one could forget the madness, the carnage, the rage.

Sometime later, Caracalla regains his composure, standing straight with his shoulders back, returning to a proud and stately posture. He crudely wipes the spit from his chin with the back of his hand.

“You will attend to me in my chambers tonight.” He commands before returning to the festivities.

[trulyumai]

to love an emperor

—: pairing - caracalla / wife! reader

—: synopsis - Caracalla the disastrous, caracalla the mighty. thousands would cower down and pray in fear of such a man, but you? you offered love and kisses upon the head.

—: warnings - none. pure fluff for the soul.

—: an - is it a little off character? oh yeah. but the man needs more soft love and I am here to provide.

not everyday was caracalla affectionate. he was moody sometimes— angry at you even when someone else had provoked him.

but tonight?

tonight he couldn’t stop adoring you; you had no idea what had gotten into him. caracalla was never this affectionate, at least without jealousy or a beverage involved.

“do you love me?” the man mumbled, it was muffled against your skin. his breath was warm and sticking to you without delay. “of course,” you hummed, slipping fingers into the crown of his head, gently guiding your fingers through the soft and messy locks.

instantly Caracalla folded, the candlelight bounced of his face and illuminated each shadow and crevice with purpose. he was handsome, you certainly couldn’t deny such a fact. his eyes were soft, a light pink and red hue danced around his eyelids as the rest of his skin lay pale and untouched.

his lips were a little chapped, proof of him picking and biting them after todays timeline

“—you?”

Perking up, your mind cleared. You hadn’t even realized you spaced out until the jumbles of his words came to.

“I’m sorry, my love, what was that?”

the man beside you shuddered at such an endearment. He felt so warm, so comfortable in your presence.

“I said, do you know I love you?” Letting out a quiet snicker, a nod was given. “of course, I see it in your eyes, husband.”

Caracalla frowned, confusion blotted his features. “My… eyes?”

Soft fingers glided against his cheek, to which he leaned into trustingly. A thumb traced the underside of his eye, gently tracing random shapes and letters unconsciously.

“Mmh, you look at me the way Dondus looks at his snacks, my love.”

He couldn’t help but let out a bubble of laughter. wrinkles began to form around his eyes from such a joyous action, however his vision never faltered from admiring your blushing face. “I’m serious! You— you do!”

“Angel, what an odd way of phrasing such a thing!” Joining him in the barrage of giggles, you slumped onto him, digging your chin into the crevice of his neck.

“You’re not much of a poet, even I could have thought of better,”

You gasped, with hands now holding you upright on his chest a mischievous glint was caught in Caracallas eyes. “You jest, husband, surely. I’m more of a poet than you could ever be!”

“Oh?” The emperor challenged. Already taking advantage of this new position, both arms wrapped around your waist, prohibiting you from moving even an inch away.

“Mhm! Don’t you remember the last full moon? The festivities— the worshipping I gave—,”

A big, warm hand stopped you from going further, covering the entirety of your mouth and a giggle burst against the skin.

“I am more than aware of such a night, quiet it down before someone hears you.”

Although the walls were thick, and no one would ever think of disturbing such high power; there was celebration below, citizens from far and near joined in tonight’s merriment and Caracalla didn’t need anyone hearing of such a frivolous act between the two of you.

Feeling particularly bold, a light nibble was given to the man. Startled by such a sharp pain, the hand was removed and you were (temporarily), free to do as you pleased. Not sparing even a moment, your lips brushed against Caracallas ear with mischievous purpose. “Don’t you want them to know im yours? Have me scream your name in pleasure—“

“Careful,” The ginger seethed, already shuffling uncomfortably under you. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, wife.”

“And who said I couldn’t finish, husband?” Suddenly, a grip was bestowed onto the back of your neck, pushing you forward until your soft lips collided with rougher ones.

Submitting into him, you allowed the pushing and shoving of his tongue, the way his hands pulled at your robes and squeezed each open crevice of skin they could find.

Caracalla quickly pulled back, a string of saliva followed suit and a dazed— hungry look was swimming in his vision.

“Angel?”

Your hands shakily moved across his form, undoing and untying his garments haphazardly.

A wet hum left you, you were so busy with the action you failed to notice his eyes upon you.

And how in love the man looked, felt while beside your side.

His eyes, half lidded and flooded with affection never faltered.

The way you looked in the moonlight, how the silk you were wearing was slowly dragging down your shoulders messily.

Your braids were undone, pulled in every which way from Caracallas hands—and your face?

Gods, there was a reason he called you angel.

No one looked as beautiful as you, and he doubted such a being ever would.

“I love you,” finally the words left him— shoved their way out like spilled wine upon cobblestone.

You smiled, big and wide.

“and I you, my love.”

[the-not-so-silent-back-up]

I guess the main difference between emperor Caracalla and emperor Geta fans is

Caracalla fans: I need to fuck this man senseless

Geta fans: I need this man to fuck me senseless

I know there are also a lot or people who like both but I think this is a difference between both of them.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Geta

I’ve already made something similar for his jealousy/ possessiveness but I like talking about it so much that I wanted to added onto it ngl. That and I went a little longer with this one then the others cuz I love him.

Geta is more possessive than jealous. Simple as.

While sharing everything with Caracalla has it’s downsides, but the fact that he finally had someone to call his own without the expectation to share you, only made Geta all the more hellbent on keeping you with him and reminding others that you were more then taken by him.

He doesn’t take lightly to people looking at you a second longer then they should or in a similar way that he does -it doesn’t end up pretty for them at all- and your left with the burning glare of his against your back as he silently seethes from his throne, his hand clutching the glass in his hand so tightly that you swore it was going to break within his grasp if he wasn’t careful.

Geta’s possessiveness always pushed him into decorating you in the finest clothes, finest jewels and stones across Rome in order to show that you were his and only his, reminding others that they couldn’t have what he was proud to call his and his only. However he was aware that there were men of such nature who believed that it didn’t matter if you were with him or not, you were still the one they set their sights on regardless.

Geta despised men of such nature, he once told you that those kinds of men were those who lacked a mind, lacked the favour of the gods within any vicinity of their lives and should be considered less then men for trying to take you away from him.

So needless to say you’d have to speak soft words into his skin to remind him that he was the emperor, nothing that is his could ever be taken away from him, not even you as you’d knew he would do everything within his power to get you back while making them pay however he saw fit. You scattered kisses across his warm face and caress the backs of his hands, pamper him in soft love and affection before his anger consumed him completely, all the while telling him all that he needed to hear.

‘I’m yours Geta, never theirs. They can wish for the gods to change our fate but they’re to ones who weaves our love into existence in the first place, for the gods knew that there was never a stronger force then you and I.’ You’d say into his skin as you could feel his heart soften beneath your touch.

Geta’s temper was a pain but not one you couldn’t mange, speak reason into him and watch as his hands grasped you possessively, kneading the skin of your hips as he pulls you towards him to press his forehead firmly again yours as his dark eyes looked deeply into your own.

‘The gods can’t take away the bond they’ve made between us, for that would mean to admit a flaw on their part but the gods never make mistakes, they brought us together for a reason and we should make good on that my love for no one can touch us should we stay as we are now.’ You added on as you watched the anger fade from his eyes.

‘You weave words in ways that’ll make poets jealous my love,’ he replied. ‘But I must agree that nothing will ever touch us should we stay as close as we are now, so let’s stay here for a moment longer while I have you with me now to love and to hold.’ He finishes.

‘What about Rome?’ You’d ask.

‘Rome can wait, I on the other hand cannot wait to taste you my dearest heart.’ Geta replied and all thoughts of his jealously left his body as though it was never there.

Caracalla

Dare I saw somehow even worse than Geta?

Caracalla’s jealously stems from inferiority due to always having to share shit with Geta.

So if he were to ever see that someone was within distance of you, it’s not something that ends well for either you nor the person whom Caracalla was convinced was the perpetrator.

The air is still and stiff as Caracalla would immediately take his place by your side, hand griping your side in a possessive manner, that you wouldn’t be surprised if you’ll soon find bruises from his grasp once you were alone. That is if Caracalla allows you to be alone after this one instance where someone got a little too comfortable with the emperor’s spouse.

The person might as well have been killed then and there or taken away to be killed later by the guards. There was nothing you could’ve done to prevent their death as before long Caracalla would be more than likely accusing you of favouring the company of other people over his.

Now you’d have to tread carefully and make sure no weapons were within sight for him to grab, or anything that he could get his hands on really, and press your case to him that that wasn’t true at all and that you loved him with all your heart.

‘Then shall I cut your heart out and see if it still beats for me even when far removed from your body?’ He’d then say and your heart raced but your face remained calm, collected as any other emotion will only make things worse for you.

‘It shall always beat for you no matter whether you cut it from my chest or rest your head again me to heart it closely as it whispers to you my love.’ You then say as you stepped closer to him, all the while watching his every move as though you were waiting for a concealed weapon to make itself know, but it never did.

‘Lies! You favour Geta over me! No better than the others!’ He’d scream, making you stop in your tracks.

‘Why would I favour him when I married you? Caracalla I’m many things but a liar is not one of them, look into my eyes and seek the truth for yourself should words fall short for your reasoning.’ You tell him as you watched him close the distance between the two of you and look you directly in the eyes with a look you’ve never been on the receiving end of. It was scary but you held your ground in hopes that he would see that you were true.

‘You choose me?’ He’d asks softly this time.

‘In every life I have after this one I shall always choose you.’ You said.

‘Even this one?’ He adds.

‘Even this one my love.’ You echoed.

Caracalla smiled and let out the cutest little giggles that you have ever heard from a bloodthirsty emperor as he threw himself into your arms, holding you tight as though he didn’t threatened to steal your heart earlier. ‘Your heart belongs to me, the gods will it so.’ He says in an almost chant as he pressed his head against your chest and closes his eyes. ‘Your heart speaks to me and call me with words of love, devotion and gratitude.’ He then says as you run your hands through his soft but messy hair.

‘As it should.’ You told him.

‘As it should.’ He echoes softly this time as you stood there just holding one another in a moment of peace that you’d never thought would come.

Marcus Acacius

Doesn’t nearly get as jealous as the two emperors, if anything he’s confident of your relationship to endure a few hardships outside of petty jealously.

However this does not mean the general doesn’t feel it tickle his heart whenever he saw that someone was getting a little too close for his liking towards you, but with a strong and protective hand pressed against the small of your back to keep you close to him.

He takes pride in you and how you can easily draw people in much like you did with him when you first met, proving it to be a testimony to the type of person you were and it was something Marcus admired deeply about you with a smitten smile and softened eyes that were always on you, as though he couldn’t tear them away from you even if he was to try. He loves his beloved spouse and nothing will ever change that and he could always find himself falling more and more in love with you at every possible moment.

It warmed his heart to see you talk to the children of Rome or aiding the elderly but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t going to step in when he saw an unsavoury character encroach on you while you were unaware. Marcus is protective of his beloved and he wasn’t about to let to leave you to be carelessly open to any and all harm that may come your way. The jealously is in no way aimed towards you as you weren’t doing anything to perpetuate the persons delusions that you were reciprocating to their advances.

Yet a flash of his sword and the unimpressed scowl upon his face was more than enough to deter unwarranted company. Marcus would do anything to make sure that you were comfortable as you’d always be a priority for this dedicated man.

So the man is not above getting a little physical should that be the case for your safety.

[hislittlesparklejumpropequeen]

As my emperor wishes

Summary: Emperor Geta and his brother Emperor Caracalla get into one of their usual arguments. Emperor Geta sends him a gift as an apology; you. Warnings: vaginal sex, kissing, bodily fluids, blood, creampie, mentions of killing, sex work, prostitution, drinking, oral sex(f receiving) emotional sex Emperor Caracalla x female!reader

Word count:3.7k

Non-canon events

Since the moment he was born, his younger brother, Geta would always push him down, get on his shoulders and collect all the power he could. For Geta, and for everybody ever, he was just a fool. A fool with a wicked smile and rich tastes that could be easily entertained and kept busy with other matters that did not involve any politicking. He did enjoy his time with his companions and wine and gold. But he could always feel the eyes of people on him. Those pitying eyes that saw him as an idiot and nothing more. It was always Geta who got to get everything in the first place. Best fabrics were shown to him, best armours were forged for him, most luscious whores sent to him, and he had the say in senate before him and after him.

He was so deep into this hellhole that he did not know how to get out of it anymore. His brother possessed all the power of Rome while he had to pretend to be busy with more foolish tasks. He took a sip of his wine as the cool wind of Rome brushed his burning skin and made him take a deep breath in. He was feeling the walls closing in on him and crush him in his chambers. He was wide awake in the night as their subjects were already deep in their peaceful sleep. As he was trying to bring his thoughts and mind together to find some tranquility from the voice in his head that kept him awake, the doors of his chambers were knocked. He sighed in annoyance and called out for person to come in. He wondered what stupid matter had occurred in the night so that they were bothering him.

His doors opened and he heard small pair of footsteps enter his bedchambers. Yet footsteps didn’t reach to the balcony that he was at. They stayed near the door and waited for him turn around. His aquamarine eyes looked back in wonder to see who it was. He was expecting one of the servants or guards that he had always seen in the place, yet it was young woman that he had never seen before. She was barely dressed in the soft looking, maroon-coloured fabrics that were wrapped around her body. Her hair was down, so different than the hairstyles that noble women of the Rome would wear, and he would see everyday. She did not have any jewellery or anything particularly that would show wealth and power. She was almost bare in front of his eyes.

“Your majesty.” You said with a soft voice that made him shiver in the chill of the night. “I’ve been sent to you as a gift, by your brother, the emperor Geta as a gratitude of your service to the state of Rome and your support to him.” You spoke out the learned sentences that were especially taught by your master. The smile on your lips made him part his lips and suck in another deep breath.

“Geta sent you?” He asked, echoing your words as he walked into his chambers and went to fill his emptied goblet with wine. You took courage from him not sending you out immediately and being calm, so you slowly started to approach him.

“Yes, your majesty.” He remembered their argument from hours ago where they both used hurtful words to one another. Geta knew him better than anyone so he was skilled in hurting him deep as he could. He knew his weaknesses and his soft spots. All his insecurities that he could not share with anyone, his secrets that he kept to himself and struggles that he could not get over. Geta was clever and he loved mocking him. So, it was not unusual for them to argue and Geta to send a gift as an apology after. He was gifted with whores many times. Pretty girls, pretty boys, common looking ones, exotic ones, well trained ones. Yet when you finally came near him, he looked at you carefully for the first time and he saw something he has never seen before, pure perfection. You looked at him with the gentlest smile he was ever seen, and your eyes were gentler than your smile if it was possible. He looked at your figure, your visible breast and curves that made his heart skip a beat.

“There is no other with you.” He said, realising that it was only you that Geta had sent. You nodded.

“Yes, your majesty. Emperor Geta chose me himself. Specially for you.” You said, your voice quiet, almost whispering as you got closer to him. You realised his knuckles around the goblet had turned white when there was only a step distance between two of you. His shoulder and arms looked tense.

“Why is that?” He raised an eyebrow with your words. Your smile widened when you took the goblet from his hand and took a sip of his wine. The little drop that escaped your lips trailed down your chin to your neck. His eyes followed the little, red drop. His mouth watered at the sight of your exposed neck.

“His majesty will be my first man, if he wishes it to be tonight.” You said when you offered him the goblet back. He took it and pressed his lips exactly on the spot you just drank from. The warmth of your lips was still lingering on the metal. He felt his manhood twitch under his nightgown.

“You never been with a man before?” He asked, almost not believing it. You nodded and saw his eyes shine with excitement and something you could not quite name. Something that look primal, animalistic that made him looked scary for a second. And for the first time since you entered his chambers, he brought his fingers up and touched you by softly caressing your arm with his fingertips. The touch was so light that you barely felt it. Yet he felt the coldness of your skin that was most likely affected by the chill of the night.

“I’m going to be your first.” He spoke to you or to himself, you did not know nor cared. He drank the last bit of wine and tossed the goblet somewhere you could not see. Then took your hand and led you to the enormous bed that was in the middle of the room. The sheets were not tidy, made you think that he had tried to sleep yet failed before you came to his chambers. You wondered what kept him awake. He sat down and looked up to you, his eyes looking shiny under the moonlight. He almost looked innocent.

“How does my emperor want it to be tonight? This servant of his majesty learned everything there is to know.” He bit his bottom lip when you finished talking and waited for his commands. Did he wanted to toss you around and just use you like a hole? Did he wanted to care only about his own satisfaction and listen to your false noises and praises for the whole night? He looked up to you again. The way you looked so beautiful and ethereal while you were looking down at him. Your eyelashes framing your enchanting eyes that were full of softness, your lips curled upwards and looking so kissable. He found it strange that he wanted to kiss you. He had never desired to kiss any of the whores he spent his nights with.

“I wish to-“he stoped and took another deep breath. You gently cupped his cheek and saw his eyelashes shake as you touched him. Your hands felt cooling and comforting on his skin that was on fire.

“I want to make love.” He said and a sigh of relief left his trembling lips. He did not remember the last time he looked so vulnerable in front of someone. He had always tried to smile without any care, pretend to not hear his brother’s cruel words, fuck his way into banquets and brothels, drink his days away.

“As my emperor wishes.” You said and the wrapped fabrics on your shoulders dropped to your feet with one swift move of your fingers. His shining eyes found your breasts, your belly, your loins and lastly your eyes again. He looked like a hungry lion, and you were his meal. The thought made you tingly between your legs. His uniquely pale cheeks were flushed red, and his breaths were quick, raggedy. You wondered if it was you who made him like this or his won infamous ‘madness’?

“Beautiful…” he whispered, his voice coming like a scared child, a broken man. His fingers found your hips and he brought your figure closer to him. His head, his mouth was right next to your womanhood, his warm breath hitting your pubic bone. You felt the force on your knees failing you, yet you managed to stand still. He opened his mouth hesitantly and his pink, shiny tongue touched your skin. The warmth of his mouth made you breathe out in shock. His tongue danced on your pubic bone and went down to your lips. His mouth covered your pussy, his tongue parting your folds and finding your clitoris. The tip of his tongue was playing with you cruelly as his hands were tight and rough on your hips. You cried out, begging him to show you mercy. And all you got back from him was a chuckle that sounded teasing and mocking.

He moaned into your folds when your fingers found his ginger-blonde hair and pushed his head closer to your little heaven. His nose and mouth were almost buried into you, and you wondered if he was out of breath between your legs. He slowly turned his attention to your already leaking hole from your clitoris that was swollen and throbbing. He dipped his tongue into you, collecting all your juices as his nose was stimulating your clitoris. The taste made his dick twitch and pulse painfully. You saw his seed leaking out of his red, tumescent cock that was rock hard.

“Mercy, your majesty, mercy!” You moaned out as he was still eating you like a man starved. He brought his face away and you saw your juices covering half of his face. His eyes were dropped, and he was breathing fast when he looked up to you again. You saw his eyelashes wet from his teary eyes. You did not want to wait any longer. You were so sure that it was going to be about his pleasure tonight when you were sent to him yet the moment he laid his eyes on you, you wanted him to touch you in places no one has ever did before. Your lips finally met for the first time tonight when you positioned yourself on his lap, in his arms.

His mouth captured yourself immediately, his tongue entering trough your lips and finding your own tongue without wasting any second. You tasted yourself on his tongue when he was whimpering and pushing his crotch up to you desperately. Your wetness coated his cock as he was grinding against your folds, moaning into your mouth. His hand grabbed one of your breasts and his burning fingertips played harshly with your nipple, twisting it, pinching it. The closeness made you dizzy, and you felt all the thoughts on your mind disappear in moments. It did not matter that it was an emperor that you were kissing in this moment. You were woman and man, aching, thirsty for one another. You were in your most human form, and no one could ruin this for you.

His lips traced down to your neck when his fingertips found your leaking, clenching hole that was trying to take something in. He started to suck and lick on the sensitive skin of your exposed neck as his fingers were playing with your entrance. Your arms were wrapped around his shoulders, nails scratching his back as he slowly entered one finger into you. You heard him hiss into your skin when your walls clenched around his single finger. The feeling was immense. You have tried it yourself before, yet your fingers were nothing compared his single digit that made you breath deep and quick.

“Your majesty!” You cried out when his finger started to pump in and out of you. His motion stopped immediately when the words left your mouth. With that you froze in fear. He looked up to your eyes, your eyes that were teary just like his own, looking at him with hunger and impatience.

“My name is Antoninus.” He whispered to you when he broke the eye contact and pressed his head against yours. You gasped when you felt his tears rolling down his cheeks and drop down to your collarbone. Your body was pressed right against him, feeling his shaky, trembling hands on your hips, feeling his hard cock against your entrance, and hearing him sniff. He was crying like a little boy in your arms. Was he always crying when no one was looking? You wondered. Yet you kept your questions to yourself and cupped his cheek to make him look at you. He looked so human with tears in his eyes, rolling down his face, his raggedy breaths leaving his mouth rapidly and his lips glistening with your shared spit. You smiled softly when your own tears started to spill, because of the tingly, burning sensation in your belly or because of the heaviness in your heart, you did not know.

“I look at you, and I see you.” You whispered, almost afraid of the ears of walls and ground of the palace as you took the head of his cock into you slowly. His eyes widened and he threw his head back with a sob. With that his back was welcomed by the mattress of his bed. In this new position, you took him deeper and deeper into you, almost sending both of you over the edge. And when he was fully seated into you, your toes curled with the stingy, painful yet addictive sensation that was building a pressure in your lower belly. Your spine arched like a cat when his hands found your hips again. He grabbed your folds softly yet still reminding you of his strength and lust.

You waited for a moment to let yourself adjust to his length as he was caressing your skin from your hips to your stomach to your breasts. His fingers collected the small sweat drops between your breasts that escaped the wind of the Roman night that was blasting into his chambers. He looked up to you like you were a goddess. In this moment, with his cock in your wet, tight hole, hair down over your shoulders, nipples hard and hips quivering, looking down at him with those eyes that made his heart skip a beat, you were a true image of Venus.

“By Jupiter!” His voice echoed in his chambers when you started to move, up and down on his cock. He held onto your waist like you were the last thing in the world. Your walls were stretching out to make a room for him in you, making you a crying, moaning mess on him. Your hair bounced on your back as you quickened your pace, the noises of skin slapping on skin filled your ears and the sounds of your wet hole squelching around his throbbing member made you blush. You felt him thrust his hips upwards, trying to not have any moment of his cock out of your heaven and the thought of him being so eager for you made you smile in bliss.

You could feel his balls slapping the skin of your hips as he held you by your waist and made you stop to only continue himself by snapping his hips upwards to your loins with an immense speed that made your eyes roll back into your head. Your clit was burning from the friction of his thick, light brown hair. He looked down at your joined parts and saw the small amount of blood simmering both on your and his skin. He pulled his hips back, ignoring your cries of displeasure for a moment to look at his glistening cock that was covered in your blood, juices, his seed and sweat. The view made his stomach tighten in ecstasy. He collected some of the spent that dripped down to base of cock with his fingertips and brought them to his mouth. Then his tongue licked his fingers clean as he looked deep into your eyes and dived his cock back into you. The scene that took place in front of your eyes was your last kick before your legs shook, noises you never heard from yourself left your mouth and your walls tightened around him painfully. He moaned with you and followed you not long after.

You pushed yourself down as he pushed himself up in the heat of the moment. Your skin and bones crushed into one another, and finally you felt his seed shoot right into you. The warmth and the heaviness of his spent made you clench more and more with the urge to milk him. He threw his head back to catch his breath. You were panting like a dog on top of him, walls still tight around his softening cock that kept twitching in you.

“Come here.” He said with a stupid smile on his face and grabbed your arm to pull you down to him. He planted a long kiss onto your lips as his hands started to caress your back with affection that you would never expect from him. You heard him sigh when you felt the cold breeze on your sweat covered back that his fingers were drawing invisible shapes on.

“It never felt like this before.” He whispered, looking up to the ceiling. You looked up to him, seeing him swallow down few times before he looked back at you. There it was again. That innocent boy. It was like he had two different people in the same body. The one that you had your arms wrapped around and the one that had lips wrapped around his cock as he watched people mutilate one another.

“Rome is ours, palace is ours, throne is ours, crown is ours, power is his, and yet you’re mine.” He turned to you and said, tears filling his eyes again. You blinked few times, not knowing what to say. You could feel his spent drip out of you as he was still in you.

“Sometimes I wish that he never existed.” His voice sounded guilty for feeling that way. They were brothers. They had shared a womb together and came to this world together. Geta was the first alive being he knew. They played together as children, trained with swords together, ran off to a brothel in the middle of the night for the first time together. He remembered the times Geta would take the blame for the things he did even tho he was the younger. Geta had always been braver than him. Smarter in some sense. He did not trust anyone but him. Yet Geta was cruel. Not just to others but to him as well. He wished to go back to times when they loved one another without any doubt.

“I wish he was dead.” He whispered not caring if you head or not. Then rolled over to the side of the bed to and closed his eyes. You looked at his naked back, the scars that were work of your nails were red and looked like they were going to stay there for few more days. His breaths were calm and steady, reassuring you that he was falling asleep.

“Don’t leave.” He whispered when he felt you move beside him. The words made you smile, and you went to kiss his cheek. After a moment of silence, he was defeated by his sleep again. You left the bed quietly and walked to the small table to grab a goblet of wine. After looking at this sleeping naked form for the last time, you sat down at the balcony with your wine.

The night was calm and cold. The sounds of birds that were waking up slowly filled your ears as you drank your wine. You could still feel his hands on you. His seed was dripping down your leg and your hips were burning from the marks he left on your skin. The small, enslaving soreness between your legs sent shivers down your spine, making you shake as the cool wind made its way trough your damp hair. You remembered your conversation with the man who sent you to these chambers earlier in the day.

“The moment you get a chance, slit his throat. With a knife in his room or a piece of glass. Anything.”

Macrinus’s words echoed in your ears. He wanted to get rid of the emperors and it did not matter which one was first to go. Would Caracalla get suspicious of his brother sending him a pretty, untouched girl as an apology? He did not even give a second thought to it. But did you want to do it? Did you want to slit his throat in his sleep when he fell asleep with the euphoria from your cunt? He liked you, it was obvious and if you moved smartly, you could be more than just a one-night whore. Would you be something after killing him and staying loyal to Macrinus that basically bought your master because of his debts? Would you be safe? Would you be respected? Would you be loved and needed?

Yet the man who became your first tonight needed someone to save him. Someone to save him from his brother. You got up and left his chambers like the serpent under the flower.

Next week, Geta was murdered in his chambers after an encounter with a whore. The same whore that you saved from getting beaten up for stealing bread from the imperial kitchens, the one that owed you her life. The one that you saw after leaving your emperor’s chambers and the one that cried and fought against killing emperor Geta. The one that cried of fear for the whole night as you returned to his chambers and slid into his arms.

“Don’t ever leave again.” Caracalla said with a sleepy voice as he buried his face into the crook of your neck and inhaled your scent.

“As my emperor wishes.” You said, remembering the girls frighten face from minutes ago and wrapped your arms around his relaxed shoulders.

[soolessgurl]

my type could be crazy older brother with jealousy/ envy issues against their younger brother..

[multific]

Wedding

Emperor Caracalla x Reader

Summary: Your wedding with Emperor Caracalla.

The day of your wedding with Caracalla started with golden sunlight streaming through the grand palace windows. 

You took it as a sign from the Gods. 

A great sign for the start of your marriage.

The air was filled with excitement and suspense, but none of it could dull the joy you felt. 

This was the day you would become not only his wife but also Empress by his side.

His Empress.

Not 'ours'. His.

Not his brother's, it was finally his day, his wife, his Empress. 

Your servants rushed around you, helping you into your gown. 

It was a masterpiece of fine silk and delicate embroidery, shimmering in shades of ivory and gold. 

Intricate patterns adorned the fabric, symbolizing unity and strength, a perfect reflection of your union with Caracalla. 

As the servants finished arranging your hair and fastening your veil, you took a deep breath, trying to steady the excitement that filled your chest.

The ceremony was held in the grand hall of the palace, filled with notables, senators, and important families. 

The room was decorated with many flowers, their fragrance mingling with the scent of burning incense. 

Caracalla waited at the end of the aisle, dressed in regal attire that highlighted his features. 

His eyes softened as they met yours, a rare and genuine smile gracing his lips.

When you reached him, he took your hands in his, his grip warm and reassuring. 

Your smile matched his.

This was the day you finally became his wife.

Something you have longed for from the moment you two met.

The after-party was a grand affair, with tables laden with the finest foods and wine flowing freely. 

Laughter and music filled the air as guests celebrated your union. 

Despite the magnificence of the occasion, Caracalla never left your side, his hand resting on yours or his arm around your waist. 

Whenever someone approached to congratulate you, he would glance at you, as if seeking your comfort amidst the crowd. He could get easily overwhelmed around too many people.

Especially when they spoke to him.

But he had you to keep him grounded.

"Are you happy?" he asked quietly during a brief moment alone, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

You smiled up at him, your heart full. 

"More than I ever thought possible, I'm finally your wife."

Later that evening, as the festivities began to calm down, Caracalla led you away from the crowd. 

Together, you headed to your chambers.

Once inside, he closed the door behind you, shutting out the noise of the palace. 

The soft glow of candlelight bathed the room in warmth, and you felt a wave of peace settle over you. After such a long day, you felt like you deserved it.

Caracalla turned to you, his expression gentler than you had ever seen.

"Today, you became my wife, my Empress... but you've always been my heart."

You stepped closer, resting your hands on his chest. "And you've always been mine."

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was slow and tender, a promise of love and devotion. 

As you pulled back, you smiled, the weight of the crown feeling lighter with him by your side.

That night, as you lay in each other’s arms, you whispered about the future, about the days ahead and the life you would build together. 

And in that moment, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together, bound by love and an unbreakable bond.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[s-lverwing]

DEATH KINK

pairing. emperor caracalla x empress!reader.

summary. Devotion between you and Caracalla is measured in blood.

word count. 1.5k (short one :3)

warnings. dark themes. blood. toxic relationships. slaves and concubines? weird relationship dynamics i guess. character death ? ig (not reader or caracalla dw). english isn’t my first language.

a/n. i don’t remember the scene very clearly so you have to bear with me. wrote this in like two hours so it’s not edited no nothing we die like the twins. please if you enjoyed this leave a comment, reblog, whatever u want 🐛.

It was no surprise that you, the recently crowned Empress, would draw every single gaze whenever you walked into a room; draped in the empire’s most expensive silks, your skin gleamed beneath the weight of Rome’s all gold—rings encircled your fingers, necklaces coiled around your throat and chest. Even when you entered the triclinium, side by side with the Emperors.

As always, you were seated close to Caracalla, always beside Caracalla, but never within his brother’s reach. There, you were often seen as a prize —though inaccessible— and a curse.

The scent of sweat and blood thickened the air as the clash of steel echoed through the hall. You weren’t even paying attention. Caracalla shifted in his throne, restless, predatory, his lips twitching with dark amusement. And maybe Geta did the same.

Then came the gladiators.

“Swords,” Caracalla groaned, his voice slurred. Childlike in its craving. His eyes, hazy with intoxication, shone with a dangerous hunger. “I want swords.”

He let out a mocking laugh, his ringed fingers caressing your leg with a pressure that could only mean he was far from consciousness; his touch heavy and unsteady. Like he was most likely trying not to slip away. The intoxication mixed with his own disease blurred his senses, yet his grip remained intense.

You couldn’t help but laugh, your lips curling into a mischievous smile. His need was so raw, so unrestrained. “A fight to the death! No quarter to be offered, or given” you raised your voice as a sadistic thrill dancing in your chest. You leaned against him, feeling the warmth of his body, the unpredictability of his madness seeping into your bones.

You loved him to death.

It was almost amusing to see how they all believed—how they fantasized—that you, a noble-born girl, now a woman, could ever hope to civilize a creature so deranged and unhinged as Caracalla. Kicked and left alone at such a young age, rotten to the core and probably to his mind too. Citizens whispered among themselves, imagining that love, care, tenderness, could redeem the blood-stained mind of Caracalla. How sweet was their foolishness. Their faces—so full of hope, of pity, such a beautiful lady trapped in such destiny—always crumbled in disbelief every time you spoke, every syllable that escaped your lips reminding them of your control over a man who could burn an empire with but a whim.

They fantasized about you being his tamer, as though you could tame what was never meant to be tamed, and cure what had long been beyond healing. The truth was bittersweet. For what they all failed to understand, or what they would never understand, is that you weren’t a healer of broken things. How could you explain that your heart warmed at the sight of him relishing in violence? His madness now belonged to you, woven into your very soul. And love? Love could never soften the edges of such brutal spirit—it could only feed the fire.

You adapted. You survived. You thrived in the shadows of his cruelty, and the power it gave you. You learned to enjoy and yearn for the taste of blood, the sound of a life taken with a mere word from your lips. You reveled in the control, the pleasure, the satisfaction. It almost wasn’t a mad thing under your eyes. It was an act of love. Even Macrinus, so quick to label you as bloodthirsty, so eager to brand you as a woman gone mad and turned dangerous, could never understand and always shows himself surprised.

The fight started and you had to roll your eyes at Hano’s words. It felt like an intrusion, a stain. It ruined everything for you.

While everyone was enjoying the fight, one of Caracalla’s discarded concubines—a slave you’d thought long forgotten���had dared to reach for the emperor’s knee, his delicate fingers grazing his upper leg with insolent familiarity. Caracalla did not pull away. Instead, his body softened, inviting the touch with ease, indulgent in a way that twisted something sharp and venomous inside your chest.

Jealousy came to you like a big black wave, something sharp and unyielding; carved from the same iron as the swords that painted Rome’s conquered territories red. It lodged itself beneath your skin, festering, until it became as familiar as brething—a constant ache you could neither purge nor embrace fully. It wasn’t simply desire or the hunger for possession. It was something wretched: the need to be the only one Caracalla turned to when the sickness in his mind became too loud to bear. To be the only one he desires and needs every single time. It often felt like a wound that never healed — and it never would.

He was pure chaos wrapped in imperial red—a creature of untamed anger, both cruel and relentless—but he was yours. Not because he loved you in the way poets sang of, nor in ways little girls dreamed of, but because you understood the shadows that devoured him, ones that fed on you both. Your bond was forged in the smothering heat of violence, in whispered commands that condemned lives, in glances exchanged over bloody arenas where human lives were torn apart for sport. It was a language you both spoke so effortlessly, the language of violence.

While Caracalla never promised fidelity, never whispered of devotion. He understood long ago he didn’t need to. Your understanding went beyond mortal vows, or words. You stills remember the first execution that had twisted your stomach, nausea clawing at your throat as the blade struck flesh, severing a life at your own whispered command. It was a slave; a gift from his twin brother Geta. The only thing she had done wrong was to stare for a second longer in Caracalla’s way. He’d found you later, hands still stained with blood, and kissed you like he was trying to consume your bare soul. And you had let him, because surrendering to him just felt right. Dreamy even.

By the second time it happened, for you it was a lot easier. By the third, you no longer turned away. And then Caracalla simply no longer lusted for carnal pleasure outside your marriage. You learned to savor it—the thrill of power, the satisfaction of everyone’s disapproving glances, the realization that you, too, could be merciless. Whispers said that bloodlust, it seemed, could be contagious.

And Caracalla needed you, as you seemed to be made from the same shattered pieces he was. You were forged in the same merciless burning fire, twin flames consuming everything in their path.

“Careful” You whispered as your hand shot out with precise cruelty, striking the boy’s wrist hard enough to sting, though he didn’t knew the true punishment would come later. Your lips curled into a cold, satisfied smile when you saw the concubine’s startled expression, quickly masked by a defiant laugh. Good, you thought. Let him believe he had won something. Let him feel safe.

Later, when the games were done, when the blood-soaked marbled floors had cooled, you went to Caracalla—not to beg, but to demand. You crawled into his lap, as you have done many times, let him bury his hands in your hair, and whisper what you wanted like it was a sacred invocation. Gods’ spoke through you. He easily obliged, giving it to you, not only because of love, but also because your voice was the only one which could still the storm in his head, the way you could channel his fury into something he deemed purposeful.

“Him.” Your voice cut through the cinnamon scent filled air. You didn’t even bother looking at the concubine—his fate was already sealed. Instead, your eyes remained fixed on the faces around you, enjoying the flickers of recognition and fear that bloomed like flowers. A sardonic smile tugged at your lips, as an unspoken reminder of who actually held their lives…

Caracalla was always watching you, always listening, always poised between affection and destruction. The small crowd of concubines and imperial guards, and maybe the citizens too, might have believed Rome’s fate rested in his hands, but you knew better. His power was tempered and magnified by your will.

Without a word, he reached for you, tracing the curve of your jaw as though in reverence—maybe to ask for forgiveness. His lips brushed your forehead. This was his acknowledgment, his devotion in the only way he knew how. You were bound by something the Gods themselves wouldn’t dare name.

He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto his guard. The command that followed was calm, almost indifferent—“His head.”

And when the concubine’s lifeless body was dragged through the dirt at her feet, Caracalla’s dark eyes gleamed with understanding. As he pulled you close, their breath mingled like a shared secret, and you knew you were his. But not because you had tamed him—as no one could. But because you had matched his cruelty with your own, answered his violence with your own form of devotion.

You would eternally consume each other—because love, in its purest yet darkest form, was conquest.

a/n 2: hi again i just love a reader who would match caracalla’s freak 🫦🫦🫦

[ekkkkey]

there will be games! (final)

summary: Cassandra, a quiet and loyal wife to the much older Senator Tiberius, accidentally attracts the unsettling attention of Emperor Caracalla at a lavish feast hosted by Senator Thraex...

warnings: 18+ minors dni, this is dark, noncon

word count: ~4k

chapter I chapter II chapter III chapter IV chapter V

«No woman could feel safe if her beauty or name aroused the emperor's curiosity.»

-Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars (Caligula, Chapter 36)

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Claudia twirled before her, showing off, stretching out her slender wrists adorned with expensive bracelets.

"If I had known Livia would send us such gifts, I wouldn’t have cried so much when they took her from us," she spun once more and, laughing, sat beside Cassandra, wrapping her arms around her, pressing her forehead against her shoulder. "I know you’re sad… About Father, about me, and… about your husband. But please, you’re the last person I have left to talk to! Don’t be so grim! It’s been over a year—you don’t have to wear mourning anymore! You’re young, beautiful…"

"Enough," Cassandra cut her off, her voice tired, her thoughts even darker.

A year had passed. A year since she became a widow. A year since her life was shattered, destroyed. It was true—she no longer had to wear mourning for her husband, and she could even remarry, if not for the stigma of a traitor's widow, the stain of an adulteress, and if not for the scars left on her skin, pale and inescapable.

Claudia, one of her younger sisters, had never seen the marks. Cassandra hid them, too ashamed to speak of what had happened in the imperial palace. How shocked Claudia had been when she learned that Cassandra—the luckiest among them, married, happy—was returning home in disgrace, back under their father’s roof.

Tiberius’ family had not accepted her. And she herself had no desire to live in a home filled with hatred.

But the girl who returned was not the same quiet, dreamy Cassandra who had left. What came back was only a shadow, an empty shell—pale, hollow-eyed, covered in wounds and bruises, with her hair cut short. Her father had known what had happened but had been powerless to change anything. Then, three months later, he died. His old heart couldn’t take it. And Cassandra blamed herself for that, too.

Without a man in the house, she had been doomed. But Livia, the youngest of the three sisters, had spent the last seven years training in the Temple of Vesta, and with that came privileges—privileges that saved Cassandra and Claudia from a fate worse than death: being handed over to some stranger.

Normally, the fate of widows and orphans—those who had lost their fathers but had not yet married—was decided by the Senate, sometimes even by the Emperor himself. Just the thought of it sent phantom pain burning through the place where he had carved his name into her skin. Cassandra’s fingers twitched, running through her short hair, tucking the strands behind her ears. He had cut those, too, to make sure no one would dare look at her, as if that had ever been possible.

"I’m begging you!" Claudia knelt in front of her, gripping her hands tightly. "Just one evening! My wedding, Cassandra! Rome is not a trap!"

Cassandra exhaled, pained, unwilling to listen to her sister’s pleading. She should be happy for her, and yet all she felt was fear and unease. She had not set foot in Rome for a year. The quiet, forgotten province suited her. She no longer wanted to see the world—her past had killed all curiosity in her. Everything had been peaceful… until history started repeating itself.

After the conspiracy of General Acacius and several senators was uncovered, a great purge followed. The ranks of Rome’s elite were drastically thinned. The executions went on day after day, and the Praetorians crushed rebellion after rebellion. The discontent had been widespread—many had loved the general—but steel was the best argument an emperor could make. And when the executions spread beyond the nobility, the people fell silent.

That was when Appius entered their lives—or rather, Claudia’s life. A newly appointed senator, he had taken the seat of one of the traitors.

The first formal meeting had sealed everything. He was too young for the Senate, but he had been utterly captivated by Claudia’s charm, her brightness. Cassandra could only watch in horror as history repeated itself… though there was one difference. They loved each other.

"Livia already refused me! At least don’t refuse me, too!" Claudia’s tearful pleas continued. "It’ll just be his family!"

Cassandra couldn’t bear to see her like this. She agreed.

If just one of her sisters had been with her at the imperial court, maybe—just maybe—things would have been different. Wouldn’t they?

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Rome no longer seemed beautiful to her.

The further they traveled, the heavier the weight in her chest became. It was only when they passed the Colosseum that she could breathe a little easier.

But just as her anxiety began to subside, it flared up again. The villa of Appius’s family wasn’t just large and beautiful—it was enormous. Green branches, golden and red ribbons adorned the already magnificent residence, proudly declaring where the groom lived.

Claudia was quickly pulled from her arms by the firm hands of the wedding matrona, who was to prepare the bride. Cassandra simply followed the flock of women, obedient and silent. The wedding had not yet begun, but the villa was already filled with guests.

It reminded her of her first time stepping into Senator Thraex’s home. A shiver ran down her spine, and she pulled her dark brown cloak tighter around her, telling herself that everyone who had once known her was probably dead by now.

"Ah, Cassandra! What a surprise!"

Appius caught her in a warm embrace, as if he truly was delighted to see her.

As custom dictated, the groom wore only a simple white toga and a pair of bracelets. His sharp blue eyes swept over her, like a man surveying goods at a market.

For the first time in a long while, she was not wearing black—the color that marked her as a widow. She didn’t look so bad, she told herself, if not for the short hair, barely reaching her chin.

"Appius, what a wonderful reception! So many guests!" She lied, feigning admiration for the sheer number of extravagantly dressed people in the vast, opulent hall.

Claudia had assured her it would only be the groom’s family. But surely not all these people were his relatives.

"Oh, thank you!" His voice was just as honeyed, though his sharp gaze noted her unease. "The rest of the guests will arrive later, for the ceremony itself. After all, my position now requires a little less modesty than before, wouldn’t you say?" He bowed to her with mock politeness and disappeared into the crowd.

The guests didn’t interest her. Neither did the villa, nor the wine, nor the food.

Cassandra retreated to the farthest corner, doing everything she could to remain unseen.

As the halls grew more crowded, the chatter louder, and the evening sky darkened, Claudia finally appeared.

The ceremony began.

Cassandra stepped closer. She saw her smiling sister, her head covered with a delicate orange veil. The same vows, the same rings she herself had once exchanged with her husband. It felt like a lifetime ago, though not even two years had passed.

"It can’t be!" A woman’s hushed, excited whisper sounded close by.

"I told you! Appius didn’t become a senator just like that! And he’s been friends with the emperors for a long time," replied another muffled voice.

Cassandra froze. Her sister’s face blurred, and the ceremony’s noise faded away, leaving only the quiet murmuring of two women she didn’t know. The happiest moment she had experienced in years was once again overshadowed. And once again, he was the reason.

The ritual continued, the lovers exchanged their vows, but Cassandra was entranced by the conversation she should never have overheard.

"Friendship, ha!" A quiet, eloquent giggle made her twist her lips. Could it be that her sister’s husband… "But who would refuse the emperor?"

"You’re lying! That can’t be!"

"It’s the truth!" More quiet giggling. "I saw him once. Oh, it was a sight! He waved to us, and I swear, I was ready to leave my husband forever just for one night with him! That deep blue cloak embroidered in gold, the golden cuirass with the sun shining in the center—"

"Which emperor?"

"Caracalla. They say he’s cruel and insane, but we all know those vile tongues." The voices grew even quieter.

"I heard he’s ill…"

Cassandra stopped listening. She didn’t want to drown in memories any further.

For a brief moment, she felt free, light. Her sister, now a wife, embraced her, pressing warm kisses to her cheeks, flushed and happy. Even Appius hugged her—more modestly, of course—but Cassandra forced herself not to dwell on it or on the conversation she had overheard.

Her sister was happy. And so, for her sake, was Cassandra.

Then came laughter, music, and wine. As the bride’s sister, she couldn’t avoid attention for long. Guests pulled her into idle conversations, politely avoiding questions about her husband. A few young men even tried to steer the talk into something indecent, but she brushed them off.

"What’s the matter, my dear lady? Has your heart already been claimed by someone?" He was charming and young, but just the thought of closeness with a man filled her with dread.

But dread awaited her ahead. The evening picked up pace, more and more wine loosened tongues and hands, and she once again felt nervous.

Something was wrong.

She blushed from a sudden wave of emotion, then turned pale with fear, hearing a piercing animalistic screech, high and loud. The fear was sharp, painful, as though her past had caught up with her once again. Conversations swirled around her, but she only clutched the silver cup in her hand, desperately trying not to panic.

They were here.

The play of light and shadow, the darkness of evening, and the flickering torchlight deceived the guests, but she saw him. He was just as he appeared in her nightmares.

His delicate features, a high forehead framed by unruly red curls, and beneath pale brows, those mocking blue eyes gleamed.

Why was she looking at him? Why was she staring?

Yet she couldn’t stop, her gaze drifting lower—to those defined red lips, the soft curve of his chin and neck… He hadn’t changed a bit, except perhaps for the feverish flush that now colored his face even more vividly.

A shadow shifted, and torchlight illuminated his brother’s face—pale, tight-lipped, dark eyes sharp, and furrowed brows.

The emperors were sober. And completely joyless.

Though Caracalla smiled.

He always smiled. She remembered that well—smiled even in rage.

Appius quickly made his way to the noble guests, gracefully gesturing for everyone to continue the celebration, all while taking turns kissing the emperors’ hands.

Cassandra cast a desperate glance at her sister, seated among the women. But Claudia didn’t notice—too thrilled by the presence of Rome’s rulers.

Yet the air in the room had changed.

She saw the way the lutenist’s hands trembled, how he licked his suddenly dry lips, terrified of plucking the wrong string. Gossip or not, many still believed in the emperors’ cruelty. The proof hung in the streets—rebels crucified and tortured, all those who dared rise against the Caesars.

Voices lowered. Laughter grew restrained.

After all, everyone only had one head.

"Hail the Caesars!" the crowd roared, and finally, smiles spread across the emperors’ faces.

Slaves swiftly cleared space in the grand hall. The young rulers took the place meant for the newlyweds, but it seemed no one dared object.

Appius, forgetting his young wife entirely, hovered around the emperors like a fawning servant, laughing and pouring wine into their goblets as if he himself were a slave.

Like in a dream, Cassandra watched them from the shadows, catching every gesture, every lazy movement of their hands. Caracalla was bored, the tip of his tongue tracing his upper lip, still sober and thus irritable. Geta, with a forced smile, nodded at Appius, clearly sharing his brother’s mood.

Her heart pounded with fear and dread when the young senator waved Claudia over, clearly eager to present her to the emperors. Caracalla sat up straighter, tilting his head to appraise Appius’s young wife. Oh, Cassandra knew that look—evaluating, languid, always bored and never passing up a chance for amusement. Geta mirrored his brother, wiping his chin as he studied Claudia. There was no honor in their gazes, only cold, slippery intent, but her sister didn’t see it—just as Cassandra herself hadn’t seen it once upon a time.

Appius held Claudia by the fingertips, spinning her in a circle as she laughed, clearly more intent on showing off than entertaining his bride. Caracalla leaned forward with a smirk, his pale, delicate hand, adorned with gold and gems, reaching out toward her sister. Without thinking, Cassandra stepped forward in fear for Claudia.

"Claudia!" she called out before she even realized what she had done.

Her fragile shield of shadow fell away as she emerged into the light. Appius and Claudia stared at her, puzzled, but they weren’t the ones who mattered. Along with them, those feverish blue eyes fixed on her. Her legs weakened, her palms grew slick with sweat, but it was too late—she was caught again.

"Oh, Cassandra, come here!" her sister called. Appius clearly disapproved but couldn’t object.

On unsteady legs, she still managed to approach them, feeling the crowd's eyes on her. And their eyes. God, she hated them both with equal ferocity! The fact that Geta tormented her less didn’t lessen his guilt—after all, it was with his casual approval that Caracalla had started this whole twisted game.

Appius introduced her, and she bowed her head in feigned reverence. When she looked up, Geta’s unblinking gaze met hers—he recognized her, how could he not, after all he’d witnessed? Her scar throbbed painfully, and she averted her eyes, unable to withstand the oppressive blackness of his stare. But it was much harder to meet Caracalla’s gaze… though, to her surprise, he clearly didn’t remember her. Still, relief didn’t come. In his eyes, she saw curiosity, a spark, excitement! He feverishly licked his lips, his red mouth curling into a smile, his hand tightening around his cup. Gods, had they truly cursed her, binding him to her, sending him to torment her again and again? He didn’t even recognize her, and yet he was intrigued!

Then Emperor Geta leaned toward his brother, whispering something in his ear, and Cassandra realized she was doomed. Now, recognition appeared on Caracalla’s face, and he burst out laughing like a child, patting his brother on the shoulder as if he’d just made a brilliant joke.

"Little bird?" His voice was hoarse, deceptively soft, as if they were old friends.

Claudia looked at her, confused, but Cassandra couldn’t answer. Worse still, her sister was witnessing this entire humiliating spectacle.

"My emperor," she replied quietly.

"It really is you!" He scanned her from head to toe, his mouth slightly open, never ceasing to smile, his obsessive gaze drinking in her face.

"So, this is your sister?" She nodded. "And where’s your husband?"

Her breath caught, and Appius and Claudia froze beside her. Even Emperor Geta stared at his brother, one eyebrow raised in evident confusion. It took every ounce of her strength not to break down in tears right then and there. Instead, she exhaled shakily and answered, "Dead. You killed him, Caesar."

The delight on Caracalla’s face was a mockery. He didn’t touch her, but she felt as if he’d slapped her across the face.

"Did I? Really?" He leaned back, spreading his legs, clearly pleased with himself. "So, you’re a widow now? What wonderful news!"

Was he taunting her, or was he truly so sick? She couldn’t tell, but judging by Geta’s heavy gaze, he was concerned.

"Come here, little bird," he said, spreading his arms in a welcoming gesture, and she obeyed, stepping closer. "I’ve never had a widow before," he purred, trailing his hand along her thigh, still sitting, lazily, almost weightlessly, touching the thick fabric of her clothes with his fingertips. Yet, she felt the long-forgotten heat of his touch. He himself, like his hair—blood, fire.

Geta nodded to Appius, who took Claudia’s hand and led her away. Cassandra wanted to protest, to reach for her sister, to beg for rescue, but instead, she caught only a worried, strangely hurt look from Claudia—a look that cut her heart deeper than all the emperor’s cruelties.

"You vanished, my dear," Caesar said, yanking her hand down and forcing her to sit beside him, at his feet, like some nameless slave. Long-forgotten humiliation flushed her neck and cheeks red, especially as the guests still stole glances their way. "I missed you so much," he whispered in a singsong tone, his ring-laden fingers burying themselves in her short hair, stroking it. "I liked your hair," he said, his hot hand sliding lower, down her neck, then beneath the fabric, nearly brushing her chest. But it wasn’t lust that drove the young emperor—Cassandra felt his tender fingers trace the pale outline of her scar, following the path of the blade that had left it there.

"Brother, not here," Geta warned, clearly uneasy. "Have you forgotten the uprisings the Praetorians worked so hard to crush? Leave her be—you’ve already taken enough from her, so…"

"And I’ll take her again!" A grimace of rage twisted Caracalla’s powdered, delicate face. He released her, nervously twisting the rings on his fingers. "Don’t lecture me—you, of all people, should know that, brother."

"I’m just asking you not to do this in public!" Geta relented. "This is a wedding…"

"If I want, our dear Appius will take her place with a snap of my fingers," Caracalla hissed, clearly displeased by his brother’s words. "Or, if I desire, his little wife will do."

She looked up at him in horror, silently begging him not to.

Geta merely clicked his tongue and turned away, taking a sip from his goblet. Caracalla, however, shifted from rage to tenderness, gazing down at her once more, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone, her lips.

"Missed me?" A soft, playful slap to her cheek made her close her eyes. "I know you did, little bird. I imagine you often thought about our little meetings." He paused, a sly grin tugging at his lips. "To be honest, I don’t remember our sweet little dates all that well, but no one can stop us from repeating them, hmm?"

Angry tears welled in her eyes, but they didn’t fall—she kept fighting to hold herself together. Her husband was dead, her father was dead, and her sisters… her sisters were relatively safe.

"You can’t treat me like this," she said, hardly believing the words had left her mouth.

Caracalla laughed, his laughter echoing through the hall, but the nervous twitch of his mouth betrayed that he was far from amused.

"Can’t I?" he taunted, his fingers digging into her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You’re a widow and an orphan! Who but the father of Rome would open his arms to you and offer you shelter?" But his touch brought only pain, and the look in his darkened eyes promised suffering.

Then his grip softened, his hand stroking her cheek tenderly, as if he truly meant to comfort her. But instead, Caracalla leaned in, his hot breath laced with the sweet scent of oils and powder, and whispered heatedly in her ear, "Now I am your husband, your brother, your father, understand? You are mine." His lips nearly brushed her temple. "Now you are my property, and I will do with you as I please, my dear."

A single tear rolled down her cheek, and Caracalla, sealing his words, kissed her forehead in a fatherly gesture before pulling back.

The music played on, life buzzed outside, but for her, everything had stopped right there. Caracalla, pleased with the impression he’d made, like a street magician, opened a particularly large ring on his index finger.

Through a veil of tears, Cassandra saw the Emperor bring the ring to his nose, inhaling the powder that filled the hollow space of the ornament.

"What do you like most about me?" he asked, still mocking. Geta grimaced, clearly starting to get irritated.

She wanted to say she hated him, that she wanted to wipe that smug grin off his face, but the fear for her sister’s fate was overwhelming, so she bowed her head and whispered quietly, "Generosity, my Caesar."

"Great answer!" He snapped his fingers and turned to his brother. "Hear that? I’m generous!"

"Of course she’ll say whatever you want," Geta’s displeasure was plain to see. The way the young emperor curled his lips, furrowed his brow, and tapped his fingers—all of it spoke of a foul mood.

Could Caracalla’s behavior truly anger him so much? The brothers quarreled often, but they always seemed a united front—so what had changed? Why was Geta looking at his brother with such tight-lipped disdain? Then his gaze shifted to her, and Cassandra understood. He hated her. The mere fact that she had reappeared in their lives and captured Caracalla’s attention infuriated him.

"And since I am generous," Caracalla continued grandly, ignoring his brother’s words, "I will be generous to you." The emperor extended his hand to her, as if for a kiss, but the ring was still open, and she understood exactly what he wanted her to do.

Cassandra pressed her lips shut, turning her head away, and the smile vanished from Caracalla’s face. Emperor Geta, on the other hand, leaned over his brother’s palm, inhaled the powder, and quickly wiped his nose. Now two pairs of eyes bored into her, waiting for her to submit.

"Who are you hurting more?" Geta said, licking his lips and leaning back, far more relaxed than he had been a moment ago. "You’ve been told countless times, but you’re still stubborn as a mule—or are you just an idiot? A brainless, obstinate wench whom, by some twist of fate, my brother lusts after? Huh?"

Caracalla hated disobedience and had no patience for coaxing, so he seized her jaw, pressing painfully until she opened her mouth and looked up at him. His eyes had darkened, and in the halo of red paint and the dim torchlight, they looked utterly mad.

He released her face for a moment, but only to scoop a handful of powder from the ring and shove it into her mouth. Cassandra couldn’t withstand the force and obediently opened her mouth, fearing he’d dislocate her jaw.

Suppressing the urge to bite him, she waited for the humiliation to end, but Caracalla’s breathing grew heavier, and he continued to force her to lick the bitter powder from his delicate fingers. In the end, he always got his way, no matter how much she resisted.

Finally, he stopped tormenting her mouth, wiping his wet fingers on her cheek and leaning back, satisfied, glancing at his brother with a wide grin that revealed a golden tooth.

She turned away again, hoping no one had seen. Fortunately, her sister was speaking with her husband, but there was one witness to her shame. The young man who had flirted with her earlier was staring right at them, and the confusion and disgust on his face were yet another invisible slap.

Caracalla sees him too, and it excites him, turns him on. She feels her head start to spin, her eyelids grow heavy, as the emperor presses her head against his leg, as if she’s one of his many slaves, showing everyone who she belongs to now.

"Who’s that, little bird?" His tone promised nothing good.

"I don’t know him, Caesar," she replied, her voice trembling, clenching her fists tightly, trying to think clearly.

"Lie to me, and I won’t be kind," he said, his fingers in her hair tightening, pulling, causing pain.

"It’s the truth! We spoke today, nothing more, he’s just…"

"Do you want him? Shall I bring you his head? It’d make a fine wedding gift, don’t you think?"

She couldn’t think. Tears blurred her vision, and her thoughts tangled further. She saw Caracalla’s pupils dilate, his gaze growing heavy, languid, his breathing quickening—surely, she looked the same, drugged and dazed. A wedding gift? What was he talking about?

"Bedding ceremony!" Caracalla drawled in a sing-song voice, rising and immediately stumbling, grabbing his brother’s shoulder.

The guests looked at him in confusion, as did the newlyweds.

"But, Emperor, it’s still early…" one of the high-ranking guests began obsequiously.

Caracalla merely snorted and extended his hand to her. And then it hit her. This was their bedding ceremony. He was playing out his own perverse version of a wedding, twisting everything to suit his depraved whims. The sanctity, the sacred rite meant only for Claudia and Appius, was trampled underfoot, but no one dared object to the emperor. They all smiled saccharinely, unwilling to provoke his wrath.

Caracalla was too unsteady to lift her himself, so Geta hauled her to her feet with a sharp tug. The moment she was upright, Caracalla wrapped an arm around her waist, pressing his nose against her neck, grinning lazily in satisfaction, utterly dazed from intoxication.

"Don’t take too long," Geta muttered.

Caracalla only laughed.

The guests echoed him, their laughter swelling to fill the hall. Only Claudia remained silent, her face drained of all color, watching-unblinking—as her sister was dragged toward the room meant for the newlyweds.

"Save me. Save me!" The words pounded in her skull like a funeral bell.

But no one would save her. There wasn't a soul in Rome who would stand against the Emperor, who would shield her from the emperor's hungry gaze.

Nothing from her wedding to Tiberius was happening now. No ritual, no solemn rites—only crude, mocking songs. The men scattered, whistling and shouting obscenities, as if they had already forgotten that the woman being taken was the bride’s sister, handed over to the Emperor against her will.

The women were quieter, but even among them, some did not look at her with pity. Some watched with envy, some with scorn.

All of Rome would know. She had no doubt. If she had managed to keep what happened in the palace a secret from her sisters, there was no hiding this. The stain of shame had already settled over her like a black shadow—right before Claudia’s eyes.

The tears broke free. She couldn’t hold them back anymore.

Caracalla didn’t like that.

His grip on her waist tightened as he leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. In that same soft, honeyed tone, he purred, "Smile, little bird. Or we won’t even need a separate room. I’ll take you right here, in front of everyone. Then, I’ll let them all have their turn—Appius included—while your dear sister watches."

He smiled as he said it.

She forced a smile, too, wiped her tears, and felt her legs trembling beneath her.

A moment later, the clamor faded, the door closed behind them, and they were alone.

Everything inside had been carefully arranged for the young husband and wife. But no one else would be entering this room tonight.

Tonight, it was her cage.

And in front of her, smiling softly, drunk and amused, stood her tormentor.

Her knees buckled, and she sank onto the edge of the bed, sitting stiff as a bowstring, clutching at the fabric of her clothes, her cheeks burning.

Caracalla rubs his nose childishly, pulls the laurel wreath from his head, sending his red curls into a wild disarray, then he steps closer and mockingly places it on her head.

"A virtuous matron you will never be. What a pity," he sighed. "But you can still be my sweet little pet, Cassandra."

Her name was another lash of the whip.

The crown on her head feels like thorns, heavy, as though the world’s troubles have been laid upon her.

"Undress," he commands, his voice dropping lower as he positions himself at the head of the bed.

He didn’t undress himself, but she could see—he was aroused. His pale skin was flushed, the paint on his face smudging as he watched her hesitantly move.

Her slowness irritates him. Like a raging fire, he impatiently pulls at the remnants of her clothes, tossing the crown aside like a worthless trinket.

"Why?" she whimpered, while he looked her over with delight, his gaze lingering on the scar he had given her. "Why me? Why are you doing this, Caesar?"

Caracalla stilled.

His turquoise eyes turned glassy, as if lost in thought.

"Why?" He blinked, his long, girlish lashes casting shadows over his cheeks, making him look almost vulnerable, almost innocent.

"Because I can?" he mused. "Because I want you?"

And with each word, he leaned in. His fingers wrapped around her throat, squeezing slowly, firmly,

He stared at her without malice, and that made it even more terrifying.

"Do you realize how beautiful you are?" he whispered, his breath hot against her earlobe. His grip tightened. "Do you realize how much I want you?"

His fingers pressed harder.

"The moment I saw you, all I could think about was how much I wanted to destroy you."

She gasped for air.

"You make me so angry, little bird," he murmured, his thumb brushing over her pulse, feeling it race beneath his touch. "And I desperately want to snap this fragile little neck."

She started to gasp for air, and only then did he release her, shoving her away with mockery.

"But not now, hmm? Right now, you need to be quiet, stop asking stupid questions, and fulfill your wifely duties, understood?"

She said nothing more, sitting silently, her head bowed.

"Well, no, this won’t do. This is a wedding, not a funeral! Is that how you greet your husband?" She didn’t know what to do and only raised her tear-streaked face to him.

"Turn around. I can’t stand tears."

She obeyed, turning her back to him, and immediately, he pushed her down onto the sheets, forcing her onto her elbows.

"On all fours, little bird, arch your back," he murmured, his soft palm pressing against her lower back, making her take the most humiliating position possible.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then a sharp slap against her backside made her gasp, her face buried in the sheets, quietly silencing herself out of shame. Caracalla, clearly pleased with her reaction, grabbed Cassandra’s wrist, twisting it behind her back, forcing her to arch even more and whimper like a beaten animal.

He takes her without warning, quietly exhaling with satisfaction and gripping her thigh painfully. Cassandra only lets out a stifled gasp, not even trying to pretend she enjoys it. Her body is ready to accept him; she’s wet, she can feel it—the drugs have taken effect—but her mind resists.

"See? Even a pedigreed bitch turns out to be just a bitch in the end," he coos tenderly, releasing her hand, squeezing her thighs even harder, leaving scratches on her soft skin.

From a slow, teasing rhythm and lazy purring, he shifts—harsher now, sharper. Her mind empties of all thoughts, as if it's not her hair being roughly yanked, not her shoulders and neck marred with painful bites, and as if it's not her being brutally raped right at her younger sister's wedding.

"Please, stop!" she whimpers, but he only presses her head into the sheets with his hand, continuing.

She sobs, breaking into a moan, a whimper, and then another shameful moan. Worst of all, the guests behind the door might hear it, but Caracalla deliberately pushes everything to a frenzy, to madness, not for nothing did he say he wanted to destroy her.

"This time, it’ll work," he presses his entire body against her back, squeezing her breast, his nails digging painfully into her pale skin. "Be grateful, Jupiter himself has blessed you with his seed." He makes a few more harsh thrusts, sinking even deeper, then freezes with a moan. His hand curls around her neck, forcing her to turn, and kisses her wetly, messily, breathing heavily.

Her legs tremble; she feels dirty, broken. Cassandra can imagine how she looks from the outside: covered in bites and bruises, with tangled hair and swollen lips. A whore.

"Now, now, no time to sulk!" he acts as if nothing has happened, his gaze still feverish and amused. "Now it’s time for your dear sister’s farewell, isn’t it?"

Cassandra understands that tonight will last forever and merely nods in resignation. She is dead inside.

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

She never thought she would return to the imperial palace. Just as she never thought that, at such a young age, everything she loved would be destroyed. Nor did she think that she would ever find herself in such a position.

Cassandra waited in the tiny room, more fitting for a slave’s quarters than a place for meetings. She gazed melancholically out of the small window, hugging her shoulders.

"So it’s true."

This wasn’t the voice she had expected.

Emperor Geta seemed out of place in the shabby room, too dramatic and pompous in his expensive clothes and jewels.

"I wasn’t expecting you," she replied coldly.

"I know." He looked her over with a sharp gaze, lingering on her stomach. "But you should understand why I’m here."

With a soft clink, he placed a tiny vial on the table in front of her, and in his black eyes, she saw the reflection of death.

"What about your brother?"

"Oh, he’ll be furious, but… you know, he’s quick to forgive," Geta replied in the same melancholic tone, as if they were old friends. She might have been surprised, if not for the circumstances. Now, he had no reason to hate her.

"So, this is the end?" A sudden emptiness filled her. She wasn’t sad for herself or for the unborn child in her womb.

"It’s salvation, isn’t it?" For the first time, he seemed serious, almost like the emperors of old legends. "He won’t let you go. Caracalla loves his pets."

"And you want him to love only you?" she bitterly smirked and took the vial in her hand.

Geta’s eyes narrowed, his calm demeanor evaporating.

"You wanted to die," he said harshly. "I’m giving you the chance. And even if you don’t take it, I’ll slit your throat myself. Choose, Cassandra."

Hearing her name now felt strange. The gods had played a cruel game with her. Maybe after death, she would find peace? She opened the lid.

"You’ll be buried with honor. I’ll make sure of that," he spoke of her death as if it were nothing. And in truth, it wasn’t. The gods had no interest in mortals and their insignificant lives.

"Please, keep my sisters safe," she whispered, tears flowing down her pale cheeks as she took a sip.

"I promise," was all he said before they fell silent, staring out the tiny window.

The poison spread quickly through her body, painless. She was glad it was Geta who had done this, that he had spared her the necessity of facing Caracalla. Her head grew heavy, and she leaned against the wall, closing her eyes.

And, as if mocking her, her mind conjured the image of the second emperor.

A crimson sunset.

Red hair, red robes.

Clear, light blue eyes and that smirk.

"See you soon, little bird."

⋆ ⋆ ☼ ⋆ ⋆

Hello, my friends! Well, that’s it, the story has come to an end. I think the final is quite logical, though I can’t help but feel a little sad about it.

But for those who enjoyed my story, I have good news! I’ve been deeply inspired by a new plot featuring our ginger little scoundrel, and I’m already finishing the first chapter of a brand-new tale!

Stay tuned 💋

[cherrysweets-world]

Eyes of the Gods XII

series masterlist - part eleven

Pairing: Caracalla x fem!Reader x Geta

Summary: You rise to the challenge set before you.

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

Word Count: 8.1k

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

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

This was, after all, your fault.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Caracalla- “you began.

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

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

“You left,” his lips curled.

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

“I came back,” you said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you pray for?” you whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do not,” you admitted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s for you.”

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

“This is for me as well?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sleep,” Geta instructed.

“What about you?” you asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How?” you asked, stunned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In a week, you would be empress of Rome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Romulus and Remus,” you said to yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Empress of Rome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you, Caracalla,” you answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could not,” you answered honestly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[mylittlepimp]

It was meant to be a marriage of politics, and instead she finds herself as the caregiver. Surrogate mother most days.

Emperor Caracalla is sweet. Often child like. Innocent. But easily manipulated.

Emperor Geta is not as sweet or innocent. He's often angry. Hungry. Fearsome.

Both are troubled and unloved. Both somehow lean on her, and only her for their needs.

Emperor Geta loves to show her off during the day. Parade her around on his arm, dress her in the finest gold accessories and beautiful fabrics that compliment her skin. She's his after all. His wife.

But by night.

Emperor Caracalla seeks her comfort. To be held by her, while he mumbles on and on about how mean Geta is to him. She'll hold Caracalla's head in her lap, run her fingers through his hair, and she'll listen to him.

These routines have been going on for years.

Until Emperor Geta finds out that is.

Emperor Geta shouts at his brother, screaming at him like a rabid hound to stay away from his wife!

Emperor Caracalla is reduced to tears, begging on his knees to stay around her. He doesn't want to lose his only lifeline to the care, the love, and the longing he so desperately desires.

Emperor Geta throws his cup of wine at his brother. He won't hear of it. His brother's tears mean nothing to him. His begging pointless. She's his wife and he does not share with anyone!

(I don't know where that came from but I had to write it down)

[trulyumai]

Festivities of Saturnalia

pairing: caracalla / wife! reader

description: The Roman’s didn’t have Christmas; however they did have Saturnalia. With plenty of food, wine and presents, the festivities had begun.

warnings: none. so much fluff you’ll be buried in a soft, comforting cloud.

a-n: i love writing for this man so im glad y’all love reading it! enjoooooooy~

you didn’t mind the return of the festivities. Saturnalia; the festival held for the God of Saturn. It usually lasted a week, but with how the twins acted, it went for about two.

tables upon tables were situated in the main temple, almost everyone throughout Rome would show up in custom with vintage wines, aged cheeses and gifts aplenty for their loved ones.

you were no different. with two goblets in your palms and a semi-wrapped present under the meat of your arm, you made your way through the bustling crowd.

cheers and sounds of merriment were all around, a light break in the hustling environment helped you guide seamlessly towards the private section.

Where the emperors section lay tucked into the corner. Candles were spread out by the area, lighting it up beautifully while green foliage surrounded the offered foods.

“Ah, look who it is.” Placing the glasses gently, your thumbs brushed against the wooden table, with lidded eyes you smiled at Geta. “Good merriement to you too, my lord.”

The taller man scoffed, veiny hands smoothed over his mouth, wiping the stain and aroma of a bittersweet wine. His robes were ornate, gold lay about the seams as a white and red scheme took over the vastness of silk.

“Looking for your lover?”

Rolling your eyes, you sat down just beside him. Slumping forward with one arm pressed against a cheek, a sigh escaped quickly. “How’d you know?”

“Like it isn’t obvious,” gesturing to his drink, a servant dipped a bottle forward, filling Geta’s chalice completely.

The woman looked at you expectedly, already inching the beverage towards the empty cup.

“That’s alright,” you smiled, “see if anyone else needs their fill.”

The lady bowed, already on her way to the tables beside your own.

Swirling the marooned stained liquid around, a bored look crossed the emperors face before he spoke again.“So, what did you get my adoring brother? A robe, new rings… perhaps another disgusting pet to lay upon his shoulders?”

A laugh, warm and light broke out of you and Geta joined in smoothly. “No, no Dondus Jr,” nervously you brushed your hair back, little baby hairs escaped the tight braids and already you wanted to fix it.

“I got him something he’s been wanting actually.”

“Oh?” Geta leaned forward, his array of jewelery shined bright against the light. “And what would that be, dear one?”

Glaring jokingly at the ginger, you couldn’t help but return a moody tone back, shoving against his snoopy nature. “Well, wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I would, actually—“

“Angel!” Even through such a loud setting, his voice could be distinguished. Cranking your head up, you noticed the wrinkled clothing, the mess of hair placed upon such a pale head.

Your adoring husband.

“Finally,” Geta called out, tone flat and certain.

“I thought you were skipping such celebrations, we almost gave up hope!”

Caracalla, ignoring his brothers pokes, went straight for you. Not having time to stand, you smiled brightly up at the man, already he was placing a kiss upon the crown of your head, and one more on your temple.

Although he looked messy— seemed unfit for such an occasion, the man came with gifts. Two were perched precariously in his hands as a grin overtook his features.

“Angel, you left without me! I told you I had to get ready.”

“We both couldn’t be seen late, my love. It is unbecoming.” A whine, pitched and high left the man’s pouting lips. “Who cares? Not like they’ll say something.”

Caracalla gestured for you to stand and with no fight at all you did just that. Now, with access to a free and warm chair (thanks to you), the emperor crashed down, it was then that Dondus inched their way out from the back of his head, crying out to their owner for such an unexpected action.

“Hello little one,” you cooed, your arm came out for the little creature, to which they took most excitedly.

“Wife,” Caracalla whined. “Come, sit!” Spreading his legs, the twinned emperor made room for your frame.

“Gods,” a look of disgust was thrown your way. “Do you two have to be so touchy all of the time?”

“Yes,”

“Of course!”

The both of you coherently called out as Caracalla brushed his nose upon the smooth skin of your neck, just where the dress dipped down.

“I got you something,” you sung teasingly, your nails climbed their way up his arm until it met with his soft jaw. “You did?!”

“Mhm, well, technically I got you two things but,” leaning in, you had to whisper gently with lips just grazing his ear.

“You’ll have to get the other one tonight,”

Caracalla grunted out, although it sounded more like a muffled moan, his hands dug into your hips and with reddened cheeks he looked anywhere but you.

“Do you want the other one now?” You questioned,brushing past his unruly bangs.

“Yes— please,” already the man knew what present was his and grabbed at with with callous hands.

“Calla— patience!” Interrupted by a laugh you tried to slow the man down, but already the present was unwrapped and the emperors hands stilled.

“You didn’t.”

“I did!”

Geta leaned over the table, the wine in his hand dribbled over the side but it couldn’t be more forgotten.

“Impressive.” His brother spoke, eyeing the gift suspiciously.

It was a small knife, no bigger than a dagger but the ornate design made up for it. With a golden handle, white and yellow jewels go vertically up the sides, to where the silver, shined blade lay on display.

“You— how did you..” His eyes noticed an inscription, on the butt of the blade lay his initials, purposefully dug in with the skill of a smith.

“Happy Saturnalia, my love.” A kiss was placed upon his cheek, smudging a light red upon the man’s skin.

Geta lost interest completely, instead his attention turned towards the citizens bickering in the middle of the hall— pushing and shoving each other while accusations were being thrown. A contented, deep grin entered his face when a punch was thrown, then two.

“Your turn, Angel!” Finally out of his stupor, Caracalla placed a poorly wrapped box in your hands. It was long and small in width, only a fool couldn’t tell what such an item was but you held a look of surprise none the less.

“Mmmmh, what could it be?” Long nails felt there way under the material of the gift, until the top was lifted and removed.

Gods, you really were surprised now.

Shakily, your fingers glided against the stones of the jewelry, you couldn’t believe just how many jeweles lay upon the golden chain.

You were afraid to even remove it.

“Do you like it?” Nervously, your husband chewed at his lips, his palms now itching with sweat placed themselves on either side of you.

Afraid to even touch your figure with such tainted skin.

“I love it! Are you joking? I— I don’t deserve such a gift, my love, I—“

“Angel! What nonsense,” he growled, offended of such an exchange of words. Hastily the man grabbed the necklace, you bit back a worried garble of noises as the cold chain found its way on your neck.

“You’re the most beautiful woman in Rome, you of all people deserve such an item. It was made just for you.” Finishing up, the necklace was placed just right, not too tight but sturdy enough to be placed above your collarbones.

“Thank you, darling,” you mumbled. Caracalla laughed at your embarrassed figure, his long fingers brushed back the hair hiding your face.

“Always so humble, angel. Look at you,” cooing, Caracalla caressed your reddened cheeks and you tried to scold the man, push him away with a gentle shove but it didn’t deter the man one bit.

“And where’s my little gift, brother? I gave you yours already.” Annoyed by the interruption, Caracalla pointed at the other gift beside his goblet.

“Have at it, Dundus picked this one out for you brother.”

“Very funny.” Geta squinted, picking up the box with hesitancy.

….

“It wasn’t a joke, brother.”

[djotime-allthetime]

Freaky Red Carpet

synopsis: your final red carpet appearance with fred for gladiator ii. (your first public appearance as a couple?)

wc: 4k+

warnings: rpf! reader is specified to be inexperienced!

a/n: same general vibes as the last one but more introspective ig, but we go into more specifics here as well as some backstory.

italics are supposed to be comments under tiktok clips of the premiere. feedback is writer's fuel!

cross posted on AO3

<<previous part

The screams and chaos of the premiere crashed over you as you stepped out of the car, a security guard’s hand reached for yours to steady you. This was it, the final big event. Even though it wasn’t over just yet, the nostalgia was creeping in, soft but persistent.

“Hey, pretty girl.” Fred’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts. He stood only a few steps ahead of you, having just arrived himself. Your gaze softened, lingering on Fred, oblivious to the cameras snapping away. “You look…” His gaze dipped once—then again—tracing your figure. A soft, unguarded smile tugged at his lips, as if he didn’t realize he was doing it. As if he was completely enraptured by you. “You’re stunning, you know that?”

The ability to speak escaped you for only a moment, the words caught in your throat. “...Fred, you can’t-”

“No, I’m serious.” He shook his head, eyebrows raised. He walked forward and placed his hands on your shoulders, holding you in place to continue studying you, as if he was in awe. “Look at you.” His eyes finally found yours again. “You’re gorgeous, y/n.”

“Thank you.” The words felt stronger than your voice. You weren’t insecure—you knew you looked good tonight. But having someone say it like that—having Fred say it like that, like he couldn’t even keep the thought to himself—it nearly brought you to tears.

A deafening roar of cameras and voices dragged you back to reality. The glow of flashing lights blurred at the corners of your vision, and distant shouts of your name cut through the haze. You straightened your posture instinctively, smoothing invisible creases in your dress. But Fred could see it. He could see that small moment you tried to keep to yourself.

“Hey, come here.” He spoke softly, less of a request and more of a warning of the oncoming embrace. He pressed his hands between your shoulders blades once you settled into him, chin hooked against his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head vehemently, the silky smooth finish of his suit rubbing against your neck. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

“I made you emotional.”

“You always make me emotional.” You chuckled, voice light to keep the tears at bay, unsure why they even came in the first place. “You look incredibly handsome tonight.” 

“Yeah?” He asked, his smile and excitement clear in his voice.

“Of course.” You pulled away and jerked your chin at his outfit. “We’re almost matching.”

With a quick second look at the color scheme of your outfit compared to his, Fred’s eyes lit up. “We are!”

“I think Grant and Leslie set us up.” You squinted your eyes conspiratorially. “I heard them talking about ‘all black looks’ yesterday.”

“Really?” He raised his brows at the information. “Come to think of it, Leslie refused to even entertain any of my suggestions today.” Fred laughed it off and reached down to hold you. His hands smoothly slid down your arms until they arrived at your hands, interlacing your fingers together. “Come on.” He tilted his head toward the carpet behind him. “Walk with me.”

“Down the carpet?” You gawked, frozen in place as he gently pulled you in the direction of the flashing lights.

“Yeah pretty, down the carpet.” Fred chuckled like you were joking. “It’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

“You wanna take pictures with me? Like us- together?” You whispered to Fred, not fully paying attention to the cameras already catching every moment. As Fred’s hand tightened around yours, you realized.

You weren’t exactly hiding this—not entirely. Your blossoming relationship, that is. Keeping things personal and quiet felt right for both of you. But this—walking a red carpet together—had never been part of the plan.

“‘Course I wanna take pictures with you.” Fred answered, eyes soft but certain. “We worked super closely on this movie, y/n. I don’t think people will over analyze if we take pictures together on the carpet.” He shrugged. His words meant more than that, though. You knew he meant that you could do whatever you wanted. That you shouldn’t limit yourself in your relationship just because you wanted boundaries. Keeping it private didn’t mean keeping it a secret, like you were doing something wrong. 

“Besides, you’re my Lovie.” His voice softened, almost shy, like he wasn’t sure if you’d still claim the title in front of all these people.

Your neck grew warm at his words.

Lovie.

That was the name you and Fred called your deliberately unnamed character throughout filming. Caracalla called her ‘my love’ almost exclusively in the script. So it became your quick shorthand between each other. And soon after, the rest of the cast and crew called your character that as well. But it was different with Fred. After a while, it stopped being her name for him. It was you. You were his Lovie.

“Oh- Okay, yeah.” You nodded at Fred, accepting the idea of walking the carpet together, though still slightly apprehensive. 

“Yeah?” He asked again, just to make sure. And with another nod from you, Fred’s victorious smile lingered as his hand settled on the small of your back, sending sparks up your spine. “Gotta show off my girl,” he murmured, his hand pressing a little firmer into you. You weren’t sure if he wanted you to hear that or not, but you did. The way Fred could unravel you, seemingly without even trying, felt wildly unfair—like every tender gesture was second nature to him. 

He led you up the crimson steps, where the carpet shimmered beneath camera flashes and distant voices blurred into a roar. Your name and Fred’s were being called from every which way. Before you could stand still and face a specific group of photographers, Fred moved away from your side all of a sudden, his steps quick and fluid. 

“Fred?” you asked, instinctively glancing over your shoulder.

“One second.” His voice was low, nearly lost in the noise. When you turned, you saw Fred at your other side by your feet. He crouched smoothly to get closer to what he was after. The train of your dress. It wasn’t that long, but the small trek up the stairs had it all misshapen. With precise movements, he tugged at the fabric to position it into place. After he straightened it out sufficiently, he stood back up and stepped around his handiwork to come back at your side, arm looping around your waist to pull you back into him.

“You didn’t have to do all that.” You looked up at him through your lashes as your hands came up to rest against his chest. You adjusted his lapels in a subconscious attempt to return the favor, brushing away the imaginary lint on his chest and shoulders. Fred visibly blushed at your words, your hands on him, the way that you were looking at him, all of it. You displayed your emotions in a way that even he couldn’t dismiss. Not that he would want to. He loved it. Every moment. Being cared for so openly made his heart flutter and his ears turn red, it was exhilarating.

“I wanted to.” He reassured you, head nodding down softly, a subtle attempt at getting closer to you.

A piercing shout of your name followed by a burst of blinding light shattered the quiet moment.

The soft bubble you and Fred had built around yourselves burst, replaced by the harsh glare of cameras and the relentless hum of the crowd.

You dropped your hands from Fred’s chest, suddenly aware of how close you were.

But Fred’s hand stayed where it was, anchoring you in the thrashing waves of it all.

You turned this way and that, following the voices of photographers as they shouted out different poses they wanted to see.

“I could get used to this.” Fred spoke quietly, leaning down to whisper into your ear. 

You frowned in confusion and turned to look at him. “Which part exactly?” You asked. 

“Having the prettiest girl in the world on my arm.”

“Was this your plan tonight?” You couldn’t hide your grin no matter how hard you tried. “To kill me with compliments?”

“Not a bad way to die, no?” Fred furrowed his brows in faux seriousness, his mouth twitching in that way it did, a twinkle of mirth in his eyes.

You rolled your eyes with a giggle. “You’re a horrible man, Fred Hechinger.”

‘idk if they’re together or not and i want to be respectful but theyre literally the cutest people ever and if its true then theyre perfect for each other 🥺 truly wish them the best’

‘the mouth thing he does is actually the cutest thing ive ever seen’ ↳ ‘hottest. i think you mean hottest.’

‘look at the matching outfits!! i can’t! theyre too frickin cute!!!’ ↳ ‘its just all black lol y’all read into things too much 🙄’

‘we need a lip reader up in here 🗣️🗣️’

‘we love a man who knows the importance of the dress’

‘how does she just look better and better at each public appearance?!’

‘this is flirting one million percent’

‘either theyre together or theyre idiots, because this just might be true love’

‘we can’t assume that every interaction in hollywood means something more than it is, give them the privacy they deserve!’

‘what are they SAYINGGGG?!!?!’ ↳ ‘it definitely looks like he said ‘prettiest girl in the world’ there at the end, right?? call me crazy, but i can see his mouth moving so clearly it has to be it!’ ↳ ‘you’re definitely crazy, but also you’re definitely right’ ↳ ‘you’re right!!!! isn't that so relationship goals??’

Towards the end of the carpet, the rest of the cast were gathered to take a group photo. Paul saw the two of you approaching and his eyes lit up. 

“Took your sweet time, didn’t you?” He teased the two of you. “Been waiting all night!”

“Sorry,” you ducked your head as you confessed, smiling sheepishly. “Entirely my fault. I came late.”

“Ah, come here.” Paul laughed as he brushed it off and pulled you into a hug. “You look stunning.”

“And you’re handsome as ever.” You returned the compliment.

Paul pulled Fred into his side once you withdrew. You saw him whisper something into Fred’s ear, and Fred laughed and whispered something back, but you couldn’t quite make any of it out. 

When Fred pulled away, you shook your head at him with furrowed brows and pursed lips. A small way of asking ‘What was that about?’ Fred smiled and shook his head, ‘Don’t worry about it.’

“Alright, you two!” Paul clapped his hands, breaking the moment. “Picture time!”

“Do I look okay?” You turned to Fred, hand coming up to make sure your hair was in place. You were facing him now, your colleagues to one side of you and the expanse of the carpet on the other side. 

“You always look perfect.” He answered, eyes struggling to stay on yours. Always dipping down to your neck, your shoulders, your waist. He had to get a hold of himself, he thought. 

As you raised your arm to make sure your earrings were on properly, one of your bracelets snagged at the neckline of your dress. Nothing had happened yet, but if you moved in the wrong way, you’d have a horrible wardrobe malfunction on your hands. A soft ‘Oh!’ escaped you as you realized what was happening. Fred’s eyes darted from yours to your hand, where your eyes were fixated on something.

“What happened?” He mumbled as he quickly moved you with his hands on your elbows and simultaneously stood in front of you, making sure the scene was as difficult as possible for the cameras to capture.

“My bracelet’s stuck,” you explained, eyebrows furrowed and eyes zoned in on the tangle. 

His hands quickly covered yours, gently moving your fingers out of the way. “Here, let me.”

You rolled your eyes with a laugh. “You’re like my own personal assistant today.”

“Yeah?” He asked with a small smile, still working on your bracelet, glad that you seemed to be enjoying yourself even now.

He was a bit worried about you today, especially after he initially saw you at the entrance to the carpet. He knew the high of working on this project was coming down for you and he wanted to be there to support you through it all. 

“Mhm,” you nodded, “first the train of my dress, now this. What next? You’re gonna pull out a powder puff and take care of the shine on my forehead?”

“If this suit had big enough pockets, I’d pull out a plane and fly us out of here.”

“Where would we go?” You laughed.

“I don’t know, the Maldives? Russia? The moon?” Fred laughed with you as he pulled your hand back down, your bracelet and your dress back to their previous intact positions.

“Well, I already told you two that I want to go take pictures.” Paul’s voice broke the bubble that seemed to continuously form around the two of you. He stood next to you and placed a hand on your and Fred’s shoulders. “Hate to ruin the moment, lovebirds, but there’s only so much time before the movie starts inside.”

Paul pushed the two of you towards the spot prepared for the photos. Ahead of you was the rest of the cast, all lined up. Pedro Pascal, Connie Neilsen, Joseph Quinn, and Denzel Washington all stood together chatting and laughing. Paul went and stood next to Pedro, and Joseph made room for Fred between him and Denzel. You slid up next to Paul, feeling like it was the best fit for you between the group of people without causing another shuffle. 

Paul scanned the lineup, eyes flicking between you and Fred when his eyes narrowed slightly. “This won’t do.”

Without another word, he began casually nudging people aside, muttering something to Pedro, giving Joseph a knowing look. Slowly but deliberately, he carved out a space beside Fred.

A space for you.

“There. Much better,” he smirked, stepping back to admire his handiwork. He placed a firm hand on your shoulder and pulled you into place.

Your cheeks burned as Fred grinned and tugged you closer into his side. Joseph smiled knowingly at you and draped an arm across your shoulders.

Paul darted back to his place and in turn the cameras flashing intensified.

‘paul fred and y/n seem like such good friends i could cry 😢’

‘we all know paul has tiktok and hes in the loop, this man knows exactly what hes doing to us fred x y/n shippers’

‘HIM FIXING HER DRESS LIKE THAT? TOMDAYA 2.0! THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT THE WORLD NEEDS 😩’

‘guys! a lip reader figured this one out! paul: ‘you’re smitten and you’re not being subtle about it’ and FRED SAID ‘who said i wanna be subtle?’ IS HE NOT THE CUTEST BOYFRIEND IN THE WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD?’ ↳‘paul ships it, he’s on our team’ ↳ ‘and he was telling her how good she looks at the other end of the carpet, did you see?’ ↳ ‘at one point he even says ‘you’re my love’ and i just about melted’ ↳ ‘no he said ‘lovie’! that’s what caracalla calls her in that one scene! NO SPOILERS GUYS!!!’

‘FRED THE MAN THAT YOU ARE!!!’

‘i can’t tell if i want y/n or if i want to be her’

‘paul making sure y/n is next to fred during the group photo’ ↳ ‘did you see how joseph looked at them!! everyone ships these two!’ ↳ ‘goes to show how literally everyone is rooting for these two’ ↳ ‘so true! they’re the cutest couple ive ever seen i feel like a proud mom’

‘first he fixes the train of her dress, next he helps her when her bracelet gets stuck, then what? huh? i die? is that what these two want from me?’

‘never getting over the cast making sure theyre next to each other in the group pic, theyre so loved’ ↳ ‘you mean paul specifically lol’

After a few pictures were snapped, a coordinator in charge of the media coverage told you to reshuffle. They wanted a few photos of Fred with Joseph and Denzel, and some of just the two of them. Some of Connie and Pedro, and some with Paul as well. A mixture of photos that represented their work together on screen. And of course they wanted some of you and Fred, and some with Joseph. And the last group on the list was you, Fred, and Paul.

When Paul came to join you, he placed his arm across Fred's on your lower back, both of their hands now landing on either side of your waist. “Hey,” He smiled warmly at you. “You alright?” 

You hummed in confirmation. “Thank you for that, back there.” You tilted your head to the side, knowing Paul would understand that you meant how he made sure to put you next to Fred in the group photo.

“I have no clue what you're talking about.” He smirked, eyes fixed forwards on the cameras. But his hand squeezing lightly at your waist told you otherwise. He was so perceptive when it came to you, making you feel like you were an open book. It brought you back to a day on set. A long time ago. When the concept of you and Fred was something you were too afraid to talk about out loud in fear of ruining the magic of it. Your relationship was on the precipice, the very edge of friendship before the ocean of something more.

The day, you had confided in Paul about the very thing that led him to do what he did only moments ago.

~

“You guys are cute.” He had said, catching you admiring your lock screen. It was a picture of you and Fred on a picnic blanket. Paul had taken it the day before. Everyone on set thought it was a nice idea to have lunch outside. The weather was perfect, the grass was green, and there were butterflies everywhere. You and Fred took a blanket for yourselves, to no one’s surprise. 

It was the next day that you were sitting with Paul on the set of the Colosseum and he showed you the picture he took of you. You quickly changed your phone wallpaper after he sent you the photo at your request. It wasn’t anything fancy, his film was still getting developed, though he promised you loads of pictures from that once it was done. This picture was just taken on his phone camera, but it was just as beautiful to you. He was so talented with cameras, capturing each moment beautifully you could almost hear it.

“Thanks.” You replied, avoiding his eyes. It felt strange—this fragile stage of something new unfolding under so many watchful eyes. But you knew that would be a sacrifice that you’d have to make. Especially with how slow you were going with Fred.

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” Paul asked. You hummed in response, asking for elaboration. “Us watching?”

“What do you mean?” You asked, needing further explanation. He couldn’t read your mind, could he? Was he really asking about the same thing you were thinking of? Were you that easy to read? Maybe to Paul, you were.

“I know you guys are taking it slow,” Paul said softly, like it was a secret he wasn’t supposed to know. Your eyes lifted to meet his. “Fred told me.”

“He talks to you about me?” You asked, your smile evident in the tone of your voice.

“Always.” He replied, smiling just as wide as you unknowingly were. You and Fred were some of his closest friends on set. You all had the same sense of humor and attitude towards life, it was easy to find companionship with the two of you. And he wasn’t surprised that you two found love within each other. But he worried about it at times. “He always talks about you.”

“All good things, I hope.” You chuckled quietly, the smile ever growing on your face as you thought of what Fred might tell Paul in your absence. Maybe he mentioned your weird obsession with stuffed animals, or how you clung to his arm whenever the two of you went for a walk.

After a beat of silence, you remembered his question and your brows knitted in thought. “Why would it make me uncomfortable?”

Paul inhaled through his nose and looked out onto the bleachers ahead of you. “I don’t know… It’s just that- I don’t think I would be comfortable in your position, is all.”

“Why is that?” You knew how you felt about it all, but you always explained away your emotions. A bad habit, you knew. But you were genuinely curious and wanted to hear a somewhat objective opinion on this whole situation. 

“Just feels so-” He looked back at you now, studying you. Hoping, even, to see something telling in your expression at his confession. “Exposed, in a way. Raw. Like these feelings that really only one person should know about are on display to everyone around me.”

“Says the guy who had a first date on a live stream.” You retorted, the playful jab coming quick to mind.

Paul shook his head with a chuckle. “You know what I mean, dickhead.”

Your head cocked to the side as you thought of his words, truly taking them in. “I guess it does kind of make me feel strange.”

“Yeah?” Paul’s brows raised, appraising your face once more.

You nodded with a hum. “I’ve never- I mean, I’ve never really had a proper relationship. I don’t think I can even call this one a proper relationship. Not yet, anyways. And when I really think of it, it does feel a little unfair that what I always thought would be intimate and private is on display like this.”

“I’m sorry.” Paul spoke morosely.

“It’s not your fault.” You smiled softly, placing your hand on his. 

“Feels like it is sometimes.” He admitted. You shot him a questioning look. “‘Cause of the pictures.” He explained. “I just want to capture the moment. For you guys, not for anyone else. But whenever I point a camera your way, it’s like I’m pulling everyone’s attention to you with it. I feel guilty whenever you two are having a moment and everyone’s staring. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

“I think we’re asking for it a little.” You huffed out a laugh, squinting in the sun. The underlying bitterness in your voice didn’t go unnoticed by Paul. “It’s a bit dumb to try and start a relationship in an environment like this. Months on end on one set with the same group of people. It’s annoying to have everyone’s attention like that, but everyone else probably thinks we’re annoying too.”

“No, don’t say that.” Paul shook his head, his eyes sharp as he shot down your self-blame. “You don’t plan out relationships in advance, that’s not how things work. We’re not like normal people, we don’t get to clock out and go home when time’s up. We’ve moved to fuckin’ Malta, we film day and night. We eat, sleep, and breathe on this set. And if something like that does happen, where would you even hide it? You can’t! Not that well anyways… You guys are doing this well. Better than most.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, I do.” He nodded with certainty. “And I… I didn’t know this was your first relationship. I’m sorry. It’s not fair to you.” He apologized again and your heart squeezed. 

“Yeah.” Your lips pressed together in a combination of agreement and embarrassment. “But it’s okay. To answer your question, I mean. I don’t think- I don’t feel uncomfortable.”

“No?”

“No.” You shook your head. “He makes me feel safe—like I’m home. Like we’re in a bubble where nothing bad can happen.”

~

Tucked into Fred’s side, surrounded by the cameras and the noise of the final premiere, you felt that same comfort—like you were in your own bubble with him. There were still interviews, panels, and endless appearances ahead, but this moment felt like the end of something special. And you were grateful that Fred was here, anchoring you through it all.

next part>>

[gay-dorito-dust]

Geta’s kisses were strong, possessive as though he was intentionally making himself envious of the idea that your lips had been touched by another before him.

His hand could be found at your neck more often than not, squeezing it now and then as though to remind you of who was the more dominate one out of the two of you, his thumb would even caress the pulse on your neck to see whether he was doing things that made your heart work a little harder.

His kisses were hot and soft at the same time. yet firm and had a way of leaving you a little breathless afterwards. He’s a man that has everything and yet he still heavily influenced by human greed and desire for even more, so much more despite controlling an already dominating empire.

So to say his kisses weren’t also demanding for more and more of you was an understatement as he would always find the need to deepen the kiss, invade your mouth with his tongue after demanding entrance before taking complete control. His kisses didn’t allow you to be in control anytime at all, for Geta always needs to be in content power no matter what for he doesn’t like the feeling of being weak or easily overthrown in anything.

Yet let’s say after an almost successful assassination attempt on either of your lives, Geta’s kisses become more of a celebration of living, a reminder that you were both still alive despite what the gods chose to throw at you and how you both continue to thrive regardless. His kisses were also ones of relief that his reign got to continue but also that you weren’t taken from him unceremoniously, not that he would ever admit it to you but he wasn’t quiet ready to give you up just yet, not when he was heavily indulging on the taste of your lips and how nicely you slot against him.

Caracalla’s kisses were bruising and felt rough, rushed as though he was running out of time and he wanted to taste every last part of you before so, even if meant suffering through his harsh bites to your bottom lip and causing it to bleed somewhat before slipping his tongue in.

His kisses left your lips aching and had a lingering tingling feeling of pain, it made you wonder if the man smiling before you was capable of a softer and less intense way to express his innermost passion and love. He was, it was just extraordinary rare that you were led to believe you married a man whose only emotions was sadistic and lustful.

Yet on the rare one off occasion where he’d be feeling soft and affectionate his kisses became soft, almost featherlight, and tender as he scattered them across your jaw, neck and collar bone as though he was eagerly chasing after something as you ran your fingers through his fiery hair in content. His kisses were almost desperate to keep you with him, to remind you that he was the one you married and dedicated yourself to despite his inherent chaos.

He tries to prolong the kisses as much as possible as they varied from moment to moment depending on his emotions and where his minds was in during the kisses. So with Caracalla you were subjected to more lustful, ravenous, carnivorous as though he was trying to devour you or make you into one being through deepened kisses and painful looking love-bites that left you wincing upon grazing them.

His kisses were like fire but you couldn’t help but grow addicted to it and the sting that came from his teeth digging into your bottom lip, he wasn’t good for you and yet you couldn’t help but become more and more convinced through every kiss that you could help him, become his solace and safe space; yet you knew deep down that would never be the case but yet his kisses made you all the more ignorant to his more dangerous capabilities in other aspects as though he was slowly corrupting you with each and every kiss.