#emperor caracalla

[inseparabiles]

10 second showcase on how both of these dorks have the same laugh and it's adorable

[anyplaceisparadise]

Friends

Geta cannot believe himself.

He shudders but carries on, walking down the hall of the palace as dignified as he can. He keeps his eyes forward and curses himself for not making someone else do this for him.

There is a pinch on his arm and he lets out a frustrated huff. Looking down, he meets the gaze of the small, fuzzy monkey he holds. She chirps and reaches a tiny hand up to him but Geta frowns and keeps going. He has no time for this nonsense.

But, he thinks he’s doing a good thing. He’s been…worried, to say the least, about Caracalla.

How many times has Geta told him not to allow his lovers to stay the night? How many times must Geta remind him? One, two, three, four extra people a night- people that have not been vetted, people that only want Caracalla for his status and wealth- have access to one of the two emperors of Rome. And Geta just cannot make Caracalla see reason about the dangers of allowing his chambers to turn into a play area worthy of Bacchus.

And frankly, Geta does not want to hear it. The moans and sighs and peels of laughter, shrieks of delight and cries of pain seep out through the closed doors and into the halls and ears of passing servants and slaves. Word spreads fast throughout the palace and even faster throughout the empire. And Geta does not need to deal with the fallout of that too.

So he rounds the corner quickly and hurries up to Caracalla’s rooms. All is quiet for now, but it is only noon. Usually, the fun does not start until evening.

Geta knocks hard on the door, wanting to make himself heard. He’s certain that Caracalla is asleep and his brother sleeps like the dead. He gets silence in response and so he raps his knuckles hard against the wood again.

The door creaks open after a moment, and Geta is faced with a tired looking boy blinking up at him. Charcoal and paints stain his face, something glittery is on his lips. Geta doesn’t give himself time to even question what it is.

“Out!” he orders, and shoves past the boy and into the room.

He looks around, scrunching his nose. It smells of sex and sweat, the incense smouldering nearby doing nothing to mask the revelry that has clearly taken place. All around him are empty amphorae, where the sickly-sweet scent of wine wafts over to him. Jewels sparkle as they lay haphazardly around, ready for anyone to swipe. Plates and trays are stacked around, covered in pastry crumbs and rotting fruit. Clothing is strewn everywhere, many pieces Geta does not recognize. On a table nearby he spots the remnants of what was likely a small mountain of crushed rhino horn, judging by the leftover white powdery dust.

He takes a step forward and freezes as the rug he stands on makes a squelching noise. Geta does not want to know what he just stepped in. He slowly lifts his foot and shuffles to the left, bumping into a body he hadn’t noticed, laying sprawled out on the floor. The person grunts and Geta groans, his blood boiling. In his arms, the monkey chirps again.

 “Caracalla!” he barks, looking around for his brother.

He doesn’t care if he wakes everyone in the room, he needs them out and to never return even if he knows that there is little chance of that. They will always return, even if it's not the same people. 'Friends' Caracalla calls them, but Geta knows that bodies are bodies are bodies to his brother. It does not matter who is beneath or above Caracalla when it comes down to it.

“Caracalla!” Geta snaps again.

Geta counts six people that he can clearly see, all in varying states of undress, all piled near one another on the mess of blankets and rugs in the centre of the room. In the middle of the pile he finally spots the familiar copper hair of his brother and marches over, the monkey in his arms gripping his robes tightly.

“Caracalla” Geta repeats for the third time, nudging his brother’s leg with his wet foot.

His twin lets out a sleepy sigh, stirring. Geta gives him another hard nudge, digging his foot into Caracalla’s thigh.

“Geta, joining the party?” Caracalla finally says in a raspy voice.

“Get up” Geta snarls, giving him a small kick.

“Ow- what are you so-” Caracalla groans, grabbing at his leg. He rolls to his back and Geta closes his eyes; Caracalla has no shame as he puts himself fully on display.

“Just- get up. Get dressed, get cleaned up. I have something for you” Geta says through gritted teeth. As if on cue, the monkey squirms and chirps again.

“What is that-” Caracalla mumbles, but Geta is already walking away, tossing a robe at Caracalla as he goes.

Geta waits in the hall, pressing his back against the wall. A servant passes him, her head bowed. Geta watches her as she goes, praying to the gods above that Caracalla hurries up. The monkey is getting restless, and he tightens his grip.  

The doors open a few moments later to his immense relief. Caracalla shuffles out, yawning. He’s half dressed, covering his manhood at least, and at this point that is all Geta can ask for. Caracalla runs a hand through his messy hair and blinks up at Geta. On his chest, Geta spots a few red marks, a combination of lesions, skin picking, and someone’s mouth.

“What are you waking me for? It is so early” Caracalla whines, tapping his bare foot against the stone floor.

“It is noon, brother, I have been awake for hours and you should have been too” Geta retorts.

He can’t help himself. Part of him understands that Caracalla is ill in more ways than one. He has always needed a gentle hand and it has always been Geta that provides it. But Geta cannot stop the feeling of utter disappointment and sheer anger at having to be the one in charge. The sane twin. One emperor ruling for two.

“Here” he says gruffly, and shoves the monkey into Caracalla’s hands.

“What-”

Caracalla looks down, taking in the little face that blinks up at him.

“There was a menagerie in the markets. It was… a gift to us, from some merchant. She is young, only a few months old” Geta says, sniffing.

Caracalla tickles the monkey under the chin with a finger and smiles.

“I thought we were not allowed pets, brother” Caracalla says, his eyes glued to the monkey.

“That was our father’s rule-” Geta begins and then stops himself.

The air in the hall grows thick and Geta takes a deep breath. Yes, their father had never allowed them pet animals and both boys knew better than to ask more than once. But their father was gone now, so-

“I thought… I thought it would be good for you. Something to look after. Because I will not, you must know this-” Geta says, breaking the silence.

“Yes” Caracalla says, but he does not sound as annoyed as Geta thought he would be at that news. No doubt he would find someone to look after the creature anyway, but perhaps he might take some responsibility, some sort of accountability maybe…

“His name is Dondus. Or her rather, I don’t know, it doesn’t matter-” Geta says, suddenly feeling awkward.

Caracalla looks up at him. His blue eyes are shiny and rimmed red, but he smiles. It has always struck Geta how their eyes are so different.

“Thank you, brother” Caracalla says, taking Geta by surprise. He watches as Caracalla wanders back into his rooms with the monkey, who has already climbed up his shoulder. Geta stares at the door for a moment and then turns, intending to return to his own chambers. He wants to wash off the filth of that animal-

“Hail Dondus!”

Geta stops short at his brother's yell, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Hail Dondus" comes a chorus of tired voices.

What in the name of the gods has he gotten himself into with this? A deep sigh leaves him as a round of applause erupts from behind his brother's door.

[tightjeansjavi]

Double-Edged Sword - “Bite Me”

A/N: sorry it's taken me a minute to post the next part of this ;-; my writing lately is just not where I would like it to be, but try I must! I do really enjoy writing the dynamic between Geta and his Empress :3 she's his ultimate match and I personally think they are perfect for each other! Thank you again to my wife @johnnyst0rm for feeding my brain rot for these two & @songbirdmunson and @magicalmysterytour13 for listening to me yap! Thank you for reading <3 wc: 5.2k Summary: Geta learns about a vital artery in his neck...the carotid artery! Warnings: no smut, but heavy on the sexual tension and pining, belittling, teasing, degradation, no mention of age but reader and Geta are in their 20's, reader has no physical descriptions but is Egyptian and a direct descendant of Cleopatra, Caracalla gets his own warning (again) mentions of death, blood, wounds, (don't read if that stuff makes you queasy) Macrinus gets his own warning (who the fuck invited him to the senate meeting?) +18 minors dni! if I missed anything PLEASE let me know. Remember this is fiction

Pairing | Emperor Geta x empress!reader translations: anaticula - duckling vita mea - my life amica mea - my beloved amasiuncula - darling/sweetheart

Geta was unaware how many hours had passed, but he was unfortunately aware of how many times Senator Thraex had repeated himself in the past five minutes. The older man stumbled over his words and he swallowed thickly, combing his fingers through his hair (lack thereof). Visible sweat pooled along the back of his neck and his eyes darted around the room with visible nervousness. The eldest emperor leaned over towards his brother who wore a bored expression upon his face until Geta whispered something for only his ears and he immediately broke out into a grin, lips curving upwards. They exchanged a hidden glance, brown and blue eyes sparkling like a pair of perfectly carved marbles. 

“Senator Thraex,” Geta said in a smooth drawl, tapping his ringed fingers against the table methodically. He slumped back against the chair for a moment before he leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “Shall we call for a healer? You look…unwell.” 

Silence washed over the senators…and Macrinus? Why was he present? Geta could not remember. He was neither a senator or politician; he was just a wealthy man with a stable of gladiators at his disposal, and yet he somehow charmed his way into the twins' entourage it seemed. 

Caracalla snickered alongside his twin, eyes narrowed on the older man with scrutiny. His head cocked to the side, and he parted his lips as if he were about to speak, but Macrinus cut him off from the opposite end of the table. 

“Forgive the senator, your majesties,” Macrinus bowed his head slightly, dark eyes cast downwards to his clasped hands resting in his lap. “He had a rather late night I’m afraid.” 

“Haven’t we all?” Geta chuckled and his brows raised in amusement. He pushed himself up from his chair a silent signal that this meeting was adjourned, finally. “The hour is late, and as much as the conversation regarding trade routes is the most riveting, I cannot bear to listen to Senator Thraex repeat himself, again.” He was looking directly at Macrinus now, studying him briefly as if he was searching for something…for what he did not know. But something about the man caused him unease. 

Senator Thraex’s face paled and his lips opened and closed rapidly like a gaping fish. He sputtered out an apology, one that was silently brushed off like a pesky gnat on fruit. 

The twins were the first to leave the room, their bodies moving like siamese cats and their Praetorians trailed behind them as they entered the vacant hallway to return to their own quarters. Dondus had made a real nest of Caracalla's hair and chittered softly.

“Brother,” Geta said alongside him, his hands clasped behind his back, brows furrowed, a sign that he was deeply in thought. “Do you know why Macrinus was present this evening?” 

The younger twin shrugged and reached up to fiddle with one of his earrings, rolling the heavy gold between his ringed fingers before releasing it. “I haven’t a clue. Was he…not supposed to be in the meeting?” 

Geta huffed and dropped his hands from behind his back and twisted his rings on his fingers instead. He glanced over his shoulder and past their Praetorians as if he was paranoid someone could be following them. “He had no business being involved. He is not a senator, nor an advisor.” 

“Yes, but he is rich. Rich men always have their way of getting a seat at a table they are not invited to,” Caracalla said with a giggle, nudging his hip against his brothers. “You are so tense, Geta.” 

“I am not tense,” Geta hissed under his breath. “I am exhausted, and I did not expect the discussion of fucking trade routes to last that many hours.” 

“Ah, you are tense!” Caracalla teased and poked him on the shoulder. “Hopefully your empress is in a fair mood when you return to her. Surely she can help you unwind.” 

“Doubtful,” the older twin grumbled. “The most affection I’ll receive from her is practically nonexistent. She always makes me work for it,” he droned. “I should not have to grovel for sex from my wife like I am some common beggar.” 

“Well, had you not foolishly sent your concubines away…” Caracalla trailed off, blue eyes glinting under the torchlights they passed. “You would not have to grovel for your needs to be met. It’s almost as if you like it!”  He gasped, pupils expanding. “She has turned you into a masochist!” 

Geta’s cheeks felt hot and he tucked his chin into his shoulder to hide the blooming redness that spread like a rash from his brother. He could feel the prickling sense of shame creep up the exposed skin along the back of his neck as if his empress were there, alongside him now, whispering against his ear, hot breath fanning his skin and causing goosebumps to appear. 

My whiny, pathetic, little anaticula. 

His breath hitched in his throat at the sound of her enticing voice invading his subconscious. He could even feel the scrape of her nails against his scalp, drawing blood from how hard she would tug on his golden roots. His knees threatened to buckle. The sensation was so strong, so visceral that he blindly reached for his brother's elbow, clamping down harshly. 

“Perhaps you are the one in need of a healer, brother,” Caracalla snickered. “It is like she has bewitched you and casted a spell upon you.” 

“Shut up,” Geta whispered and removed his hand and straightened his posture. “I told you I was exhausted. Don’t read deeper into it. I am well.” His tone said otherwise, but Caracalla made no further comments regarding his brother's crumbling demeanor. 

“Well, rest easy. I, on the other hand, will be having the most delightful evening with my concubines. Tell the empress I wish her a fair evening,” Caracalla said with a wink and parted from his side to return to his own chambers, his Praetorians peeling off from Geta’s. 

The eldest emperor muttered something under his breath, shaking his head and marched forward down the hall. Outside of his and the empress’s chamber he paused behind the door. What version of her would greet him tonight? He wondered. She was always hot and cold; unpredictable. He loved it. He loved her. He wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

He pushed open the door and addressed his Praetorians with a curt nod before he slipped inside and let the ornate carved wood swing shut behind him. He expected that she would be asleep by now, but their bed was still perfectly made up and untouched. Candles flickered from the bedside tables and he was greeted with the scent of incense burning; frankincense. 

“Empress?” He called for her as he strode further into the room. He was greeted with…nothing. If he wasn’t tense and wound up before now he truly was. If the meeting hadn’t stretched for as long as it had, maybe he would have been calm and thinking sensibly, but that was not the case. 

“I am not in the mood for games tonight,” he muttered to himself and made quick, almost frantic steps around the general area. First going to the attached balcony because he knew she liked to sit and stargaze on clear nights, but she was not there either. He loudly cursed, causing a grouping of birds to scatter at the sound of his booming voice. 

He called for her again as he whipped around on his heel, his footsteps heavy along the marble flooring. Had he taken a moment to breathe and collect himself, he would have noticed that his wife was directly to his left when he first walked into their room…but the emperor did not know the art of collecting oneself from crashing out. 

The empress had been practicing her calligraphy at her little vanity area, and when the emperor strode in, calling for her in that desperate tone of his, she couldn’t help but sit back and watch silently. 

The fool. She mused to herself. 

Had she not revealed herself with the faintest giggle, he would have torn up the entire room to find her. 

“HAVE YOU BEEN THERE THE ENTIRE TIME?!” He screeched from where he stood, bewildered at the sound of her ringing giggle coming from the opposite end of their massive living quarters. His skin was flushed, and his hair appeared disheveled from where he had raked his fingers through it frantically. 

The empress folded her hands to rest against her chin, staring at him unnervingly. “The entire time, yes,” she echoed his words with a curved grin appearing on her lips. Her wedding band winked at him under candlelight almost condescendingly—mockingly. 

“And you thought…to say nothing?” he crossed his arms over his chest, feeling his heartbeat still racing out of his rib cage. “Instead you just sat there and watched me make a fool of myself?” He huffed and dropped his arms and flopped down against the edge of the duvet dramatically. 

She rolled her eyes at his theatrics and set her pen down alongside the parchment and stood up. “I enjoyed watching you lose your mind, husband. It was rather entertaining to watch you turn to a state of panic.” 

He sat up almost immediately from the duvet, umber eyes narrowing at her unnervingly calm appearance. “When I call for you, I expect you to answer,” he said firmly. There he was. All bark and no bite, right on schedule. 

She laughed at this because he was just too predictable when he got into one of these mood swings where he experienced a delusion of grandeur where he actually believed he had a semblance of control over her. 

“What am I, your dog?” She scoffed and walked over to where he was sitting, his thighs falling open naturally at her approach as if on command. 

“You heard me, amica mea. I call for you and you answer. Do we have an understanding?” he said with an arched brow, his stern gaze beginning to falter and weaken when she had come to stand between his spread thighs and leaned down over him, her hands coming to rest against his shoulders. Her touch immediately sent a spark of flames igniting under his finely crafted dress robe. 

“No,” she said coolly, and then she slowly lowered herself into his lap much to his surprise. “Anaticula,” she hummed and moved one of her hands from his shoulders and brought it towards his head. At first he thought the gesture was to comfort him, and he imagined her raking her fingers through his golden tresses, but instead she did the unthinkable; she wretched his laurels from their place upon his head and tossed them to the floor, far from his reach. The crown clattered against the marble, bouncing once before it rolled to the opposite side of the room. “What was that you were saying just now?” 

His mouth ran dry as he watched the symbol of his power discarded in such a deliberate and careless fashion. He should have struck her then and put her in her rightful place, but before he could even raise his hand, she was grabbing his wrists and throwing them above his head, pinning them to the mattress. He could easily overpower her, but he was too stunned to move and it felt as if he was locked under her gaze, frozen and trapped. “I answer when I choose to, husband,” she said just above a whisper. 

“I should reprimand you, wife, for your bold actions,” he snarled through clenched teeth. “How dare you remove my crown. How dare you disrespect me. How dare you not answer when I call for you. How dare you—”

His words were lodged in his throat like an obstruction in his airway when she slipped her freehand down between their bodies where his thighs were still slightly spread beneath her and pushed open the fabric there with no resistance. She was surprised to find him bare beneath her touch—that was more Caracalla’s style. As soon as her nimble fingers were wrapped around him, he whimpered and melted like hot candle wax. She squeezed hard, and in tandem his eyes rolled back into his skull. 

“P-peace, vita mea,” he breathlessly pleaded. Tears began to well when she squeezed harder as if her hand was like a coiling snake constricting around its defenseless prey. Visions of her ripping his precious cock from his body danced behind trembling lids. The scariest part? He knew she was capable of such horrors. 

“Have you no respect for yourself, husband? Did you really sit in a room full of crotchety old senators and your brother with nothing beneath your clothing?” she sneered and leaned over him, the bridge of her nose brushed against his cheek before she pulled back slightly so she could look directly in his eyes. “Oh,” she sighed and sank further into his lap. “You thought tonight would go smoothly, and in your favor, yes?” 

“I-I-” he stumbled over his words, unable to think properly, not with her gripping him like a vice, and her words lashing at him like a whip. 

“You left that meeting thinking that tonight would be the night that you put me in my so-called place, hm? That I will finally submit to you. Am I on the right track?”

“Please—I’m sorry, empress. Forgive me. Please. Please. Please,” he begged, hoping she would be merciful. He would be nothing without his manhood—nothing. Yet, despite his very tangible fear, his body reacted differently. The fear only seemed to electrify him further as blood flowed southwards and he grew thick and heavy in her hand. 

“Oh, my whiny, pathetic, little anaticula,” she cooed, “you’re shaking like a leaf,” she giggled and gradually loosened her grip before she released him from her clutches entirely. “Did you really think that I was about to rip your precious cock from your body? Oh, you poor thing.” 

All he could do was blankly stare up at her and listen to the blood rushing in his ears and his heart pounding in his rib cage. His breathing was unsteady even after she had assured him that she wasn’t about to castrate him. His wrists went limp in her hold and he was positively speechless until she lifted herself from her lap completely. He was released from her possessive grip and he struggled to sit up along his elbows as she started to walk away like nothing had transpired. 

“Where—where are you going?” he found his voice again but barely. “Come here,” he beckoned her as he pulled himself up into an upright position. “Please.” 

“Are you going to be nice?” she answered back and turned around to face him. She was not expecting to be met with what looked like a wounded puppy. She expected he would have found his own fire again and stoked it. No, instead his dark chocolate eyes were glistening as if he were about to cry.  “I swear it, amasiuncula,” he said in the quietest tone he could muster. His eyes flickered down to his lap briefly before returning his focus to her. He didn’t want to jinx his luck (not that he had much to begin with) . He watched her with a hooded gaze as she crossed the short distance between them and situated herself in his lap once more. This time, however, she placed one hand flat against his chest as if she were about to push him down against the duvet again, and the other crept around the crown of his head.

“You’re such a cocktease,” he whispered through clenched teeth when her fingers gripped the root of his hair tight enough to make him wince from the sudden sharp pain blooming in his skull. He hesitantly draped his arms around her waist, yanking her forwards so their bodies were flushed together. “What were you doing that prevented you from answering when I called for you, wife?”

“Calligraphy,” she said with a low hum and gradually loosened her grip around his hair, opting to cradle his jaw instead. Her hand that was pressed flat against his chest slipped under the opening of his robes, feeling his heart skip a beat under her sudden gentle caress. Her fingers splayed against his sternum, nails gently scraping pale skin.

“Calligraphy?...” he echoed and cocked his head to the side in confusion. “Where is that?”

“...What?”

“Calligraphy,” he clarified.

“I don’t understand.”

He huffed in annoyance. “It is a country…is it not?”

“Calligraphy isn’t a country, anaticula,” she laughed. “It’s fancy penmanship,” she explained. Normally his lack of basic education was an embarrassment and nuisance, but she found it oddly endearing for once.

“Oh,” he whispered, nodding. His cheeks were flushed red, like one of the ruby stones on his rings. I should know what calligraphy is. He thought to himself. “Can you…show me?”

“That would require me getting up, husband. Are you positive you want that?” She tapped the side of his jaw with her pointer finger and pressed the tip of her thumbnail against his plush lower lip, watching his pupils dilate from the motion.

“Another time.” he tightened his grip around her waist, letting his freehand sneak upwards against the curve of her spine. He was always needing to be touching her in some way. He craved that skin-to-skin contact. “Will you kiss me…please?”

“That's all you want?” she teased, almost as if she was testing him.

“That’s all I desire from you, Empress. A simple kiss. I have been craving one all day, and the meeting with the senate lasted longer than I expected. All I could think about was you,” he admitted.

“Oh, anaticula,” she murmured with fake sympathy, but he couldn’t tell the difference if it had slapped him across the face. “Why didn’t you say that from the very beginning?” She didn’t wait for him to respond as she slowly closed the gap between them, moving her thumb to his chin so she could properly kiss him. Before their lips could even touch his long lashes were fluttering shut in anticipation. The moment would have been tender had she not sunk her teeth into his lower lip as if she were tearing into a chunk of meat. She bit down on the flesh so hard, she drew blood and he let out a surprise grunt, swiping his tongue across the wound to collect the fresh bead of blood that pooled to the surface. 

“Did you just–did you fucking bite me?!” he asked in bewilderment and pulled his face back slightly, but she was holding his head in place now and he couldn’t escape. “I said I wanted a kiss.” “That was a kiss. Don’t complain or act greedy, husband,” she warned. “Give me another one then,” he challenged and she surged forward, smashing her lips against his in a bruising kiss that had him seeing stars behind his eyes and left him struggling to remember to breathe. When she clamped down on his lip again, the same spot she previously wounded, he did not pull away. Fight fire with fire. He moaned unashamedly into the kiss, silently praying to the gods to let this passion last and not fizzle. He did not want to go to bed with pent up frustrations–god forbid. He pawed at her thin, almost see-through nightdress and went to slip the finely woven straps down her shoulders so more of her skin was exposed, but she grabbed his wrists and pinned them behind his head once more. A frustrated growl clawed its way up from the back of his throat when she asserted herself as the one in control again. “Please,” he begged. “Let me touch you, vita mea. Gods–let me worship you,” he mumbled against their locked lips.

She ignored the desperation behind his words and parted from the kiss much to his dismay. A thin thread of saliva kept them tethered together before it dissipated into the balmy air that surrounded them. She nipped at his chin and jaw, biting down hard enough to leave indents of her teeth in his skin. He squirmed like a worm pierced on a hook. 

His breathless pleas echoed through their chambers, ricocheting off the high marble walls. He never was one to beg—for anything, but she emasculated him as if it was her duty; her purpose. To crush him as if he were some helpless bug. A deity and her devoted worshipper. 

Her lips began their descent down his neck, nipping at the vulnerable skin there. If only he knew how easy it would be for her to tear his throat out with her canines. If only he knew—

“You’ll take what I give you, anaticula, and you will be grateful.” 

“Yes, of course,” he gasped. “I will be grateful—I swear it!”  My desperate, needy, pathetic, little anaticula 

Her lips hovered at his throat, hot breath fanned his skin and sent shivers and a tingling sensation all throughout his body. “You don’t even know what it is that you will be grateful for, husband,” she said, chuckling. It was moments like these where he was truly….pathetic. 

“I—I don’t understand,” he said, confusion laced in his tone. 

“What if what it is that I desire to give you is…death? Will you still be grateful then?” 

Her emotionally charged words and casual delivery of them hung heavy in the air. Suddenly he was silent, forgetting to breathe and a sense of dizziness embedded with fear washed over him. The color seemed to drain from his face and he swallowed hard. His empress watched with great intrigue at the way he grew tense. She could even hear his saliva travel down his throat. 

“Cat got your tongue?” she said in amusement and nuzzled her nose against the thick vein protruding from his neck. “My love, are you the slightest bit aware of  how vulnerable you are for me right now?” 

He shook his head dumbly, feeling his heart begin to race. In tandem, all the blood seemed to rush southwards despite his brain activating into its frantic state of flight. That unfamiliar sense of fear was thrilling in itself. He felt entirely out of control—and he loved it. 

“If I bite you, right here…” she trailed off as she pressed her lips to the same vein she was nuzzling against. “You’ll bleed out. All I have to do is bite hard enough through your flesh to reach this very vital vein, and you will die.” 

His eyes rolled back into his skull and he groaned through clenched teeth. “Fuck,” he said with a choked, nervous laugh, “my brother was right about you. He claimed that you would be the cause of my demise, and you’ll no sooner kill me if I am not cautious, and he was right.” 

“Yet, you seem unafraid, husband,” she said against his skin, biting softly, enough to cause his hardened cock to jump under the thin layers he wore. 

“I am terrified,” he clarified, clearing his throat. “Terrified…and intrigued. How do you know of such things? Tell me what the vital vein in my neck is called. Educate me, I implore you.” 

“It is called the carotid artery. It is vital because it supply’s your brain with oxygenated blood from your heart. Should it be torn, you would inevitably bleed out.”

“Fascinating,” he breathed out, imagining what that must feel like to have one’s throat ripped open by the teeth of another. 

“Are you…well?” she questioned him with caution. 

“Of course I am. I may be frightened by your knowledge on how to kill me, but if you were to, would you not have done it by now? If you loathe me so greatly, then make me bleed. I am at your mercy, empress. Rip my throat open if you so desire,” he said challengingly. 

“You willingly…wish to die?” she pulled her face back from his neck to look him in the eyes. 

“At your hand, yes. I have always pondered what death feels like. I have witnessed so much of it in my short time. Tell me,” he said, humming, his pupils beginning to darken as he licked his lips. “Would the blood spurt, or flow thickly? How long would it take before I would die? Would you swallow the chunk of flesh you’d rip from me?” he said in an excitable tone, his expression manic. 

“Have you been possessed?!”she exclaimed in pure disbelief, laughing and he couldn’t help but laugh with her. 

“By you, always! Heart, body, mind, soul, you have possessed me, amica mea. You have turned me into a mere flesh sack. How enthralling!” he giggled. “Tell me, where else upon my body could you bite me that would be fatal?”

And here I was led to believe that Calla was the more unhinged freak. 

“There are veins in your wrist. Have you ever noticed them?” she reached for his arm and gently turned it over in her palm to expose the thin, intricate veins that were embedded under his skin. She brushed her thumb across them in a slow sweep. 

He watched her with hooded eyes and utter intrigue. “Yes, I have traced them with my own fingers many times before,” he said softly, his eyes flickering upwards to her face before focusing on the movement of her thumb against his wrist. 

“Well, if these veins, right here, were to be cut, you’d also bleed out. Perhaps more slowly than the artery in your neck, but death would come regardless.” she brought that same wrist to her lips and pressed a featherlight kiss in the juncture between the base of his palm and beginning of his wrist. 

“How…do you know all of this? Anatomy was never a lesson my brother and I were taught. Nor have I ever heard of a Roman woman speak of such topics. It makes me wonder…have you ever killed a man with your bare teeth alone, amica mea?” 

She smiled against his skin, pressing another kiss to the inside of his wrist before gently releasing it from her grasp. “That entirely has to do with the fact that Romans prepare their dead entirely differently than we Egyptians do. You know of what the basic human body parts are and their functions, but what lies beneath? You have only ever bared to witness it in the Colosseum.” 

He mulled her words over thoroughly and thoughtfully. “I suppose that is…correct. Will you educate me further, please? I want to know more about your culture. Indulge me,” he said in earnest and grabbed her hands, interlocking their fingers together. 

The empress took her lower lip between her teeth, chewing on the soft skin in contemplation. She did  not expect him to be so interested to learn the rich history and workings of her culture, but the sentiment caused her heart to swell. “Well, when an Egyptian dies, their internal organs are harvested, except the heart as it is considered vital for the afterlife. Then, the body is covered in a natural salt to absorb any remaining moisture. The final step is wrapping the body in linen before it is placed inside of a coffin.” 

He hung onto every word she spoke, his attention was focused solely on her. The city could be on fire and he would not care. 

“Why is the heart considered to be vital for the afterlife?” 

She slowly dropped one of their interlaced hands so she could slip her fingers through the small opening in his robes and place her hand against his heart. “Because, anaticula, in my culture the heart is viewed as the seat of intelligence, memory, and emotions. The weight of a person's heart is judged after death to determine their fate in the afterlife.” 

“Judged?…as in…if the person is deemed to be good or evil?” he cocked his head to the side, his lips parting slightly before closing again.

“Precisely. The heart is weighed against the feather of Ma’at, the goddess of truth and justice. If the heart weighs less than the feather, the deceased is then allowed to enter the afterlife.” 

“And if the heart weighs more than the feather? What lies in the fate of the deceased then?” 

“The heart is devoured by the monster Ammit, and the soul of the deceased is damned for eternity.” 

“Wicked,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Well, when I am to die, I wish to be buried the Egyptian way.” 

“Geta…” she trailed off and slowly dragged her hand to rest against his neck, curving her fingers around his jaw. “Do not speak of such things. What if someone were to—”

“To hear me?” He laughed, shaking his head. “No one is present but you and I. Who is to hear of the words I speak? Besides, I am an emperor. If I wish to be buried a certain way, no one has the authority to speak against it.” 

She pressed a surprise kiss to his lips, feeling his body melt against her as if he was wax from a burning candle. “You need to stop being a romantic,” she mumbled against his lips and slowly lowered his back to rest against the duvet. “You are not supposed to be a romantic.” 

“Are you requesting I stop, or demanding?” He said in a low murmur that sent a warmth flowing straight down to her core. He kissed her back deeply and brought his hand to rest at the small of her back, right where her spine would curve beneath his touch.

“Neither.” 

———-

The following morning started off as any other; the twins in the garden and the sun warming their faces as their many servants attended to them. Breakfast was swiftly prepared for the emperors, and while Caracalla was busy feeding ripened fruit to Dondus, Geta was writing. 

Dear diary, 

Last night I learned many things. First, I learned that my wife can murder me with her teeth alone. I also learned that there is a vital vein in my neck called the carotid artery! If she were to tear my throat open, I would surely bleed out and die. 

I also learned that calligraphy is not a country, and I am a masochist when it comes to her. 

The thought of her being capable of murdering me is enthralling! I imagine my poor father is rolling in his grave at what I have turned into, but damn him! I have never felt more alive in my life and it is all because of her.

Vita Mea. 

She likes it when I kiss and suck here—

“What are you giggling about over there, hm?” Caracalla said from the opposite end of the table, breaking his brother's intense focus. 

“Nothing that would concern you,” the eldest emperor snapped back. 

The parchment was suddenly ripped from where it lay in front of him and now was in the possession of his twin. Caracalla’s wild, manic cackle echoed through the gardens as his eyes skimmed the inked words that had not yet fully dried. “Calligraphy is not…a country,” he snickered. “Gods, did you really think it was, brother?” 

“Give that back, Caracalla!” Geta rose from his seat with a narrowed look at his kin. 

“Where does the empress like to be kissed and sucked, Geta?” Caracalla asked with a wolfish grin. “Pray tell!” 

“NONE OF YOUR CONCERN!” 

“Are you all there in the head?! You find it enthralling that she’s capable of murdering you?!” 

“STOP READING IT OUTLOUD!” Geta yelled, his voice cracking. 

And from the balcony above, unbeknownst to the emperors, the empress watched the two brothers bicker like the spoiled brats they were. 

“Calla, keep reading!” she yelled from above, a pleasant grin playing on her lips. “I’m deeply intrigued to hear more!” 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Geta screeched, flapping his arms like he was a wild bird. “DO NOT ENCOURAGE HIM!”

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[iwantlemonadenow]

I’m obsessed

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 💋

[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.)

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

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.

[tbh-daily]

caracalla and geta from gladiator 2? thanks!!

Caracalla from Gladiator 2

Geta from Gladiator 2

[fredshroomz]

Drew some very young Caracalla & Geta, because I’ve been thinking about how they grew up and how their dynamic developed and why god why couldn’t they just be brothers instead of emperors……

[vyoongi]

Genesis 4:9-12

Then the Lord said to Cain, “Where is your brother Abel?” “I don’t know,” he replied. “Am I my brother’s keeper?” The Lord said, “What have you done? Listen! Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground. Now you are under a curse and driven from the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood from your hand. When you work the ground, it will no longer yield its crops for you. You will be a restless wanderer on the earth.

[smallratboy]

'Their Beloved' Chapter 4

Geta X reader X Caracalla

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

Smut! 18+

an: dianthus means carnation! it's the flower of venus, a symbol of love and beauty, and will be readers petname for the rest of the fic

It had taken all of a day before the emperors called on you again. You had almost hoped that Caracalla's outburst and the blatant ignoring of your social status that that brought would keep you safe from them for a while. You were almost frightened with their sudden interest in you, and you wanted to crawl back into the hole of their ignorance. 

You knew full well you were below them, hardly even having the status to look them in the eye. Yet, you were almost willing to ignore that out of desperation to be near them. You cursed your foolish heart. You were no better than the men who you had served before, falling for someone when your relationship was purely sexual. 

Still, your heart fluttered when your master told you Geta had called for you. You dressed in red and applied a fragrant oil to your body, something you knew Geta loved. How had you managed to transform from a favored professional to a lovesick fool? 

When you opened the door to Geta's chambers, you found him facing away from you. His posture was rigid, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked over the balcony onto the city below, his citizens milling about beneath him. He looked every bit a regal emperor. 

“You called for me, Caesar?” You asked, bowing. He did not turn to face you, so you took a few steps closer.

“I wanted to thank you for calming Caracalla,” Geta said simply. You nodded, confused. 

“I am happy to serve the emperors in any way I can,” You said, unsure of what to say. 

“My brother seems… very fond of you,” Geta said, his voice betraying no emotion. You felt your cheeks flush, embarrassed. 

“And you, my lord?” You asked, daring to take a step closer. “Are you not also fond of me?” You placed your hand on Geta’s shoulder, and he sucked in a sharp breath. He turned to you, his gaze fierce as he met your eyes. 

“Does it matter whether I am fond of you or not?” Geta asked, taking your hand in his. “You will serve me just the same.” 

“Of course, my emperor,” You said, letting him push you onto his bed. You were once again pinned beneath him, your golden emperor. “I am yours,” 

“And you serve me willingly?” He asked, his face inches from yours. You could see his eyelashes flutter as he looked at you, the spots where his makeup had rubbed off, the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. 

“Yes,” you breathed. You were at a loss for words, your proximity to the emperor stealing your breath away. Instead of speaking, you undid the clasp that held your robes together and let the fabric fall from your body.

His lips pressed hotly against the column of your throat, his nose nestled into the space behind your ear as he breathed in your scent. He whispered something against your throat, his lips tickling your soft skin. 

“Mine,” the words meant only for you, burned into your skin by his lips. Your skin flushed hot, his words quickening your pulse. You repeated the thought in your mind over and over. Minemineminemine. 

You moved your hands to his shoulders, pushing off the fabric that covered his body. With a soft thump, his robes fell to the floor. You burned hot everywhere your skin touched, his thighs pressing against yours, his chest pressed against yours, his hard length heavy on your stomach. 

You spread your legs, wrapping them around the emperor's hips, inviting him to take you. Your invitation was all he needed, sliding into you and grunting as he pushed to the hilt. You felt him deep in your stomach, moaning softly at the unbelievable fullness. 

His forehead rested on your shoulder, his whole body weight on top of you. You were wrapped around him, holding him tight to you, your body shaking with his thrusts. His pace was intense and relentless, yet you felt an unusual softness in the way he held you. He had never held you before. 

You threaded your fingers through his hair, tugging and making him groan. You felt his hot breath against your neck, sloppy kisses and gentle bites being left there. Your moans mingled with the sound of skin slapping skin, the smell of sex and sweat filling the air. You felt utterly consumed. 

“Emperor,” You gasped, a coil of tight heat forming in your stomach. “Geta,” You moaned, tugging on his hair again. He moaned at that, lifting his head to look you in the eyes. His pupils had consumed the dark irises, his makeup had rubbed off and his cheeks were flushed. 

“Gorgeous…” Geta breathed, “my dianthus,” His thrusts increased in speed and desperation, making you cry out. You were so close, your hips thrusting involuntarily to meet his. 

“Please,” You begged, not quite sure what you were begging for. You were so desperately close, your thighs beginning to shake. 

“Who do you belong to?” Geta asked, his breath coming in desperate gasps. 

“You,” you cried out, your orgasm crashing over you in a heady wave. “I am yours” you moaned, your mouth dropping open. Geta let out a strangled cry as he came, his hips stuttering as your pussy fluttered and clenched around him. 

After a moment, he slowly pulled out, making you gasp. You felt entirely satiated, feeling pleasantly warm and relaxed. Geta fell to your side, still breathing heavily. You turned to face him, running your fingers up and down his bicep. 

“Tomorrow,” Geta said after a long period of silence, “you will move to a new room. Nearer to your emperors.”

You were speechless, unsure of what to say. You hummed in response, hoping he would continue. 

“You are clearly adept at more than just pleasure,” He continued, looking you in the eyes now. “You will serve your emperors personally. Nobody else is to touch you again.” 

“I would be happy to, Caesar,” you whispered, still rubbing his arm soothingly. 

“Geta,” He corrected, firmly but in a whisper. “If you are to serve me personally, you will call me Geta.” 

“Geta,” you repeated, eyes slowly closing as a wave of sleepiness washed over you. You snuggled closer to him, tucking your head into his shoulder. It was uncommon for Geta to let you get this close, but his arms wrapped around you. You sighed contentedly, feeling comfortable and safe. 

“You should go gather your things,” Geta whispered, disentangling your bodies. “You will need to serve us early tomorrow.” 

“Yes, Geta,” You whispered, slowly getting up. You kissed his hand and left, trying to ignore the small hurt in your heart at being pushed away. You hoped that this new position of personal attendant would give you the chance to be close to your emperors. Even if you knew your position in society meant you could never be with them, you would at least be granted the chance to be near the ones you loved.

an: if you enjoyed this, please reblog and comment!

[josephquinnswife]

i mean yeah

[littledozerdraws]

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

[inseparabiles]

gladiator ii bonus content: lucilla took the thrones (as is her right).

[anyplaceisparadise]

Peter Pan syndrome with Commodus, Geta, and Caracalla. Never growing up? Kids playing war games? Boys masquerading as men? Just thinking about how Geta and Caracalla take swords from people like it's nothing and Commodus spins his sword like a top. Boys with too much power and leniency and wealth. Kids trying to be tough and impressive and scary because they're scared and weak and insecure.

[cottoncandiescupcakes]

Gladiator II: this a manly movie for MEN

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

Do you even KNOW women lol like at all

[moon-and-seafoam]

Some small fun facts that we have learned about Geta and Caracalla from "Gladiator II":

Geta is the eldest although Caracalla argues that he was conceived first since he came out last (I don't know the logic in this).

They had an abusive father.

They aren't particularly educated. They didn't recognize Lucius' lines from Virgil who was one of the most famous Roman poets.

They attend orgies together and they share their concubines.

They were getting high by using various kind of drugs of that time.

Caracalla is a bi king.

He has also shown to be attracted to Lucilla.

According to Joseph Quinn, Geta knows the fragility of his position and the fact that he doesn't deserve this power but uses means of intimidation to control the people. He's also afraid of trusting others.

Caracalla suffers from syphilis and lead poisoning which in turn have caused him dementia. One of the make up artists confirmed that he also battled acne.

Geta was not unfamiliar with Caracalla's physical abuse against him and he's even calm about it.

Ridley Scott believes that Caracalla was a forceps baby. And that was a dangerous practice back then as it could damage the baby's head.

According to Fred Hechinger, Geta and Caracalla have a need to be "taken care of" and "they want to be held". So they have a desire to be loved.

Days after, Caracalla couldn't remember that he killed his brother.