#emperor caracalla x reader x emperor geta

[cherrysweets-world]

Eyes of the Gods V

series masterlist - part IV

Pairing: Caracalla x fem!Reader x Geta

Summary: The Emperors are not subtle with their interest in you and others have begun to notice

Warnings: 18+, minors dni, eventual dub-con, power imbalances, mentions of previous domestic abuse, controlling behaviour, forced proximity, obsessive behaviour, unhealthy realtionships, unedited

Word Count: 3.5k

Sleep would not come. You tossed and turned for several hours before giving in and re-lighting the candle. Holding your fingers in the warmth of the flame, you began to contemplate your life.

The candlelight flickered and made you feel like the walls were closing in. In some aspects they already had. The walls had closed in without you even knowing it, so distracted by your own wariness. Now you were here, alone, and in reach of the emperors who had put you here.

How had you been so blind? Your own lack of self worth had made you stupid, disbelieving that the Emperors could have such interest in you. You had floated through those first two days, thinking that at any moment they would drop you, bored, like a forgotten toy. To your knowledge that was what usually happened! You had even see it; limping concubines and abandoned slaves. Instead, whatever was between the three of you had grown and mutated into something you had no hope in understanding.

The Emperors had power, yes, there was no denying it. Yet part of you felt as though you were giving them more. Specifically over you. They had not said you could not leave your rooms. So why stay when sleep insisted on evading you?

Your father had had that kind of hold on you and your mother. The situations were not perfectly similar but you were loathe to think you had allowed another man to control you like that. The thoughts made you feel irrational, made you feel like doing something dangerous.

The flame licked at your finger tips and you hissed, pulling them back to your chest. You knew this palace well. Better than the Emperors, even. You knew all the secret spots, all the ways to sneak around without being spotted. Perhaps it was time to put that knowledge to good use. A tiny rebellion of sorts.

Your mind was made up. If you thought on it too long you would lose all courage. Slipping into your sandals, you tried not to think too hard about what you were doing.

"I am going for a walk in the gardens," you said to yourself, "as I am entitled to do. I have not been told I cannot do otherwise."

The look Geta had given you flashed across your eyes and you squeezed them shut, dismissing him.

Reaching under your mattress, you gave your carved wolf a squeeze and then let go. You mumbled a quick prayed to Fortuna and then slowly opened your door, scanning the corridors before poking out your head.

There was no-one you could see. That did not mean that no-one was actually there; you were too close to the Emperor's chambers for their to be no Praetorians.

Part of you knew you were taking a risk. If you were so confident that you were allowed to leave your room then why did you feel the need to evade the Praetorians?

You scrubbed your sweaty palms down your sleepwear. The plain white wrap would make you a glaring target but your other options were no better. It did not matter; you needed fresh air. Needed to take it without the weight of eyes upon you. The illusion of freedom was better than nothing.

You slipped from your room like a breath in the wind. As expected, the first hallway you came to was lined with Praetorians. You wasted no time in slipping by them, dipping into a stairwell and tip-toeing down.

All you could hear was the pounding of your own heart. The sound made you dizzy and you allowed yourself to stop for a moment, steadying yourself. Trembling, you stumbled down the rest of the stairs under you reached a landing. There were yet more guards but they were looking for people sneaking in, rather than out. Waiting until their backs were turned, you made a mad dash for freedom.

The rest of the way was mercifully quiet. Slowing down, you appreciated the silence. Yours were the one footsteps you could hear. It was funny; that night, when you had first met Caracalla, you had been terrified of these empty halls. Now they curved around you, protective, and you brushed a hand against them in familiarity.

Cool air blasted you when you finally stepped foot outside. You laughed and it was immediately lost to the wind. You were not as weak as you thought. You would do whatever you could to hold onto this feeling of dependence.

The air was biting and made your eyes water. Staying out here for long was not an option. Goosebumps emerged along your arms and thighs as the wind pushed itself under your clothes.

When the gusts softened, you wandered further out. You allowed yourself slow appraisals of all the flowers, most of which you did not recognise. You had had no interest in gardening before but they suddenly felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.

Your past and present slipped from you like water. In this moment, it was only you. You could pretend that you had all the choices in the world.

And you did have choices. It was the consequences that scared you. You wished you could peer into the future and see all the possible answers, all the solutions, and make your mind based on those. But you were no seer; the future was barred from your questioning eyes. You would simply have to wait and go the long way around to see what the future held.

An abrupt sound startled you and you whipped around, eyes searching. At first you thought the garden was empty and you relaxed, releasing your death-grip on your elbows.

A flash of red made your head swim and you stood still, mouth parting. No, you almost moaned, no, no, no.

Gravel crunched underfoot as Geta appeared, rounding a flower bed and jerking to a stop. His cheeks were red despite being dressed warmer than you. His mouth parted at the sight of you and you swallowed hard.

Fortuna, you languished, you have forsaken me.

It took you a moment to realise it was not bad luck or coincidence that Geta had stumbled across you. It was difficult to see them through the myriad of plants but several Praetorians had accompanied Geta to the gardens. It seemed that you had not been quite as subtle as you had thought.

Geta started towards you and you squeaked, not daring to back away. It took only several paces before he reached you, grasping your elbows and yanking you to his chest.

"You," he gaped," what were you thinking?"

He gave you a hard shake to force the answer out of you. He was out of breath, almost gasping, and you were stunned into silence.

"Come," he barked, yanking you back the way he came.

You lurched after him, gravel grazing the tips of your toes. Thought escape you and all you could do was lock your eyes on the back of Geta's robe. The pattern was exquisite and you wondered what it would feel like beneath your fingers.

You expected him to let you go once you were back inside but he did not. He continued to pull you along, barking orders at Praetorians, all the way back to your rooms. Your face crumpled at the sight of it but you did not protest as he wrenched you inside and shut the door, sealing both him and you in.

He swiped a hand over his face, shaking. "Do you have any idea how fortunate you are that it was not Caracalla who stumbled upon your ridiculous little escape plan?"

"I -"

"You are well aware that he has some sort of dependency on you," Geta continued, pacing back and forth, "yet you would abandon him at the first chance you had?"

"No, no," you shook your head, "I wanted only to see the gardens!"

Geta stopped, eying you with disbelief. He looked on edge. He almost reminded you of Caracalla in one of his episodes. The more you learned, the more you realised how similar they were.

"The gardens?" he spat. "In the middle of the night? In the cold?"

You brushed your fingers down your arms, embarrassed. "Yes."

Geta shook his head, eyes flickering all over you. His eyes narrowed as he finally seemed to register what you were wearing. "And in those clothes?"

Nothing you said was going to make him calm down. You let your eyes settle on the floor and thinned your lips.

"You could have asked," he finally said, shoulders sagging inward.

"Asked?"

"To see the gardens," he threw his hands into the air. "I would have had someone accompany you. You could not comprehend the trouble you have caused tonight."

"What right do I have to ask for anything?" you said, shocked. "I am a servant, barely more than a slave."

Geta studied you in that way you had become almost used to. His mouth worked, opening and closing several times before settling into a fine line.

"Yes," he agreed, "and you will obey your emperors. You are not to leave your room till morning and we will have someone fetch you when we are ready. Goodnight."

He turned to your bed and yanked up the sheet, throwing it upon you before exiting from the room. He slammed the door shut and you stood in stunned silence, frozen until you heard the deathly sound of a lock sliding shut.

"No," you murmured at first, then quickly got louder. "No, don't!"

Your emotions spilled out of you all at once. Throwing yourself against the door you began to pound upon it. Geta was still outside; you could see his shadow lingering beneath the door.

"Please," you begged, "I am sorry, Emperor, please."

The shadow disappeared as though it had never been there. Choking on your own tears, you rested your forehead against the wood, fists aching. You let out one long, primal scream and then fell back, yanking the covers over your head and angrily wiping your tears away with the back of your hand.

You fell asleep like that, hands clenching the covers and cursing whatever Gods had pushed this fate upon you.

True to his word, Geta did send someone the next morning. A Praetorian soldier opened the door and peered in, cringing at your rumpled form on the bed.

"I am Consus," he said reluctantly. "The Emperors have sent me to retrieve you."

You scowled at the innocent man, dragging your body from the sheets. Your head was pounding and there were multiple spots on your hands where the skin had cracked and bled from your pounding on the door.

You were still in your bed clothes. Dirt stained the bottom and there were smears of blood dotted all over it.

"I need to get ready," you grumbled.

"That. . .will not be necessary," the guard said. "You will be relieved of your usual duties today but you must accompany me to the emperors."

Usual duties, you thought, whatever those were. But you were in no mood to argue so you stomped into your sandals and trailed after Consus. Whatever fight you had left had been squeezed out of you late last night. Now there was only the stinging of your hands and aching of your head.

It took less than two minutes to reach Geta's quarters. You had been foolish to think he would not learn of your brief dash for freedom.

Consus held open the door and announced your presence to the room. No-one had ever done that before. You had not been important enough.

You held your head up as much as you could and entered the room. Caracalla was the first to see you. It was almost comical the way his grin dropped from his face.

He stood up so fast that Dondus squeaked and leapt from his shoulder. He stormed over to you and cupped your hands in his, turning them over again and again as though he could not believe what he was seeing.

"What is this?" he was horrified. As though he had not caused worse injuries and found amusement in them.

"Brother," he snapped, "look. Someone has - someone has -"

Geta finally looked up. Despite being the last to see you, he was also stunned by your appearance. He swallowed harshly and stood straighter.

"She had a rough night, brother," he attempted to soothe Caracalla. "The healer is on the way."

His eyes told you not to say anything. You would not. There was no telling how Caracalla would react if he learned the truth of your escapade last night. Even though you had not truly tried to escape, it only mattered that Geta thought you had.

Caracalla yanked a hand through his hair. "Brother -"

"Enough," Geta raised his voice. "She is hurting. Let her sit."

The words seemed to do something to Caracalla and he steered you to a plush sofa, pulling you down so that you were half on his lap. You had no will to try to move and only sagged, letting Caracalla's hands wander over you.

It was strange how his jerky movements almost soothed you. Perhaps you were only glad for the company, having spent majority of last night confined to your quarters.

"Where does it hurt?" he whispered, eyes fixated on the darkened blood on your clothing.

"My head," you admitted, "and my hands."

Caracalla dusted careful fingers over your temples before turning his attention to your hands. He brought them to his face and kissed your palms. Your eyes welled from the soft touches. He murmured sweet nothings, brows furrowed as he took in your injuries. The smaller they were, the more they hurt. You sucked in a breath when his tongue darted out and swiped over a cut.

Consus appeared in the door once more, this time announcing the healer. The gentleman walked in, holding a leather bag that clinked with ointments and creams.

"Leave them and get out," Caracalla demanded, becoming louder when the man stalled. "Out!"

You would have felt pity for the man on any other day. He shrugged the bag from his shoulder and left it on a table, backing out of the room with his hands held up.

To your surprise it was Geta who retrieved the bag, handing it carefully to his brother. He eyed you in the way he often did and you held his gaze. Something like guilt flickered over his face but it was gone before you could analyse it.

Caracalla busied himself with the contents of the bag. He held up an expensive looking jar of cream and set it aside before picking up something much more recognisable - a small bottle of alcohol.

He popped the cork off. "This will sting."

You gasped and tried to yank your hands away but Caracalla held them steady as he dribbled small amounts of the liquid onto your palms. He used his own clothing to wipe away the traces of blood as if was nothing.

The cream was better. He dabbed it onto your cuts, glancing up at your face to gauge your reaction. You tried not to dwell to much on the fact that an Emperor of Rome was treating your superficial wounds.

"Better?" he asked.

"Better," you nodded. "Thank you, Emperor."

He looked over his shoulder and then back at you before leaning in to whisper, "You can address me as Caracalla."

A lump lodged itself in your throat. How many times had Caracalla been treated for his own injuries that he knew how to treat you for yours?

"What truly happened last night?" he asked you, careful to make sure Geta could not hear.

"Emperor Geta locked me in my room," you answered honestly.

Caracalla thought about it for a moment. "It is better that way," he decided. "It keeps you safe. Don't you want to be safe for us?"

Of course. Caracalla was no different to his brother though you could not pretend to understand their emotions or motivations.

Geta was watching the pair of you. He looked down when you noticed, pretending to be ensconced in his paperwork. Ignoring you just as he did last night when he left you screaming in your room.

You spent the whole day laying about in Geta's chambers. Caracalla doted on you, feeding you bits of food and checking on your wounds.

The more he touched you the harder it was to pull away. His touches got firmer, bolder; the back of your neck, your arms, even your thighs when you shifted. His eyelids grew heavier and heavier until it was impossible to ignore the blatant way he was panting over you.

And it was not as though you were immune to his caresses.

After a few hours of torture, Geta turned his attention back to you.

"There is a gathering tonight," he said, "you will get ready."

"And what am I to do at this gathering?" you boldly asked.

Geta pulled you from the plush cushions by your wrist. He leaned in close. "You are going because I cannot trust you enough to leave you alone. Do not complain; it is unbecoming of a young lady such as yourself."

His mocking tone sent a spike of anger through you. You deigned not to respond. Such blatant disrespect was stupid but you were still unfathomably angry that he had locked you away. You wanted to say that he had no right but, as Emperor, he did. Geta and Caracalla could do anything they wished and you were constantly reminded of it.

Geta pointed you to some clothes hanging up on a privacy screen. He dragged Caracalla away so you could change in peace - an apology of sorts? You yanked on the clothing and tried to let your temper cool. It would do you no good to have an attitude in the presence of others.

Once more you were back in the entertainment hall. Geta had you stationed by a wall, offering cups to anyone who wanted one. It was obvious you had been placed there only because it kept you firmly in his sight.

After an hour you found yourself feeling calmer, taking purpose in your small task. The familiarity made you at ease and you were able to put the Emperors to the back of your mind.

They were surrounded by concubines and tittering senators. A woman was perched on the cushions behind Geta, rubbing a hand on his shoulder and occasionally allowing it to dip beneath his clothing. Geta met your eyes across the room and leaned back, allowing her further contact.

The concubines were having a difficult time with Caracalla. He would relax into their forward touches and then suddenly jerk forward, shoving them away and screaming obscenities. You had never seen him quite so wild at a gathering; it was known that Caracalla enjoyed parties and was most approachable during them.

The concubines did not know what to do with themselves. Breaking point was reached when one dared to slip his hand beneath Caracalla's tunic. Immediately Caracalla was upon the man, hands flying in every which direction and beating him to a near pulp.

How was this the same man who had so softly attended to you earlier? Your anger seeped away and was replaced by familiar fear. What would it take for him to turn on you like that?

Praetorians approached and dragged the concubine away. The party continued as though nothing at happened. These people cared not for the lives of those below them.

Caracalla's eyes darted about the room. Searching for you, no doubt. You recoiled into the wall and shrank in on yourself, desperate to go unnoticed.

Someone did spot you, but it was not Caracalla. The master of gladiators gave you a predators smile and sauntered over, plucking a cup from the tray you were holding.

Something about Macrinus unnerved you. His smile was open enough but you did not trust the man. That had never mattered before when you were a simple servant in the kitchen but now. . .

"It is you," he smiled teasingly, bumping you with his elbow.

You recoiled at the unwanted touch. "I'm sorry?"

"You," he repeated, " who has enamoured the emperors and now takes up so much of their time."

Something cold slithered into your stomach. You did not like Macrinus - did not like that this man knew so much about you.

"I. . .do not know what you are speaking of," the lie caught in your throat but you pushed it out anyway.

Macrinus laughed, loud and cold. "I think you do."

At that moment Caracalla appeared, wrapping his hand around your elbow and exposing the lie you had told.

"I want to leave," he grumbled, "come now."

He uttered a tense greeting to Macrinus and dragged you from the room. You went willingly, thankful for any distance between yourself and the master of gladiators and his sharp smile.

Caracalla was rougher than usual as he tugged you along. This time to his chambers. He kept looking over your shoulder and muttering to himself, yanking you closer and closer until you were almost tripping over each other. You were not overly alarmed; you had faith that you would be able to pacify him.

Your mind was preoccupied with your brief meeting with Macrinus. The emperors made you uneasy but it was nothing to do with the sickening feel Macrinus evoked in you.

Authors Note - This might be my favourite chapter yet idkkkk - please let me know what you think! Please like, comment, reblog if you enjoyed and don’t be afraid to send asks because they are my favourite thing

taglist - @only4thefics @doodle-with-rhy @lover-rep-fanfic @claraisme23 @sashaphantomhive @multifandombtch @t6gse370

@merrymunsons @europixie @prestinalove @malfoycassimalfoy @jovial-cowboy @akamitrani @bocreep @justasmallbean @moompie @duckyhowls @justlibra @mama-frog @fionaapplelover2010

[rxqueenotd]

damnatio memoriae: PART V

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

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

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

warnings: blood, knife play (?), foul language, pnv penetration, BDSM-ish situations, bloodletting, wlw, drug use, digital penetration, Ancient Rome as a warning within itself.

notes: there are 12,437 words in this chapter alone. I would apologize for not posting for a month, but as you can see, I have been cooking. Made it through Christmas, Hanukkah, my birthday, new years, the fucking dystopian US election, got accepted back to college to try for my bachelors in a totally different sphere than the degree I already hold and let a Leo man take me for a ride all within thirty days so if this chapter is not to your liking, lie to me and tell you love it anyways. As always, thanks to @trashmouth-richie for listening to my ramblings and feeding me words of encouragement. You are my brotha for life. And to @londonfog-chan for putting up with my perpetual absence as I’ve been riding the rollercoaster that has been January. This chapter has been a labor of love but I think it might be my favorite so far. Enjoy!

V

Caracalla departed hastily, leaving you alone after taking you against the wall, his voice ringing with authority as he barked commands to his guards as he exited your chambers. He was intent on visiting a local taberna, and you felt a twinge of sympathy for the patrons and the staff of the venue of his choosing. The thought of anyone crossing his path in such a foul mood stirred a sense of unease within you, for you knew the trouble that often accompanied him in such a state.

Sleep found you swiftly, even after the events you had endured. You weren’t sure how long you had slept when your chamber door creaked open, revealing Caracalla’s silhouette in the doorway. He lurched inside, bracing himself against the wall as he swayed, then marched toward the bed with determination.

Hastily, he tore his tunic over his head, tossing it aside with little care, followed by his jewels, which he flung onto the chaise beside the bed. Once fully undressed, he climbed in beside you, rolling onto his side to mirror your position. The scent of wine clung to him as he pulled you closer, clumsily reaching for the hem of your sleeping gown to lift it from your body. You arched and moved as needed, assisting him in his endeavor. When you were laid bare before him, he drew you closer into his embrace, his hand grasped your thigh to drape it over his own. You inhaled sharply as his lips brushed over the tender bite mark he had left upon you, remaining still, wary that such a simple gesture might provoke him or send him into a fit of rage.

He nestled his head beneath your chin, pressing your body as close to his as possible, his breath settled into a steady rhythm as he relaxed.

“Tell me you love me.” His hoarse voice spoke softly against the column of your throat.

You sighed, thinking of a million things you would rather say.

“Tell me, Prima,” he leaned up, untucking his head, blue eyes piercing yours, “tell me you love me.”

“Lucius-,” you started, but stopped when a small smile cracked across his lips, a light chuckle falling out from behind them.

“Lucius,’” he parroted back to you, followed by his signature giggle, “it has been ages since I have been called that.”

You let a silence descend around the two of you, hoping he would drop the matter entirely, but he continued to stare at you expectantly.

“I love you. Now please go to sleep.”

With that he was content to reposition himself, breath reaching a steady rhythm against the tender flesh of your neck.

You found yourself thinking that perhaps this was why he surrounded himself with courtesans, like a collection of soothing melodies for his restless soul. Each woman a different remedy for his erratic moods. Then you realized that it mattered not, that they were gone, and the only thing left in their wake was you. A blessing and a curse. A heavy feeling swept over you, followed by a bout of light sleep.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

You awakened on your back, entirely naked, a thin linen sheet barely covering your form. Sunlight streamed in from the balcony, and you swiftly shielded your eyes, groaning at the brightness that pierced your sleepy vision. Heavy footfalls approached, and the sheet was suddenly yanked away.

“My father summoned you an hour past,” Caracalla declared bluntly. “Yet you lie here, sprawled out like a weary whore.”

You groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow.

“Leave me be to awaken properly,” you murmured, your voice muffled against the fabric.

“That is not possible,” he replied, reaching down to roll you over, pinching your nipple as he dragged you upright.

You yelped, swatting his hand away. He chuckled, a sound both throaty and high-pitched, echoing through your bedchamber as he backed away, holding the sheet with both hands.

You sat upright, narrowing your eyes at him. “Give me that,” you snapped, lunging forward to grab the sheet.

He sidestepped, holding it just out of reach with a smirk. “And here I thought you would be more gracious this morning.”

Ignoring his teasing, you reached again, this time managing to snag the edge of the fabric. With one sharp tug, you pulled it free from his grip, wrapping it around yourself as you stood.

“Out,” you commanded, pointing toward the door.

“Such gratitude for waking you,” he replied mockingly, backing away to give you space to get yourself together, ignoring your command.

You secured the sheet around your body and moved quickly to your wardrobe. You grabbed a plain linen robe, slipping it over your shoulders and tying it at the waist. The soft material was a stark contrast to the silk you often wore, but it would suffice.

The early morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting golden streaks across the marble floor. You quickly fastened your hair into a loose knot, pinning it in place with a bronze pin. You were out of time to indulge in the laziness the morning had offered.

The hallway was cool and quiet as you stepped out, the air brushing against your skin. Caracalla joined you without a word, falling into step as you navigated the twists and turns of the private residence. The faint scent of figs and incense lingered, mingling with the distant hum of servants going about their tasks.

Inside the Imperator’s quarters, the scene was surprisingly casual. Septimius lounged on a lectus, his feet wrapped in steaming cloths, hands resting across his chest as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

Geta stood near the terrace, wrapped in a silk robe, his back to the room. Sunlight spilled in through the open curtains, highlighting the slight tilt of his head as he gazed outside. At the sound of your entrance, he turned, his eyes sliding over you and Caracalla before landing on Septimius with an indifferent look.

“Ah, there you are,” Septimius said, waving you over. His tone was light, though his eyes had a way of lingering a little too long.

You moved to the lectus across from him, sitting carefully on the edge. Caracalla stayed behind it, silent but looming, his presence as steady as a beating heart.

Geta didn’t move from his spot by the terrace. His expression gave nothing away, but the weight of his gaze lingered a moment too long before he turned back toward the sunlight. The air in the room wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t exactly friendly either- tension you’d come to expect in their presence.

Septimius leaned forward, crossing his arms with a casual air. “You know, it’s remarkable how you manage to navigate such stormy weather,” he said, his voice dripping with feigned admiration. “Not everyone can handle the complexities of family... or the occasional stormy temperament.” He chuckled lightly, but the glint in his eyes suggested he was enjoying the game.

“I am no stranger to stormy temperament,” you stated, your expression steady as you reached for a cup of wine sitting among a tray of fruits and cheese.

Septimius raised an eyebrow, his smile shifting slightly as he leaned in, clearly intrigued. “Ah, but rain can be quite the tempest, can’t it? I admire your confidence. It takes a certain... resilience to weather it.” His tone was playful, but the underlying challenge was unmistakable.

You took a sip of the wine, letting it settle before responding. “Resilience is a necessity in a world like this. One must learn to enjoy the rain, or risk being swept away.” You glanced at Geta, who seemed to be absorbing the conversation from his spot by the terrace, his expression still unreadable.

“Wise words,” Septimius replied, his voice smooth as silk. “But I must wonder—what happens when the storm grows too fierce? Do you still enjoy it, or do you seek shelter?” He leaned back slightly, his gaze intense, as if he were gauging your every reaction.

You could feel the tension in the air, but you were determined to hold your ground. “Sometimes, shelter is just an illusion. It’s better to face the storm head-on than to hide away and hope it passes.”

Septimius chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the exchange. “A bold stance, indeed. I do appreciate your spirit. It makes for quite the captivating conversation.”

“Get on with it,” Caracalla huffed from behind you, impatience dripping from his words. “What business brings us here?”

Geta turned, arms crossed tightly over his chest, glancing between Caracalla and Septimius with a look of expectation.

“You have acted like children, reckless and foolish,” Septimius began, his tone shifting as he sat up, the gravity of his words settling in the room. He fixed his gaze on Caracalla, speaking over your head, “You cavort with whores right under our noses, and the whole of Rome bears witness to your folly. The taberna you visited last night was paranoid by your presence, and this morning, the staff and patrons are buzzing with tales of your indiscretions.”

“And let me guess,” Caracalla interjected, a smirk creeping onto his face, “Your faithful hound, Macrinus, has kept you well informed of the situation.”

Macrinus appeared at the terrace, a shadowy figure emerging into the room. You realized then what had drawn Geta’s gaze.

“It seems that by merely uttering his name, I have conjured him,” Caracalla remarked with a sarcastic laugh, clearly enjoying the unfolding drama.

Macrinus raised his hands, palms outward, a sign of mock surrender. He stepped forward with careful deliberation, stopping beside the lectus where Septimius lounged. Folding his hands in front of him, he inclined his head slightly.

“I am here by request,” Macrinus said, his tone calm but firm, “not to meddle in the quarrels of the Imperial household.” He tugged the edge of his toga across his shoulder, smoothing the fabric around him.

“And yet,” Caracalla cut in, moving closer to you, his voice sharper than a soldier’s blade, “here you are.”

Geta cocked his head to one side, studying Macrinus with a faint smirk. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the rustle of fabric as Geta moved closer.

“It is at my order that he is here, brother,” Geta said, spitting the word brother like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

You turned, casting a glance over your shoulder at Caracalla. Confusion flickered across your face as your gaze darted to meet his, searching for answers in his eyes.

“What is this about?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, though suspicion tugged at your tone.

“The empire needs an heir,” Septimius said sharply, his words cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. “It is your one duty—to give Rome a future. Yet here we are, without a successor, or any sign that one is to come. Is it your husband’s endless whoring that is to blame, or your taste for plotting with your maids to carry out your schemes? I know not, and frankly, I do not care. What I do know is that this cannot continue.”

His accusation hit like a slap, the air thickening around you. He had seen more than he let on, unraveling the plan you thought he had believed so easily.

“And now,” Caracalla murmured, his hand tightening on your shoulder, “you understand. He will extend the hand of favor even as he holds a dagger to your throat.”

Your jaw tightened, your gaze snapping back to Septimius. The weight of his scrutiny weighed down on you, but you met it with steel in your eyes. Whatever game he thought he played, you would not yield so easily.

“And yet, despite your shared transgressions, you two would make a match worthy of the gods themselves—if only you could cease your scheming against one another long enough to see it,” Septimius declared, his tone edged with amusement. “But because of those very transgressions, you shall both spend the remainder of the season in Baiae.”

His words hung heavy in the air, and you turned your gaze to Caracalla, whose face was a storm of fury.

“Exile?” Caracalla spat through gritted teeth. “You would exile the Augustus? The emperor of Rome?”

“How many times must I remind you,” Septimius said as he rose, his movements slow but deliberate. Geta stepped forward to steady him, while Macrinus bowed and retreated. “You are Augustus and emperor only by my will, Marcus.”

The lectus creaked as Caracalla lunged forward, but Geta steadied himself between Septimius and Caracalla, while Macrinus seized Caracalla by the shoulder, hauling him back. Amidst the sudden chaos, you realized your hand had found Caracalla’s, and his grip tightened with such ferocity that you feared your bones might snap.

Even in his weakened state, his feet swollen and discolored like a venomous wound, Septimius’s grin was sharp and unyielding.

“Perhaps a new line of succession is what Rome truly needs.” This time, his gaze did not fall on you, but on Geta, as though he had plucked the very stars from the heavens.

“You serpent!” Caracalla roared at his brother, struggling against Macrinus’s newfound hold, his voice raw with betrayal. His grip on your hand grew tighter, a reflection of his seething rage.

Geta, unmoved, merely smiled as he returned to Septimius’s side, tending to the aging emperor with practiced ease.

“Leave me,” Septimius commanded with a languid wave of his hand, his voice cold and final.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

“What ails him, exactly?” you asked at last, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the carriage. The rhythmic creaking and jolting of the wheels, each bump in the road, seemed a constant reminder of your shared exile to Baiae.

Caracalla turned his gaze to you for the first time since the journey began, his expression shadowed. “His feet swell,” he said, his tone flat. “To sizes unimaginable. They blacken, as you saw—purple and crude.” He grimaced, as if the very memory sickened him, before turning his eyes back to the window. “And then there is the plague. The dregs of it, lingering from the last campaign. The bloodletting, the vomiting. It comes and goes, but when it comes...” He trailed off, his lip curling slightly.

You grimaced at the image he painted, wondering how the truth about the Imperator had been kept so carefully concealed.

“This is your doing, you know,” Caracalla said suddenly, his voice devoid of inflection, raspy and light, as though he were stating some mundane fact.

“How do you reason that?” you asked, genuinely curious despite the sting of the accusation.

“Your very presence disturbs the balance,” he replied, his gaze fixed on the passing countryside. “And that little scheme of yours—” He turned his head slightly, though his eyes did not meet yours. “Amateur. Endearing, almost, the way you thought you had fooled us all.”

“I believe,” you said, your voice calm but firm, “that regardless of my presence, this house would have toppled under the weight of its own mistakes.”

“Do you?” he asked, tilting his head, studying you now with a glint of something between skepticism and intrigue.

“I tire of this,” you continued, your voice steady but carrying an edge of frustration. When he turned to look at you, you continued, “The endless back and forth. I wish you would decide whether you like me or loathe me.”

He laughed, his signature cackle, the corners of his lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Ah, but you will come to learn, dear wife,” he said, his tone laced with sardonic amusement, “that those two are often one and the same.”

“Macrinus,” you let his name roll off your tongue as you searched your memory. “I cannot say he is familiar to me.”

“He wouldn’t be,” Caracalla replied, his voice carrying a tone of indifference. “He was a slave in the reign of Marcus Aurelius, earned his freedom in the arena.”

“An extraordinary feat,” you remarked, glancing at him. “And his influence upon your father? What of that?”

Caracalla shrugged, shifting lower against the cushioned bench, his gaze wandering to the hills rolling past the window. The faint scent of cypress filtered into the carriage through the open slits. Outside, the road stretched ahead, bordered by rows of olive trees.

“The Garmantian campaign,” he began, his voice heavy with recollection. “A few years ago. Macrinus advised my father then. His blood ties him to that land, or so he claims—descended from those desert tribes.”

You nodded, studying him as the sunlight flickered over his pallid features. He turned back to you, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if wondering whether you deserved to know more.

“I led my first unit there,” he continued, almost reluctantly. “Macrinus was at my side. Geta—useless as ever—remained with father, an onlooker on a high ridge above the battle. A coward in all but name.” His lips curled into a sardonic smile. “He spent the rest of his time hidden away with the other scribes and so-called strategists, poring over scrolls instead of wielding a sword. A fitting place for him—among the weak and the overcautious.”

“He—” You shook your head, the words catching in your throat. You tried to push the thought away, to banish it to the shadows of your mind. But Caracalla was not one to let things lie.

“Say it,” he demanded, his voice low and sharp, like the scrape of a blade against stone. He leaned forward, his piercing gaze locking onto you as he reached out, fingers closing around your wrist with an iron grip. You reflexively tried to pull away, but his strength overpowered yours, dragging your hand back into his grasp.

“He is the one who told me about your courtesans,” you confessed, the words spilling out before you could reconsider. Your eyes darted anywhere but to his face, tracing the fine carvings on the wooden frame of the carriage, the dusty light filtering through its windows. “He showed me where you were that night—the last night you spent with them. I... I watched for a while, but I left when I had seen enough.”

For a moment, silence hung heavy between you. Then, with a snarl of disgust, he flung your hand aside, as if the very touch of you burned. His fist slammed into the roof of the carriage with such force that the wood creaked in protest, the sound echoing around you like a thunderclap.

“Stop!” he barked, his voice cut through the air. The driver obeyed instantly, pulling the horses to an abrupt halt. The jolt threw you forward, your palms bracing against the edge of the seat as the wheels ground to a halt on the gravel road.

You watched as Caracalla flung the carriage door open with a force that made the hinges groan. In a single, fluid motion, he bounded down the steps and onto the packed gravel. Two guards immediately stepped forward, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, their faces unreadable but watchful.

Alarmed, you slid closer to the window, gripping its edge. “What are you doing? What madness is this?”

“Horse!” he roared, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the countryside like a war cry. Moments later, a white stallion was led into view by a nervous stablehand, its mane gleaming like ivory under the midday sun.

You leaned farther out, your voice urgent. “Have you lost your senses? What has gotten into you?”

He ignored you, mounting the stallion with the practiced ease. From atop the horse, he turned his gaze back to you—a look of pure disdain etched into his face.

“I will see you in Baiae,” he spat, his tone laced with venom. Without waiting for a reply, he spurred the stallion into motion.

You could only watch as the beast surged forward, its hooves pounding against the earth, kicking up a cloud of dust that swirled in the air long after it had gone. The guards scrambled to follow, their own horses hurriedly prepared, but Caracalla was already disappearing into the horizon, leaving behind the echo of his fury.

Inside the now-emptied carriage, the silence pressed down on you, broken only by the distant cries of cicadas and the soft rustle of the olive trees.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Caracalla stayed gone for three days. On the third night, he finally returned, stumbling into the villa, drunker than a deckhand. His tunic was crooked, his hair disheveled, and he reeked of wine.

“Did you have fun while I sat alone?” you asked, not bothering to glance up from the scroll in your hands.

He stopped mid-stride, squinting at you with furrowed brows. His eyes landed on you, stretched out on the lectus, one foot dangling off the edge, your toes curling lazily as if you hadn’t a care in the world.

“You’re never alone,” he said flatly, his voice slurred, the sour tang of wine thick in the air around him.

“True,” you replied with a shrug, “but that is not the point.”

You rolled up the scroll with a sharp snap, the sound echoing through the atrium like a whip crack.

“Where have you been?” you demanded, your voice cutting through the quiet. “We were sent here for one reason: for me to conceive. Not for you to run around town acting like a whoring drunkard.”

You knew full well where he had been. Metella had been your eyes for the first two days, tailing him to the seedier corners of the city—brothels, taverns, gambling dens. By the third day, her reports were unnecessary. The smell of him now told you enough. Meanwhile, Cassia had stayed behind to tend to you, watching as you fumed, pacing the villa with balled fists.

Caracalla’s mouth twisted into a smirk, his flushed face shining in the lamplight. “You’ve grown bold, haven’t you?” he said, his tone mocking as he leaned against a marble column for balance. “What is it, cara mea? Have you grown bored of the luxury and servants here that you now pass the time by scolding me?”

You stood from the lectus, smoothing your stola with deliberate calm, the sound of the fabric brushing against the mosaic floor louder than it should have been.

“Luxury?” you snapped, stepping closer until you could see the hazy glaze in his eyes. “Do not mistake my patience for contentment. While you waste our time and fortune, the empire waits. Rome waits. You were sent here to do your duty, not to disgrace yourself in taverns and brothels. Or would you prefer I send word to Rome that Caracalla has no interest in producing heirs? That he remains flaccid?”

His smirk faded, and his hand shot out, gripping your wrist. It wasn’t rough, but it was firm enough to send a message. “You tread dangerous ground,” he growled, his voice low and menacing.

“And so do you,” you shot back, refusing to flinch. “But unlike you, I know how to keep my balance.”

For a long moment, the two of you stared at each other, the tension stretching thin. Then, his grip loosened, and he let your wrist fall.

“Fine,” he muttered, brushing past you, his steps uneven as he headed toward his quarters. “I’ll do what is required. But do not think for a moment you control me.”

You stood there in the silence, your wrist tingling where his hand had been. When his footsteps faded, you let out a slow breath, your face hardening.

It was only a moment later that you heard the sharp whinny of a horse and the steady thud of hooves on sand. With a grunt, you hauled yourself to the balcony, gripping the iron railing as you leaned out. Your eyes widened in disbelief as you spotted Caracalla, riding off into the darkening horizon. He was headed straight for the heart of the night’s chaos—the very center of hedonism and excess.

Hurling yourself from the railing, your bare feet slipping across the cool floor, you swiftly secured your sandals, the straps biting into your skin as you hurried down to the atrium. At the grand doorway, two guards stood at attention.

“Ready my horse,” you commanded, your voice firm as you draped the light folds of your palla loosely around your neck, a gesture that spoke of both urgency and authority.

One of the guards faltered, his eyes widening as though struck dumb by your words. “Do your ears fail you?” you snapped, your tone sharpened with impatience. “I said, ready my horse!”

“My lady, you cannot ride into the city,” the elder of the two guards replied, his voice steady though his posture betrayed hesitation. The younger guard straightened, his eyes darting nervously around, as if afraid to meet your gaze for long. “It is unseemly for one of your rank to travel without accompaniment, let alone on horseback.”

You closed your eyes, drawing a measured breath before exhaling sharply, a brisk sigh of exasperation.

“If you wish for the household slaves to find your corpse in the ocean and your head upon the beach come dawn, then by all means, ignore my command.”

The elder guard hesitated, his jaw tightening briefly before he turned on his heel, striding with purpose through the atrium and vanishing through the side passage that led to the stables.

The younger guard remained rooted in place, attempting to maintain composure. You began pacing the mosaic-tiled floor, your sandals echoing softly in the vast space as your hands twisted together. Frustration burned within you, like a wildfire sweeping through dry plains, all encompassing, devastating.

When the elder guard reappeared in the doorway, you strode past him without a word. Outside, the pale horse stood waiting. With practiced grace, you swung onto its back, dismissing the guard's offered hand as though it were an insult.

“I never intended to ride into the city alone, Praetorian,” you said, casting a sharp glance down the bridge of your nose at him. “The two of you will accompany me—if you can keep up.”

Without waiting for a reply, you tightened your grip on the reins and urged the horse forward. The stallion responded instantly, surging into motion as the dull nudge of your sandal found its mark against its flank.

The night wind tore at your palla as the world became a blur of shadow and moonlit sand. The rhythmic thud of hooves against the earth echoed like a battle drum. The roar of the distant sea mingled with the hiss of sand kicked up in your wake, but you paid it no mind.

Glancing back, you caught sight of the two Praetorians scrambling to mount their own steeds. Their movements seemed clumsy compared to your own, and you allowed yourself a fleeting smirk of satisfaction. If they meant to follow, they would have to earn their place at your side.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Baiae stretched out before you as the horse’s hooves hit cobblestone. The city shimmered even in the moonlight, its white marble villas gleaming like polished pearls, their red-tiled roofs descending toward the sea. Steam rose in ghostly plumes from the famed baths, filling the air with the smell of sulfur and salt.

As you rode deeper, the streets grew narrower, lined with colonnades that framed courtyards filled with flickering oil lamps. Laughter spilled out from wine-soaked feasts, the hymns of a lyre mingling with the rhythmic clapping of dancers. Even at this late hour, Baiae did not sleep.

To your right, the black expanse of the sea was alive with reflected light, where torch-lit barges and private vessels floated lazily. Beyond them, the looming shadow of Mount Vesuvius stood silent. The Praetorians, ever watchful, followed your lead as you turned down a quieter street, away from the bustle of the forums and toward the private quarter. The hum of activity dimmed, replaced by the presence of towering gates and high walls.

You slowed your horse as the entrance to your destination came into view—a grand domus perched high on a hill. The vast bronze gates were adorned with intricate mouldings of Neptune and his trident, and from beyond them came the faint sound of water cascading into a central atrium fountain. You had been here before, as a child, remembering its purpose and what you had witnessed of its opulence.

This was not the domain of commoners but of those whose power carried the fortunes of Rome itself.

“Guard the gate,” you instructed, your tone leaving no room for argument. You handed the reins to a waiting slave and stepped forward, the weight of the night’s purpose settling on your shoulders.

You paused at the gates of the grand domus, but before you could step forward, the elder Praetorian dismounted and approached, his expression unreadable.

“My lady,” he began cautiously, his voice low to avoid drawing the attention of the slaves nearby. “This is not where you will find him.”

Your gaze snapped to his, sharp and questioning. “Explain yourself.”

The Praetorian’s jaw tightened. “He…” The words hung uneasily in the air, “He resides elsewhere in Baiae—at an establishment by the lower harbor.”

You studied him for a moment, noting the flicker of discomfort in his demeanor. Finally, you gave a nod. “Then you will lead me there. Now.”

“As you command, Domina,” he said, bowing slightly before striding back to his horse. The younger Praetorian exchanged a nervous glance with you before following suit.

Once mounted, the elder guard took the lead, guiding you down winding streets that grew increasingly narrow and shadowed. The splendor of Baiae began to give way to a more primal energy. The laughter was harsher, the music seductive. The lower harbor stretched out before you. Tabernas and brothels clustered together, their facades painted in deep colors, their entrances crowded with figures cloaked in secrecy and sex. Men bellowed drunkenly, women beckoned from balconies draped in rich silks, and shadows moved between doorways.

The Praetorian pulled his horse to a stop before a particular building—modest compared to the grand villas of the upper city, yet unmistakably high class for its kind. Its doorway was framed by carved columns, and a faint, seductive melody drifted out.

“This is the place,” the elder guard said, dismounting and stepping aside. His expression was carefully neutral, though his clenched fists showed his discomfort.

You slid off your horse, handing the reins to the younger guard. The flickering light from a brazier near the entrance cast golden hues across your face as you stepped toward the door, the faint hum of voices and laughter growing louder with each step.

“Wait here,” you ordered, your voice firm. The Praetorians hesitated, exchanging a glance, but obeyed, remaining by the doorway.

Pushing aside the heavy curtain that covered the entrance, you stepped into the warmth and haze of the brothel. The air was thick with incense and wine, the light dim but gilded, as though the entire room were lost in a fog. Figures reclined on cushions and couches, their forms draped in flowing fabrics, their laughter rich and unrestrained.

Laughter rippled through the air, sharp and boisterous, as men gambled at low tables, surrounded by women who hung on their every word. You kept your face neutral, though anger simmered in your chest. As you stepped deeper into the room, making your way through clusters of loungers and revelers, your gaze caught on a scene at the far end of the chamber.

There he was.

Caracalla lounged at a table, his tunic loosely belted, his posture relaxed. His profile was illuminated by the golden light, the faint glint of rings on his fingers catching your eye as he threw dice onto the table with a triumphant laugh. The men around him roared with approval—or fear—it was difficult to tell.

What caught your attention more was the woman draped across his lap, her arm lazily curled around his neck. Her hair, pinned in loose waves, framed a face disturbingly familiar. Her features bore an uncanny resemblance to your own—enough to make your breath catch in your throat. She leaned into him, laughing softly as she whispered something in his ear.

Your stomach twisted, rage and disbelief stirring within you. For a moment, you stood stuck to the spot, your veil slipping further down your neck as you struggled to maintain your composure.

“My lady, are you lost?”

The voice startled you. A woman with a painted face and a sheer stola approached, her expression one of concern. Her kohl-lined eyes searched yours, and her hand reached out to gently touch your arm. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said softly, her tone maternal despite her surroundings. “It is dangerous to wander too close to him.”

You blinked, your focus shifting to her. “Dangerous?” you repeated, your voice calm but cold.

Her grip on your arm tightened ever so slightly as she leaned in, lowering her voice. “He’s not a man to trifle with. Especially not for a lady like you.” She glanced over her shoulder toward Caracalla, as if fearful he might see her speaking to you. “Come, I’ll take you somewhere safe before he notices you.”

You stiffened, pulling your arm free. “Do you know who I am?” you asked, your words sharp.

The woman hesitated, her brows furrowing slightly. “No, my lady, but it doesn’t matter. You’re too fine to be here.” Her gaze flicked to your attire, the richness of your fabric setting you apart from everyone else in the room. “You don’t want his attention, believe me. It will ruin you.”

Her words only fanned the flames of your fury. Your eyes drifted back toward Caracalla, who was oblivious to your presence, his focus entirely on the woman perched in his lap.

Your jaw tightened, and your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

The woman hesitated, her painted lips parting as though to protest. Taking pause, she stepped closer, her expression softening with concern.

“Caracalla is not the kind of man a woman like you should ever let too close. He... plays games. Dangerous ones.”

You frowned as her words sent a chill through you. “What do you mean by that?”

She tilted her head, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder like silk. She seemed to hesitate, wondering how much to reveal. Then she leaned back slightly, her expression grave, yet seductive.

“He has... peculiar appetites,” she said carefully, her voice almost teasing, her eyes betraying the seriousness of her words. “He likes to test people. Push them to their limits. He likes to play with swords—not just on the battlefield. He enjoys seeing how far he can go before someone breaks.”

You stiffened, the insinuation settling in your stomach. “What are you saying?”

Her lips curved into a slow, almost feline smile. “He enjoys pain. Giving it, taking it. There are whispers, my lady. Whispers of him bleeding women just to see how much they can endure. For his amusement. For his... pleasure.”

The air between you seemed to grow colder despite the warmth of the room. Your breath caught in your throat, a thousand questions circling your mind, but you couldn’t find the words.

“Wait,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost pleading. “You look unwell, Domina. Come with me—just for a moment. Some fresh air will do you good.”

You opened your mouth to dismiss her, but she took your arm again, this time more gently, and began guiding you back through the crowded room.

The din of laughter and gambling faded behind you as she led you through a side door, out into the cool night.

You found yourself standing in a small courtyard, enclosed by ivy-covered walls. A single olive tree stood at its center, its leaves shimmering faintly in the moonlight. The sounds of the brothel were distant now, muffled by the stone walls, leaving only the soft rustle of leaves and the distant crash of waves to fill the silence.

“Wait here,” the woman said, releasing your arm and disappearing briefly through another doorway. When she returned, she held a small clay cup of wine, the dark liquid sloshing slightly as she walked.

Her movements were fluid, as though she belonged more to the shadows than the smoky room she had found you in. Her piercing eyes studied you as she handed you the cup of wine, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity.

You accepted the cup, though you did not drink immediately. “You haven’t told me your name,” you said, your voice steadier.

She blinked, surprised, then gave a small smile. “Prosperina,” she said. “It’s what they call me here.”

Her eyes, sheer and piercing, were an unearthly shade of blue, a stark contrast against her tanned complexion.

“Why do you care if I am well?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

Prosperina hesitated, then shrugged. “Because I have seen what happens to women who cross his path.” She gestured vaguely to the brothel. “They’re drawn in, thinking they’ll find something—power, protection, even love. But he’s not a man who gives. He takes.” Her voice softened. “And you don’t belong here. Anyone can see that.”

You glanced down at the cup in your hands, the wine’s surface rippling faintly in the breeze.

“Do you have anything stronger?” you asked, your tone cool but deliberate.

Her painted lips parted in surprise, then curved into a faint smile, a flicker of amusement dancing in her gaze. “You don’t strike me as the type to indulge, my lady,” she said softly.

You raised an eyebrow, meeting her eyes with a look that left no room for argument. “Tonight is an exception.”

Prosperina studied you for a long moment, her gaze calculating, as though weighing whether she should agree. Finally, she nodded, the golden bracelets on her wrists clinking softly as she turned. “Come with me,” she said, her voice low and inviting.

She led you through a narrow passage on the side of the courtyard. A small doorway opened into her quarters. The walls were painted with faded frescoes of nymphs and satyrs, the colors dulled by time. A low couch covered in silken throws occupied the center, while an assortment of small, clay jars and glass vials lined a wooden table nearby.

Her sheer gown clung to her curves like a second skin as she leaned against the edge of the table in her quarters, the lamplight highlighting the rich tan of her skin and the piercing ice-blue of her eyes. She studied you with a gaze that seemed to see more than it should, her lips curving into a faint, knowing smile.

She held up a pipe delicately, her fingers adorned with gold rings that caught the light. The gesture was casual and playful, but there was confidence in her tone, as though she already knew your answer.

When you hesitated, her smile deepened, a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Don’t look at me like that,” she teased, moving closer. “I don’t bite—unless you would like me to.”

She moved like a cat, her steps deliberate and silent, her gaze never leaving yours. When she extended the pipe toward you, her fingers brushed yours, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

“Go on,” she urged, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It will help you forget, just for a little while.”

Prosperina tilted her head, her lips curving into a sly smile as she held the pipe closer. “A bold woman deserves bold choices,” she murmured, her voice low and inviting. “Breathe in. Let go of everything else.”

Without a word, you lifted the pipe to your lips and inhaled deeply, the smoke burning slightly as it filled your lungs.

The effect was instant. Your chest tightened for a heartbeat before a rush of warmth spread throughout your body, followed by a dizzying sensation that sent you sprawling backward onto the plush couch. The room seemed to tilt and spin, the dim lamp light splitting into ribbons of gold that danced across the walls.

Shapes and colors began to swirl, cascading like liquid through your vision, while Prosperina’s voice became an echo, far away yet hauntingly close. “There it is,” she purred, leaning over you, her dark hair cascading like a curtain around her face. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

You blinked, but the world refused to focus. Shadows danced and shifted, morphing into figures that were familiar and strange. You saw flashes of faces—some from memory, others from dreams. The air felt electric against your skin.

Prosperina knelt beside you, her fingers brushing your temple as she studied you with fascination. “You’re caught between worlds now,” she whispered, her voice velvety and hypnotic. “Do you feel it?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, a strange, breathless laugh escaped, the sound foreign even to your own ears. Your body felt weightless, as though the couch beneath you had disappeared.

“Relax,” Prosperina cooed, her touch sliding down your arm in a slow motion. “Let it take you. There’s no need to fight.”

The room twisted and blurred, melting into something unfamiliar, but familiar at the same time. Prosperina’s face hovered above you briefly, her sharp features smearing like wet paint before disappearing into the shadows. In their place, a figure emerged—a face both familiar and haunting. Geta.

His expression was soft, kind, the way you remembered it when you were children, before the weight of politics and betrayal had driven a wedge between everyone you had once cared for. His lips moved, though no sound came, his words carried away by the same wind that seemed to swirl through your mind.

“Geta,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, thick with longing and confusion. You reached for him, but your hand passed through his form like smoke, the edges of his figure distorting before re-forming. His eyes—so familiar, so painfully warm—locked with yours. For a moment, you thought he might speak, but the image shifted violently.

Suddenly, Caracalla’s face loomed in front of you, his blue eyes filled with anger and frustration. “What are you doing, Prima?” his voice boomed, though you couldn’t tell if it was real or imagined. “You think you can escape this? Escape me?”

The world around you shattered like glass, fragments of Caracalla’s image reforming. Now he was standing over you, his hand gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him. “You’re mine,” he said, his voice a growl, filled with something dangerous. “No matter what you tell yourself. No matter who you try to run to.”

You flinched, but the vision changed again. Geta reappeared, his expression now filled with sorrow as though he could see what you had become. He extended his hand, his mouth forming the words Come back to me, though you couldn’t hear him. The image of Caracalla stood behind him, watching with a mixture of rage and jealousy.

The two brothers began to blur together, their features morphing and overlapping until you couldn’t tell them apart. The figures around you spun faster, their voices rising in a symphony of anger, sorrow, and something else—something deeper and more primal, echoing through your bones.

Your chest tightened, the sensations pulsing through your body becoming almost unbearable. You gasped for air, your vision blurred, as a shadow loomed over you again. This time, it was Prosperina, her voice cutting through the confusion.

“Easy, Domina,” she murmured, her tone soothing yet laced with amusement. “You’re seeing the truth you’ve buried deep. Let it come. Let it free you.”

Prosperina’s piercing blue eyes locked onto yours as the swirling haze of the hallucinations ebbed and flowed like the Tiber. Her touch became firmer, her hand trailing from your arm to your shoulder, her fingers brushing the curve of your neck. The room felt distant, the visions melting into shadows as her presence anchored you back in the present.

“The gods have chosen you,” she whispered, her lips so close to your ear that her breath sent shivers down your spine. “And I can see why. You are a force.”

Prosperina’s hands moved along the length of your body, her touch tracing the curve of your waist. Her fingers slipped beneath the fabric of your stola, their warmth igniting a fire that burned through you. You gasped as her touch grew bolder, her hands exploring your skin with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

Your body arched instinctively into her as her pointer finger stroked your weeping slit, prying you open gently, her name escaping your lips in a whisper as your fingers tangled in her dark hair. Her touch was intoxicating, sending waves of pleasure through you, dull and aching.

She leaned closer, her breath hot against your ear. “Domina,” she murmured, her voice low, “you are divine.”

She worked you expertly, finding the spot within you that you had never known existed. Your cunt pulsated around her slender digits, eyes rolling closed, legs trembling. The pleasure was overwhelming, a pressure building within you that left you trembling, on the edge of something you had never experienced before.

Then, without warning, a cry escaped your lips. It echoed softly in the room, but it felt foreign, as if it belonged to someone else. But before you could experience the sensation– give it a name and truly define it– the door slammed open.

The sound shattered the moment like a roll of thunder. Your head snapped toward the doorway, your body stiffening as a wave of cold panic washed over you.

There, silhouetted in the flickering lamplight, stood Caracalla. His piercing eyes blazed with fury, his face twisted in an expression that was equal parts shock and rage.

“What is this?” he roared, his voice cutting through the room.

Prosperina froze, her hands still on you, though the warmth of her touch now felt like fire against your skin. She quickly withdrew, her movements sharp, as she turned to face him.

You sat up, your breathing ragged, your mind racing to catch up with what had just happened. The haze of the devil’s breath made it hard to think clearly, but the sight of Caracalla’s seething form brought you into the present.

“Answer me, Prima!” he snarled, his voice dripping with venom as he stepped into the room, his gaze darting between you and Prosperina.

Prosperina’s eyes flickered to you, a silent question flashed behind them, but she said nothing, her lips pressed into a tight line.

Caracalla’s fury filled the room, oppressive and suffocating. “My empress,” he spat, the word laced with mockery, “consorting with a whore? Do you have no shame?”

“Leave her out of this,” you said, your voice cold and commanding despite the tremors running through you.

Caracalla let out a harsh laugh, stepping closer, his expression that of twisted rage and cruel satisfaction. “Out of this? She was in you, Prima. Or were you going to pretend she wasn’t just defiling what belongs to me?”

The words hung in the air, cutting through the thick tension. Prosperina’s piercing blue eyes widened, flicking between you and the emperor.

“Empress?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. The color drained from her face as the full weight of what had just transpired crashed down on her. “You’re the empress?”

You turned your gaze to her, an unspoken apology crossed your features for the secret you’d let her unknowingly cross.

But the moment was short lived, shattered as Caracalla’s harsh laugh filled the room again. He gestured toward Prosperina with a flick of his hand. “Yes, Prosperina. Behold your empress—on her knees for you like a common slave.”

“Stop,” you said sharply, your voice cutting through his mocking tone.

As he reached out to grab you, the world around you seemed to tilt, and the ground beneath your feet felt unstable. The effects of the drug were too strong, and your head spun. You reached out to steady yourself but couldn’t find anything solid to hold on to.

“Stop,” you gasped, your legs buckling beneath you.

But Caracalla wasn’t interested in mercy. In one swift motion, he gripped you by the arm, his fingers tightening around your wrist with an iron grip. “You are coming with me,” he growled, dragging you out of the room with no consideration for your protests.

Your mind was a whirl of incoherent thoughts, and you stumbled as he pulled you through the corridors, your vision growing darker at the edges. The air felt thick, and you couldn’t focus—couldn’t think.

“Stop,” you tried again, but your voice was little more than a rasp.

Caracalla wasn’t listening. He half-carried, half-dragged you through the back entrance of the brothel and out into the courtyard. The cool night air bit at your skin, but it did nothing to clear the fog in your mind.

“Up,” Caracalla ordered, his voice harsh, commanding. He threw you onto a horse, and before you could protest or struggle, he was behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist with a grip like iron, holding you steady against him.

The world around you seemed to collapse as the horse jolted into motion. You could barely keep your eyes open, every movement sending another wave of dizziness through you. The drugs had taken hold fully now, and you felt detached from your own body, like you were watching yourself from far away.

Your body felt heavy, your head lolling against Caracalla’s chest.

“Don’t you dare pass out on me,” his voice snapped, sharp and commanding in your ear. His arm tightened around your waist, holding you firmly in place against him. “Stay awake, Prima. You wouldn’t want to miss this, would you?”

A weak sound escaped your lips, somewhere between a groan and a whimper. “Can’t...too much,” you murmured.

“Oh no, you don’t get to escape this,” he hissed, his tone low and cruel. “You’re not going to float away into whatever little fantasy that woman put into your head. You stay here—with me.”

You felt his lips brush the shell of your ear, not tenderly but deliberately, his words dripping with venom. “Do you think she could give you what I can? Hmm? Is that what you were dreaming about, Prima? Another woman’s touch? Or maybe it’s Geta, whispering sweet nothings to you while you drift away.”

You stirred weakly, your fingers curling against the reins.

“That’s it,” he continued, his voice a mix of mockery and seduction. “Stay awake. Don’t disappoint me now. Tell me, Prima—did you like it? Did you like the way she touched you? Or was it the thought of me finding you like that thrilled you?”

Your breath hitched, your head turning slightly as though to respond, but your thoughts were too scattered to form words. He laughed softly, a bitter, dark sound. “No clever reply? No self righteous fury? Maybe you’re finally realizing how easily you can be undone.”

His hand, steady on the reins, pressed against your thigh, his grip firm and possessive. “You don’t get to slip away, Prima. Not now, not ever. Whatever you felt back there, whatever fantasies she gave you, they’re nothing compared to what I can make you feel.”

The words were both a taunt and a promise. You shivered, your body betraying you as his breath brushed against your neck, sending a cold shiver down your spine.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice softer but no less dangerous. “Stay with me. You belong to me, Prima, whether you want to admit it or not.”

“Why?” The word slipped from your lips, barely a whisper.

Caracalla’s grip on your waist tightened slightly. “Why what?” he demanded, his tone sharp and impatient.

You took a shuddering breath, your voice trembling as you managed to form the words. “Why have you never made me feel like that before?”

He stiffened behind you, the tension in his body palpable. For a moment, the only sound was the rhythmic beat of the horse’s hooves against the ground, the weight of your question hanging heavily between you.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and edged with frustration. “What are you asking me, Prima? Why I haven’t coddled you? Why I haven’t wasted time on fantasies and false promises?”

You turned your head slightly, your cheek brushing against his chest. “That’s not what I mean,” you murmured, your voice raw with vulnerability. “I mean... why have you never touched me like I mattered? Like you wanted me?”

His breath hitched, and for a brief moment, you thought you felt him falter. But when he answered, his tone was bitter, almost defensive. “Wanting you isn’t the issue,” he said harshly. “Feelings, tenderness—that’s not what matters. An heir is what matters. Duty is what matters. You think this is a game, Prima? That this empire is built on emotions?”

You swallowed hard, his words cutting through you like a blade. “So that’s it?” you whispered. “I’m just a vessel to you? Nothing more?”

He didn’t respond immediately, his silence deafening. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, almost grudging. “Wanting you, needing you—that doesn’t change what I am. What we are.”

"What are we?" you asked, feeling a mix of confusion and disbelief.

"Nothing but a fleeting thought until that cursed cunt of yours does what it’s meant to—until your womb carries my heir," he shot back, kicking the horse into a faster stride.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Dismounting the horse proved more challenging than anticipated. With Caracalla already on the ground, his gaze burning into you, you shook your head and released the reins. Your feet met the sand, sinking deep into its grains, and you stumbled. As you fumbled, he stepped forward, his hand outstretched to steady you, but you pushed it away, catching yourself just before falling.

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed, brushing your windswept hair out of your face.

He loomed closer, his brow furrowing in frustration. “You’ve done enough tonight, Prima. Enough of this madness.”

“Madness?” You whirled to face him, your voice ringing out in the silence of the night. “The only madness here is yours!”

Before he could respond, you lunged forward and snatched the dagger from his belt. The two guards stationed at the villa’s entrance stiffened instantly, their hands flying to the hilt of their swords.

“Prima,” Caracalla growled,“Put it down.”

You ignored him, your grip tightening on the blade. “Must I bleed for you, Caracalla? Would that finally make me real to you? Would that amuse you?”

“Enough of this nonsense,” he snapped. He took a step closer, his hands clenched into fists.

You backed away as you held the blade out between you. “Isn’t that what you like?” you demanded, your voice rising, trembling with anger. “I’ve heard the whispers, Caracalla. You like to bleed women for fun. You like to push them until they break, to see how far they can go before they shatter.”

His expression darkened, jaw tightening. The guards glanced at one another, uncertain whether to intervene.

“And tonight—tonight, you sat there with a woman who looked just like me.” Your voice broke, your eyes stinging with tears you refused to shed. “She had my face, my hair... Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t care? You sat there with her on your lap, touching her, gambling with her like she was some pale imitation of what you already have!”

He froze for a moment, your words seeming to hit a nerve, but then his expression twisted into something dark and unreadable.

“You know nothing,” he said coldly.

“Don’t I?” you shot back, your voice trembling with fury. “You think I don’t hear the rumors? About the swords, the games, the bleeding?” You took a step closer, your eyes locking with his, refusing to back down. “Well, here I am, Caracalla. Bleed me, if that’s what you want. Push me to the edge like you do to all the others.”

Without waiting for his reaction, you pressed the blade against your palm, the sharp edge biting into your skin. You flinched as blood welled and trickled down your wrist, pooling onto the marble floor.

His hand shot out faster than you could react, gripping your wrist and forcing the dagger from your grasp. It clattered to the ground, the sound echoing through the villa. He yanked you toward him, his grip bruising as his face hovered inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin.

Before he could speak, you wrenched your hand free and swung it hard against his face. The sound of the slap echoed through the space, your blood smearing across his cheek like a brand.

He froze, his head snapping to the side from the force of your blow. Slowly, he turned back to face you, his dark eyes blazing with fury. He drug you to a chaise, twisting your body around to lay across his lap.

Caracalla’s grip on you tightened, his fingers digging into your waist as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. “You don’t learn through words, Prima. Perhaps pain will remind you of who you’re speaking to.”

You froze, your breath hitching at his words, the threat lingering in the air like smoke. Before you could summon a retort, his voice cut through the silence, cold and commanding.

“Fetch me a whip,” he barked, his head turning slightly toward the guards who still stood by the entrance, their eyes wide with apprehension.

For a moment, neither guard moved, exchanging uneasy glances.

“Now,” Caracalla snapped, his tone sharp enough to make both men flinch. One of them nodded and stepped away, his footsteps echoing in the atrium as he disappeared into an adjoining room.

Your heart pounded, each beat loud in your ears as you twisted against his hold, desperate to break free. “Caracalla, don’t you dare,” you hissed, your voice dripping with venom even as your stomach knotted with a mixture of anger and dread. Perhaps, something else. Something you had never experienced under the circumstances you found yourself in.

“Quiet,” he commanded, his hand pressing more firmly against your back. “You wanted my attention, didn’t you? Now you have it. Let’s see if you still crave it when I’m finished with you.”

Moments later, the guard returned, his face pale as he held out the braided leather flogger with trembling hands. Caracalla took it without a word, dismissing the man with a wave. The guard quickly retreated, leaving you alone with your husband and the weight of what was about to unfold.

He held the flogger in his hand, letting the strands sway lightly, almost thoughtfully, as he regarded you with a dark, calculating gaze.

“Caracalla,” you said, your voice low and sharp as you craned your neck to glare at him. “You’re not doing this.”

“Oh, I am,” he replied, his tone cold and resolute. “Because this is what you want, isn’t it? You want to push me, to test me. Well, here I am, Prima. Let’s see how far you’re willing to go.”

He let the flogger brush lightly against the back of your thighs, dragging the fabric of your stola with it, the sensation sending a shiver up your spine. The teasing motion wasn’t meant to hurt—not yet—but it was a warning of what was to come.

“You bleed for me,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You slap me like you’re my equal. And now, you’ll learn what it means to be mine.”

The leather strands trailed over your skin, their touch deceptively gentle as Caracalla hovered in silence. You could feel his gaze boring into you, and despite the fury burning in your chest, your body trembled under his hold.

“You’ve always wanted to test me,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, cutting through the tense air. “So tell me, Prima, are you ready for the lesson you asked for?”

“Let me go,” you snapped, twisting against him, but his iron grip on your waist didn��t falter.

“You think I don’t see it?” he continued, ignoring your protests, the flogger now coiled loosely in his hand. “You thrive on this—on defiance, on rebellion. You provoke me, hoping I’ll break, hoping I’ll lose control.”

The strands of leather flicked against the back of your thighs, sharp enough to sting but not yet hard enough to leave a mark. Your breath hitched involuntarily, and Caracalla’s lips curled into a grim, humorless smile.

“But that’s the thing about me, Prima,” he said darkly, his voice dropping lower. “I don’t break. I’m the one who does the breaking.”

The next strike came without warning against the bare flesh of your ass, the flogger snapping against your skin with enough force to make you gasp. The sting bloomed instantly, hot and sharp, radiating.

“Caracalla!” you cried out, your voice a mixture of fury and disbelief.

“Don’t call me that,” he growled, his tone cutting through the room like a blade. “When you speak to me, you will remember who I am to you. Say it.”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction. Another strike followed, harder this time, and you bit down on your lip to stifle the sound that threatened to escape.

“Say it,” he repeated, his hand pressing down against the reddened flesh of your ass to hold you steady.

The heat of the blows, the tension in his voice, and the humiliation of your position all made your head spin. The drugs still lingered in your system, dulling some of the pain but amplifying the intensity of the moment.

“You are my emperor,” you spat finally, your voice trembling but laced with venom.

“That’s right,” he said, his voice dark with satisfaction. “And you will remember that.”

He let the flogger fall again, a calculated punishment meant to remind you of his dominance. Each strike sent a jolt through you, but it was the weight of his dominating presence, the control he exerted, that stung more than the blows.

Caracalla’s strikes came slower now, deliberate, as if he wanted you to feel every ounce of control he wielded. The leather strands snapped against the soft flesh of your ass, leaving a burning heat that spread through your skin, through your core. Your breath came in shallow gasps, and you bit down on your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a cry, though the pain blurred into a strange, disorienting feeling, manifesting an ache between your thighs, and warmth wetness as you squeezed them together.

"Still defiant," he murmured, his tone laced with amusement. His hand settled on your lower back, holding you firmly against his lap, and you could feel the tension radiating from him, like a predator toying with its prey. "You think I don't know what you're doing? Pushing me like this, daring me to lose control?"

"You already have," you spat, your voice shaky but sharp, though you could even hear the vulnerability beneath it. "Look at yourself, Caracalla. Do you think this proves your strength? That this—" You twisted beneath his grip, trying to pull free. "—makes you a ruler? It only makes you cruel."

His grip tightened, and he leaned down, his breath warm against the back of your neck. "You call me cruel, Prima, but you're the one who brought us here." The flogger trailed across your skin now, the sting replaced by a soft drag that only heightened the tension in the air. "You taunt me. Defy me. Challenge me in front of my guards like you're untouchable. And yet, here you are, over my knee, bleeding for my attention."

"You make me hate you," you hissed, though the venom in your words was laced with something deeper, something even you couldn't quite name.

"Do I?" he asked, his voice a low growl. The flogger fell again, harder this time, and the sharp snap against your thigh drew a gasp from your lips before you could stop it. "Or do I make you feel something you can't control?"

The question struck a nerve, and your body tensed against him, though your mind was too clouded—by anger, by the lingering effects of the drugs, by the intensity of him—to form a coherent reply. His free hand slid up your back, the touch firm but not cruel sending a shiver through you.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice quiet but seething with authority. "Admit what we both know, Prima."

Your silence was the only defiance you had left, and it only seemed to fuel his frustration. He tossed the flogger aside, and the sharp clatter against the marble floor echoed in the atrium. Both of his hands gripped your waist now, pulling you upright and turning you to face him. His expression was a storm—anger, desire, and something unspoken all in the depths of his ocean eyes.

"You want to hate me," he said, his voice low and steady, though there was a rawness to it that made your breath hitch. "But hate is still a feeling, isn't it, Prima? It's still mine to take from you."

You were a mess, your breathing shallow and uneven, tears pooling in your eyes though you refused to let them fall. Your hair clung to your damp skin, and your body trembled—not just from the pain but from the weight of everything you were feeling, everything that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. Your cut palm, still slick with blood, trembled as you tried to keep it from view, as if that small act could give you back some semblance of control.

"Look at you," he said, his voice low and rough, his hands tightening their hold on you as if he were afraid you might collapse. "You think you can sit here, defiant and proud, but you're barely holding yourself together. You're trembling, Prima."

Your eyes narrowed, though the tears made it hard to focus. "And whose fault is that?" you spat, your voice shaking. "You—you make me feel like I'm nothing. You take every piece of me and break it, twist it until I don’t even recognize myself."

His expression flickered for the briefest moment—something like guilt passing over his face before it hardened again. "I break you?" he said, his voice quiet but cutting. "Do you think I don’t feel the same? You think I don’t see how you look at me like I’m a monster, like every choice I make is a crime against you?"

"Because it is!" you cried, your voice cracking as the tears finally spilled over, hot and unrelenting. "You tell me I belong to you, but you push me away, humiliate me, treat me like I’m nothing more than a tool for your empire! How can you expect me to feel anything but hatred for you when you don’t even try to understand me?"

His hands moved to your shoulders, and for a moment, his grip softened. "You think I don’t understand?" he murmured, his voice quieter now, though no less intense. "You think I don’t see you, Prima? I see you more clearly than anyone else ever has.”

The admission stunned you into silence. For a moment, the room seemed to close in around you, the world narrowing to just the two of you. His words hung in the air, and you could feel the sincerity in them, even if you didn’t want to. Being understood by Caracalla meant, by some measure, you could possibly be like him.

"If you see me so clearly," you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper, "then why do you treat me like this? Why do you make it so impossible for us to be anything but enemies?"

He closed his eyes briefly, as though steadying himself, before looking at you again. "Because it’s easier to push you away than to let you see how much I want you," he said, his voice breaking just slightly on the last word.

You felt your knees buckle, and this time, you didn’t pull away when he steadied you, his arms wrapping around you almost protectively as he laid you back against the plush cushioned chaise.

"I hate you," you whispered against his chest, though the words lacked the fire they once had.

"I know," he replied softly, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. "But that doesn’t make any of this less true."

He tilted your face up to meet his gaze. “I don’t need to remind you that you belong to me,” Caracalla said softly, his voice smooth with an edge of menace. “But I will... just to make sure you’re never in doubt. Everything you are, every breath you take... it's mine to command.” His eyes darkened, “And when I’m finished with you, you’ll know it, deep down in your bones.”

It wasn’t long before he traced a path of bites and kisses along your neck and chest, relishing the softness of your belly, his warm hand resting possessively over your mound. A groan escaped his lips as a finger slipped between your folds, the wetness glistening on his finger.

Your response was hushed, tired from the hours of emotionality, from the ecstasy, from the devil’s breath; all you could manage was a soft moan, your head falling to the side in surrender.

“No,” he insisted, shaking his head, his hand tilting your chin to meet his gaze, your own wetness marking the curve of your cheek, “You shall not drift away from me again.”

He knelt on the chaise, pulling you gently by the back of your knees until your thighs rested on either side of his head. You inhaled a shaky breath as his fingers dug into your wounded backside, descending upon you like a man starved for your flesh. In just moments, the coil within you tightened, reminiscent of the pleasure Prosperina had given you earlier that night but even more intense. You tangled your bloodied fingers in his hair, urging him closer to your core, and finally, your voice returned, a wail escaping your lips as you released around his eager tongue.

Your vision blurred as you arched into his mouth, and when you came to, you looked down to find him sucking at the gash on your palm, as if your very essence was the only thing that could nourish him.

He quickly pulled away, his hand gliding across the marble floor until it found what he was searching for. The dagger sparkled in the candlelight, and a knot tightened in your stomach as you wondered what he was about to do. With a quick slash, he cut into his own palm, and you shuddered at the sound of his flesh parting.

When he pressed your wounded hands together, you couldn’t help but groan.

For two nights, you remained entwined with him in bloodied sheets, surrendering to him in every way. His seed marked your skin, streaking your thighs, mingling with the blood from kisses pressed too hard and bites that left their imprints upon taut flesh. He commanded you to learn his desires—to ride him with purpose, to take him deeply enough for your own pleasure, to find ecstasy in his dominance. In turn, he pushed you to your limits, coaxing cries from your lips that echoed through the chamber like prayers to the gods. By the end, your body wore the evidence of him—smudged, crimson handprints and bruises scattered like spoils of war. Exhaustion claimed you, pulling you into the softness of the bed, your heavy-lidded gaze stayed on him as he laid beside you.

Servants had come and gone during the two days, dismissed by his growled commands before they could enter. You caught the sound of his voice—low and steady, discussing affairs of the empire. Peeking through half-lidded eyes, you saw him framed in the doorway, a sheet draped loosely around his waist as he murmured to messengers. Without fail, he returned to you each time, sinking back into the bed to linger at your side, his gaze fixed upon you as you slipped once more to sleep.

The door flew open without warning, slamming against the wall with a force that shook the bed. You laid on your stomach, your battered body half-draped in the stained sheets, your wounded hand dangling limply from the edge of the bed. The cool breeze drifting in from the balcony made your exposed skin prickle, and the intrusion startled Caracalla from his place beside you.

“By the gods, you’ve nearly killed her.” Geta’s accusatory voice broke through the silence.

Caracalla jerked upright, his hand shot out to grab the sheet, draping it over your body before he swung his legs to the floor. “What in all the hells are you doing here, brother?” he growled.

“You’ve ignored every messenger I’ve sent,” Geta snapped, stepping into the room with no regard for the scene surrounding him. His eyes flicked briefly to you, his expression unreadable, before returning to his brother.

“As you can see, I’ve been busy,” Caracalla bit back, the sarcasm dripping from his words as he gestured dismissively toward you.

“And yet Rome burns in your absence,” Geta countered sharply. “But this isn’t about me, nor the senate’s growing distaste for your escapades.”

Caracalla leaned forward, his jaw tightening as he spat, “Then get to the point, unless you came to gawk.”

Geta’s eyes narrowed, his temper held in check by a thread. “It’s Father,” he finally said, his voice breaking faintly on the word. “He is not well.”

Caracalla froze for a beat, “How do you mean?” he demanded, his voice quieter now.

You stirred beneath the sheet, the ache in your body throbbing as you rolled onto your back, pulling the sheet around you. Squinting against the sunlight streaming in, you took in the two brothers.

Geta hesitated, “His condition has worsened,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “He has been unconscious for days.”

For the first time, Caracalla’s composure seemed to crack. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, his eyes darkening. “And you waited until now to tell me?” he snapped, though the anger in his tone seemed to mask something else.

“I’ve sent word,” Geta replied sharply, his frustration palpable. “You ignored it. You locked yourself away with her—” his gaze flicked to you briefly before returning to his brother “—and the empire be damned.”

Caracalla stood, his movements abrupt and dominating. “I will decide what damns the empire,” he said coldly, stepping toward Geta. “But if what you say is true, I will not be kept from Rome.” He turned to you, his gaze lingering on your exhausted form, his expression unreadable. “Get dressed. We leave at once.”

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

Taglist:

@alwaysahiccupandastrid

@justnobodynothingmore

@miamariposita

@niungguang

Dividers: @ghoulbloggerrr

[writing-whenever-whatever]

Little song bird-we will create and nurture a new Rome

Geta x reader x Caracalla 

Part 1 part2 part3 part 4 part 5

Summary: after getting home you and geta soon get into a slight conflict hurtful things are said and you end up upset but will he ever apologise 

Warnings : argument, injury, talk of abuse, apologies, mansplaining, sweet Caracalla , slight threat.

———————————————————————

Once I’m bathed and clean I’m sat in my bed chamber in only a towel as the healer sits tending the gash in my thigh using different ointments and oils to clean it, 

“ you must be careful when doing such reckless things my lady” he lectures his voice holding priority as he looks at me “ you could have seriously hurt yourself “ he adds on as I look at him” tis only a cut I see no damage done “ I scoff looking down at the man “ I do not need lectures to understand what I should and shouldn’t do” I smile slightly looking at the man who bandages my leg.

 “ you needn’t bother “ my hand landing to rest on top of his stopping him from wrapping my leg up any tighter “ it’s not even bleeding anymore “ I reassure him as he looks at me “ you’re a wild woman empress, you’ll be well suited at the emperors sides” he smiles up at me just as the doors open both brothers walking in “ ah ,your leg how is it” Geta asks meeting my bed side “ it is fine” I smile as he rests a tender hand on my shoulder “ its only a small tear in the flesh it’ll heal quickly and leave a small scar” the healer adds not looking up at the emperors as he talks “ good nothing to serious” Caracalla chuckles as he lays next to me on my bed 

his head tilting to look down  at me “ you should be more careful “ he scolds playfully tapping my cheek with each syllable a grin beaming down at me as Geta pulls my chin to look at me “ he’s right you know “ his eyebrows furrow slightly tone more serious

“what if he attacked you after you did such a delusional thing” he looks at me my head moves to look downwards “ but he didn’t” I mumble “ song bird” geta pulls my attention back up to him his  voice stern “ I’m not sure what they do at your place of birth but here ladies don’t start fights “ I grit my teeth at this “ don’t bring my birth place into this” I look at him “ and maybe if women put more of fight up there’d be less cases of ladies being attacked and defiled in Rome. I will not fall a victim just because I’m told I should be a lady” I pull my head away from him “ is this what your pathetic little meeting was about, trying to bring me down to reality well if you want a perfect little Roman wife then go a head and find one because you will not find her in me” I stand up glaring at Geta as I push past him and walk out of my bedchambers 

“ that’s not what I meant , darling come back” Geta yells out just to be ignored by me as I walk into the private gardens sitting under a gathering of trees hidden from the windows that stare down at the gardens I can’t help but pull my knees up to my chest

Talking to myself “ if they wish to love me so much they’ll have to learn my ways I will not be pushed around “ I mumble to myself 

I stay sat there in the gardens for hours the sun has gone down and the air has a bitter chill I’m still only wrapped in a towel from my bath and I’ve started to feel exhausted, my head resting back on the tree as my eyes flutter shut feeling so heavy I can’t help but give in to sleep, as I drift off I feel strong arms wrap around me and lift me up off the floor carrying me back inside the clinking of armour hitting the floor with each step “ I found her emperors” a gruff voice states “ take her to her chamber let her rest but keep her room heavily guarded we don’t want our song bird flying away” geta looks at me a stern look on his face as he runs his hand over my relaxed cheek “ why must you make things difficult “ he whispers under his breath before placing a kiss on my forehead then the guard carries me back to my bed chamber laying me back on the bed and pulling the blankets over me tucking me in.

———————————————————————

When I wake up I’m curled up in the centre of the bed I pull the covers over my head trying to block out the sun that pours in through the window. I haven’t forgotten what happened last night every time I think about it my heart sinks in my chest making me feel sick, but I’m not gonna back down he was in the wrong.

I stay laying in bed even when my maids come rushing into my room I roll onto my side ignoring them “ my lady it’s time to get up” she speaks to mr her voice trying to be gentle “ I’m not getting up today I’m staying here” I mumble quietly “ leave me “ I order as they stand in their place watching as I just lay there “ are you not feeling well my lady” she asks “ I’m fine just go” I look at them a stern look in my eyes as they quickly rush out.

———————————————————————

My key maid rushes to getas room where both emperors are sat discussing over wine and breakfast she knocks on the door waiting patiently “ enter” Geta calls out turning to see her as she enters the room “ emperors I’m afraid the empress is refusing to get up she doesn’t wish to be disturbed” she looks down bowing her head “ we will come see her soon till then just let her rest” Geta sighs turning back to Caracalla “ gods she’s stubborn “ he grunts taking a swig from his cup “ you were harsh on her last night” Caracalla looks at him as getas eyebrows furrow “ how I simply stated facts” he takes a sip of wine “ you spoke of her heritage as if she was a barbarian brother” he moves forward “ you upset her” he gets up “ i will go see her with dundus, she seems to cheer her up” he looks at Geta “ go ahead I will join you later” he states looking at his brother “ perhaps this time alone for her will make her realise the severity of her unladylike actions” Geta goes on making Caracalla role his eyes “ Oh please, the only reason you say such things is because of the senators in that boring meeting after we got home told you she needed to change. but deep down you know she really doesn’t it’s Rome that needs change” he walks out the room leaving Geta to think alone. 

———————————————————————

The door to my room cracks open as Caracalla peaks through “ my love are you awake” he questions looking at my sprawled out body on the bed he steps in dundus sat on his shoulder “ I brought someone to see you” he leans on the end of the bed looking over me as I lay silently not responding “ I know you’re upset I’m sorry for what Geta said I have talked to him but he is stubborn” I peak up at Caracalla “ I’m a savage compared to your Roman ladies, that is what he thinks” I mumble quietly “ not at all my love “ he lets dundus crawl up curling up next to me burning her small head into the crook of my neck “ Geta listens to the senators to much “ Caracalla explains looking at me “ darling understand your outburst yesterday and I thought it was one of the most beautiful things ive ever seen” he moves laying next to me his hand running along my cheek “ it’s ok to have outburst “ he looks at me “ trust me i know from personal experiences “ he smiles pulling me into his arms gently  “ you seem to be the only one to understand that” I mumble quietly resting my head on his chest as Caracalla runs his hand through my hair “ geta knows it but he just needs time for his reasoning to kick back in and for him to block out the mind fucking the senate gave him” he holds me gently letting me stay close to him listening to his rapid heart rate as dundus chirps for attention climbing over to Caracallas shoulder where she rests her self 

A few hours pass of me and caracalla laying together talking as the door cracks open and geta walks in “ song bird ” his voice quiet as he walks towards the bed looking at me snuggled in his brothers arms “ listen i did not mean what i said last night but you do need to be more careful of your actions” i peak up at him slightly “ acting so impulsively can get you in danger and i only want you safe” I sit up “ ok i admitted my actions were wrong back in the chariot after they happened “ i look at him “ then you started on me later that evening so i think you owe me an apology “ i raise a stern eye brow as he sighs “ that is what I am trying to do “ he states looking at me “ good” 

i look at him waiting to hear the word sorry to spill from his lips but he seems to leave me waiting “a good emperor knows when to admit his wrongs perhaps you aren’t as good as i thought you were” I sigh shaking my head as Geta stares at me shocked “ how dare y..” I cut him off quickly “ there we’ve both said something hurtful, maybe this can be over” I let a loose laugh fall looking at him “ fine” he looks at me “ I’m sorry” he huffs moving to my side of the bed 

“ see wasn’t that hard” I watch him roll his eyes before joining both me and Caracalla laying on the bed “ I’ve cancelled all our duties for today perhaps we could go for a walk or perhaps we can just stay right here” Geta looks at me as he runs his thumb down my jaw “ perhaps “ I smile at him as I snuggle between both emperors getting comfortable. I look at both men a small smile on my face “ all couples have arguments, it’ll just help us learn how to understand each other more” I rest my head back on the pillow “ tis only a few days till the wedding, so it’s best we learn as much as possible “ I suggest my voice coming out with a deep sigh Geta looks at me “ I don’t wish to argue “ he looks at me “if you want to know something just ask “ Caracalla adds his hand reaching out mine his fingers entangling with mine 

As the day goes on  we lay together talking getting to know each other deeper than before. I learn about how their father was abusive he refused to interact with the boys other than putting them against each other making them fight till one was passed out on the floor the only time he suggested they worked together was on his death bed. Then their mother a sweet woman who loved her boys would tend to them when keeping them safe against their fathers wrath they were devastated when she passed from an unknown illness she slowly faded away in front of the boys eyes. 

How I wish I could have met their mother she sounded like a loving woman, she sounded like the perfect Roman wife who provided everything a family needed love, understanding and boundaries she knew how to calm her children and her husband  she knew everything but some how I question if I’m expected to be like that. 

As both Geta and Caracalla  were already very aware of my home life, how I was treated by my father and his men so I told them other things. They learn that I could play the harp that id sit during dinners at home playing my harp non stop plucking the strings entertaining others as they ate and talked. I also told them about my love for animals that at home I had dogs they were more wild than the ones that lived in Rome but I trained them, fed them spoke to them, loved them even. but I was forced to leave them behind as my father refused to let me take them with me to Rome. 

“ is there anything you can’t do” Caracalla smirks staring off into the distance “ your like a goddess sent down just for us” he runs his hand over my thigh “don’t be silly there are many things I can not do” I giggle sweetly “ like what” gets asks looking at me his eye brow raised “ you can play instruments, speak perfect Latin, your good with a blade, you are kind to the public, good with animals. what can’t you do” he looks at me “ I can not read” I look down slightly “ there was never a need to at home, but I would always try and just seemed to fail” I sigh as both emperors look at each other exchanging a glance “ there isn’t a need for you to read my love, we shall read to you” Caracallas voice is gentle as he holds me  his hand striking my cheek  “ thank you” I blush as I close my eyes feeling the safety around me “ I will always try my best to be a good wife, I apologise if I fail” I yawn quietly pulling my blankets back over me “ you’ll never fail us my love” geta reassures sweetly 

“ but do not run away again or we may have to clip your wings” he adds his voice more serious as he plays with my hair, I open my eyes again looking at him slightly concerned “ hush now do not worry” Caracalla cooed quietly as he looks down at me Geta kisses the back of my neck his nose resting against my shoulder trying to sooth my anxiety and distract me from his warning “ you’ll be perfect” he mutters his voice vibrating against my skin causing goose bumps to form “ Rome will adapt to your ways, we will create and nurture a new Rome” Caracalla looks at me a grin beaming in his face I blush violently as I burry my face into his shoulder his hands lace into my hair holding me close pulling me away from Geta and for filling his selfish need to have me to himself, as Geta reaches out to touch me again Caracallas eyes fog over with a warning look he holds me possessively my head against his bare chest. I can hear his soothing heart beat ringing through my ears calming me completely with out me even realising the sound soon has me drifting back into a reassuring sleep. 

————————————————————————

tag list

@marsmallow433 @fionaapplelover2010

[miragens-para-uma-vitoria]

PERDI A VERGONHA FINALMENTE, VIVA BRASIL E VIVA A TODOS OS IDIOMAS QUE LEIO NO TUMBLR!

Então, pessoal, depois de anos consumindo imagines e fanfics em inglês e não falando ou comentando por causa do meu inglês ruim, finalmente perdi a vergonha. Eu consigo ler facilmente em inglês, mas escrever e me expressar é outra história. Mas estou cansada disso. Por respeito aos escritores que sigo, vou interagir com eles, seja pelo meu inglês ruim ou pelo Google Tradutor. Talvez eu até comece a escrever para meus amigos brasileiros. Quero que todos que sigo saibam que eles são maravilhosos e escrevem perfeitamente. Peço desculpas e agradeço pela paciência! BEIJOS🩷

So guys, after years of consuming imagines and fanfics in English and not speaking up or commenting because of my poor English, I finally lost my shame. I can easily read in English, but writing and expressing myself is another story. But I'm tired of that. Out of respect for the writers I follow, I'll be interacting with them, either through my poor English or through Google Translate. Maybe I'll even start writing to my Brazilian friends. I want everyone I follow to know that they are wonderful and write perfectly. I'm sorry and thank you for your patience! BEIJOS🩷

caso alguém se sinta ofendida ou não goste peço que fale comigo ou me bloquei, e peço que se for brasileiro me siga que em breve virá muito conteúdo em português/br

If anyone feels offended or doesn't like it, please talk to me or block me, and I ask that if you are Brazilian, follow me because soon there will be a lot of content in Portuguese/br

OBRIGADA A TODOS PELA COMPREENSÃO

THANK YOU ALL FOR UNDERSTANDING

[cherubimcore]

golden bars, fragile hearts

pairing: caracalla x reader

author's note: i have been working on this fic for a while but lately everything i write i kind of hate, i'm editing this so much i'm getting insane (also college doesn't help) so i decided to finally post it or this fic would stay on my drafts forever 😭

this is part 1!

the sun blazed down on the colosseum, the bloodstained sand reflecting its golden light making

the day feel more heated than anticipated, you remembered hearing on your way to the amphitheater that this was one of the hottest days of the year, that statement felt quite right as you walked the busy streets, sweat dripping from your nose wishing you had drank a glass of water before leaving your house, but your thoughts were elsewhere completely when you stepped outside. you would think that the heat would be a hindrance for the festivities that the people of rome looked forward to, but somehow that didn’t mattered, it didn't mattered for the bloodthirsty emperors, caracalla and geta, the infamous twins, that loved violence and brutality more than the people they should rule and it also didn't mattered for the crowd, the thought of seeing a gladiator fight was worth passing out from heat stroke, apparently.

you could hear their roar, a mix of jeers and cheers that echoed off the stone walls, from your seat you stood frozen hearing their excitement, your heart pounding against your ribs waiting for the moment your father would step into the arena.

you had promised yourself you wouldn’t go, your father made you promise when the praetorian guards came at your door saying the emperors demanded that the man that had won his freedom many years ago would fight again one last time to prove his worth.

when they utter those words you were the one that wanted to fight, fight the guards, fight the emperors and protect the only family you had left, but before you could deliver any profanity, your father lowered his head and expressed how honorable he was to entertain the people of rome once again.

he looked back at you with teary eyes, taking in the simple yet comforting house he was living in even before you were born, the one he worked so hard to build after he bought his freedom killing others just like him, spoils of war, it was poetic really, he thought, his life began as a gladiator and would end as a gladiator, a little chuckle left his lips, the gods really did worked in mysterious ways.

while you tried to come to terms with his decision, your father kissed your forehead lovingly and made you promise you wouldn’t watch before being taken by the praetorian guards.

and you agreed.

but now you were going against your dad’s dying wish.

your jaw tightened as you stood among the roaring crowd, people chanting and cheering for the gladiators, cheers that were as empty as the promises of rome’s twin emperors.

caracalla and geta ruled not through love or respect, but through terror and empty entertainment. the streets of rome were restless, simmering with rebellion that never seemed to fade completely. just weeks ago, riots had broken out in the forum, citizens torching statues of the emperors while shouting for justice. but now, here they were, packed into the colosseum, their rage momentarily silenced by the lure for bloodshed.

‘panem et circenses’ you thought bitterly, watching how easily the crowd forgot their oppression, the chants growing louder as a gladiator fell to his knees ‘bread and circuses are all it takes to dull their anger for a few hours’

but when the games ended and the blood was washed from the sand, the discontent would return. the people would rebel again - you were sure of it - because no amount of free grain or violent spectacles could suppress the desperation in their hearts.

you hoped the emperors were afraid for their heads because sooner or later the act of depredating their statues won’t be enough.

rome was a city on the edge, and your father was about to become its next distraction.

that was the first thought that crossed your mind while you saw your father walk towards the middle of the coliseum.

his gait was uneven, his shoulders hunched - not from cowardice but from the toll of age. the once-celebrated gladiator, who had won his freedom fairly, was now back at being paraded as nothing more than a relic for the crowd’s amusement.

he held his sword steady while raising it to salute the emperor’s box, but you could see the way his hand trembled. your father’s movements were slower than they once had been, but his pride remained unbroken.

your heart clenched. this wasn’t a fight - it was a death sentence.

the announcer’s voice boomed across the arena “behold! a veteran of rome’s might, returning for one last dance with death! will he rise as a lion, or fall as prey?”

the gates on the opposite side of the arena open, and a younger, stronger gladiator stepped forward, his muscles gleaming with sweat, his expression cold and unyielding.

you couldn’t let this happen.

you ran from your seating, hearing people behind you screaming to take your place closer to the bloodshed, pushing past every guard that standed if front of you especially the guards who blocked the lower level of the arena, you ignored their shouts and protests, they couldn’t catch you, too surprised to see someone run towards the arena of the colosseum, instead of run from it. every step felt heavier than the last as your decision bore down on you.

but you didn’t stop.

the sand was hot under your feet and your clothes were sticking on your skin as you stumbled onto the arena floor, drawing the collective gasp of the audience.

your father dropped his sword as his head snapped toward you, his eyes wide with panic.

“get out of here!” he shouted.

but you didn’t listen. you ran to him, your heart hammering in your chest, and threw yourself in front of him, spreading your arms wide as a shield.

the younger gladiator paused mid-step, his brow furrowing in confusion.

the crowd erupted in chaos, excited with something they had never seen before, someone willing to protect a gladiator from their deathbed.

high above, the emperor’s box stirred. you felt their gazes on you, your breath quickening showing your nervousness for having the attention of the infamous rulers of rome on you, but you didn’t back down and stared right back at them in defiance.

caracalla, one of the twin emperors, rose from his seat, the ornate red fabric of his toga trailing behind him as he stepped to the edge of the balcony.

“what is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his voice sharp enough to cut through the noise.

you almost didn’t listen to his words because of your own heart pounding heavily on your rib cage making you nauseous, for a moment you were sure you would pass out.

you ignored the nausea building up and the tremors in your limbs, looking up to the emperors with a steady voice, despite the fear you were feeling, you managed to say “i’m here… to take his place!”

a murmur rippled through the crowd. your father grabbed your arm, his grip strong despite his weakened state. “what are you doing?” he hissed.

without turning to him, you said loud enough for everyone in the colosseum to hear. “i won’t let them kill you!”

caracalla’s piercing gaze locked onto yours seeing determination on them, his expression went from furious to amused in a matter of seconds. “this is… unexpected,” he said, his tone laced with mockery “tell me then, what makes you think you’re in a position to bargain with me?”

“i’m not here to bargain,” you said, raising your chin, your voice cracking a little when you heard your father behind you, pleading with the other gladiator to get you out of there “i’m here… to offer myself. you want a spectacle, don’t you? my father is an old man - he’s no longer fit to fight. there’s no honor in his death. but me?” you gestured to yourself, your voice rising. “i’m young, untrained and foolish enough to face whatever fate you decide, i’m sure that’s far more entertaining than this.”

emperor geta, seated beside caracalla, chuckled “they have a point, brother, he doesn’t look like the legend we heard so much about” his fingers tapped the rim of his wine cup. “besides… they has spirit. i’ll give them that”

caracalla’s eyes narrowed as he studied you, his expression unreadable. the silence stretched, the weight of his decision hanging over the arena, like a storm cloud.

“bring them to me,” he commanded.

the guards dragged you up the steps to the emperor’s box, their grip firm on your arms to the point of bruising. you stumbled to your knees before caracalla, his imposing frame over you as he stepped closer.

you had heard so much about both emperors, how cruel and unhinged they were, how their reign would be marked in history by decadence, cruelty and chaos, a spectacle of blood and tyranny.

geta was the one everyone thought about when the matter was diplomacy, for he had a talent for weaving words as deftly as a spider spins its web. his voice, always calm and measured, could diffuse tensions or spark them, depending on what suited his ambitions.

geta could be terrible, but to you caracalla was far worse.

a man consumed by his appetites - for control, for blood, for the fleeting thrill of domination. his wrath was as unpredictable as it was unrelenting, unlike his brother, caracalla acted impulsively, driven by bursts of rage, if he felt insulted in the slightest- the emperor would order a village razed.

or several.

you considered him a monster.

a beast.

and nothing could change that.

“you would trade your life for his?” caracalla asked, his voice low and dangerous.

“yes,” you said without hesitation, lifting your gaze to meet his. “my father has served rome for long enough, let him go and take me instead”

“and what makes you think your life is worth more than his?”

“it isn’t” you answered honestly “but i’m still young enough to be at your service, i’ll do anything if you leave him alone”

“anything, you say?” caracalla’s lips curled into a faint smirk “even entertaining me?”

you shivered with the implied meaning of his question, but remained silent.

geta leaned forward, his interest piqued.

“perhaps we should keep them, they're a bold one, brother”

caracalla regarded you for a moment longer, his cold calculating eyes searching yours. then with a sharp nod, he gestured to the guards.

“release the old man, you are going to stay”

your father’s protests echoed beneath you as he was dragged from the arena, but you didn’t look back.

“welcome to your new life,” caracalla said, his voice dripping with mockery. “let’s see if your spirit lasts as long as your courage.”

the emperor barely had finished his sentence when you felt the guard’s ironclad hands gripping your arms once again with a force that left no room for argument, you could feel caracalla’s cold eyes following your every move as you were dragged from the arena, his lips curving into a smirk as though he has claimed a prize rather than a person.

please leave a like or a comment about what you guys are thinking about this fic! i'm kind of insecure with this one :(

[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.

[kabuki-writes]

A Reflection Of Venus

chapter: 1 chapter 2 | 3 | 4

pairing: emperor geta/emperor caracalla x acacius' daughter!reader

summary: For years Acacius was able to keep his precious and only daughter away from the Emperor's eyes. But after his latest victory, he couldn't evade the already inevitable.

warning(s): mention of alcohol consumption | swearing | sexual implications | semi-edited | english is not my first language, faults may occur | please let me know if i missed anything

Note: Reader is the daughter of General Acacius and his wife, which is not Lucilla in this fanfiction.

word count: 3.1k

General Acacius was a hero for the Roman Empire, a sun that was burning brighter with every new victory he won in a new war campaign ordered by Emperor Geta and his twin brother Emperor Caracalla. The reign of the twins was nothing compared to one of their deceased father Emperor Septimius Severus, who was once one of the closest friends and brother-in-arms of Acatius. While Severus fought wars mainly to protect the borders of the already massive Empire, his sons' hunger for expansion became clear from the very first day they inherited the title "Emperor". And general Acacius became their tool in this project. Nothing was too expensive, they backed him with legions, war-ships, the best equipment and supply, and the capable general became an unstoppable force, a soldier of the God Mars himself. But at what cost?

As the years went on, he'd rarely been home, always travelling with his marching soldiers and being on the front line of every battle he fought. And when he came back, he felt sick from all the pomp and gold the Emperor's threw at him, the victory processions through Rome, while the smell of blood still lingered in his nose and the cries of the women and children echoed in his mind. It was one of those days. The sun stood high over the wide street that lead to the Palatin, the sides filled with the cheering crowd - common people, soldiers, slaves, senators, merchants, they all celebrated his victory in a triumphant procession. His marching soldiers were led by Acacius chariot, clothed in the white armor of a victor. His face could've been one to be carved in marble, stoic and upright, facing the great Palatin, where the Emperors would await him.

Geta and Caracalla - the twin-sons of Septimius Severus, Emperors of Rome. They stoof there in golden Armor like sun gods with their golden crowns on top of their short gingerblonde hair. Their unusual pale skin was a testament to their wealth as they could afford to stay out of the sun, which burns especially hot on summer days like this one, and of course on the battlefields in Africa, where Acatius' men had to fight against the rebellious Nubians. They awaited their victor with proud smiles on their lips, while Acacius' procession ended at the footsteps of the Emperor's palace. He walked the marble steps towards them, his long cloak moved in tact with his walk. He didn't look forward to see the faces of Rome's tyrants again, but they hadno idea.

Instead, he greeted them as he was used to. His hand on his chest, speaking the words.

"I greet you, my Emperors. Nubia is no more. I present a new victory to you, to the realm and to the Roman people."

With a proud look on their faces and a wide smile, the twins stepped forward. Emperor Geta hold the laurel wreath of victory in his hands and places it on top of Acacius' greying hair.

"And Rome rewards it's heroes with gratitude and admiration. We bow to your victories, General Acacius."

With those words, he offered him to turn around and face the celebrating crowd. Geta and Caracalla took their places at his side, giving him a moment of spotlight, applauded by the people, while they did benefit from it as well. Acatius was their general, their armored knight. Every victory he presented was another triumph for their own reign and power. After the earned celebration in front of the common folk, the Emperors and Acacius retreated inside, where servants quickly served them wine for a toast.

"Another great victory, you never disappoint us, dear Acatius," Geta expressed and hold his glass up for a toast, his brother Caracalla following the gesture. "To the glory of the Roman Empire".

"To the glory of your reign", Acacius lied and took a sip from his glass, trying to numb himself a bit with the taste of the alcohol. How he hated conversations with both of them.

" But don't get too comfy here, my brother and i were already discussing another campaign soon. You'll get everything you need, just tell us how many soldiers and ships and it will be granted," Geta explained, which left a bitter taste in Acacius mouth. His jaw clenched for a moment, while he tried everything not to show his distaste about another war campaign.

"Please forgive me, my Emperor, but isn't the realm big enough already? Rome has already difficulties to feed the people. Further expansion would-"

"They can eat war", Emperor Caracalla threw in with an almost diabotical grin, while Acacius got a warning eye from Geta. It was clear that his words weren't the ones both wanted to hear right now.

"Don't worry about things like that, Acacius. You're a military general, your job is to win battles - nothing more. Do you understand?"

"I understand," he answered, even though he hated to hear that he was reduced to this. He'd experienced war and peace alike and therefore he knew about the dangers of continuing this madness. Moments like this really let him question if those maniacs were of the same blood as Septimius Severus.

"But you're right, you've earned yourself at least a bit of rest - one or two weeks. Don't worry, we've taken care about the wellbeing of your family. They got everything they needed and more in our attempt to show our gratitude for your service to the throne. Speaking of which.... we expect you to join us for a great feast tonight - here in the palace. A party to celebrate your victory, it is accompanied by a couple of fights in the arena tomorrow," Geta explained joyfully, while Acatius tried to keep his mask up.

"I am incredibly honored, but would prefer to spend time with family after being away for such a long time."

"The Emperors show you their gratitude and you're insulting us. We expect you to come and you will come", Caracalla hissed with a sudden shift of tone, his eyes staring at Acacius in clear anger, while his brother placed his hand on his shoulder in an attempt to calm him down. But his staring eyes were warning Acatius once again.

"Of course, we don't just invite you, but your whole family. Bring your wife and... you have a daughter, if i'm not mistaken? We haven't had the pleasure of getting to know her yet, since you never brought her to any festivities. I am sure she will be delighted, if you don't plan on hiding her again."

Acacius stood there in silence, a reaction that made Caracalla burst out into laughter as if he'd just heard the funniest joke from his brother. The respected general didn't even look at him, why should he. Standing here in front of them should've been an honor, yet it felt like a disgrace. They were nothing but spoiled kids with the power of an empire in their hands. And now they even forced him to reveal his dear daughter to them. Something he tried to avoid for too long, knowing fully well about the debauchery and excessiveness of Geta and Caracalla.

"We're waiting for an answer, Acacius?", Caracalla purred with a wide grin on his pale face, revealing his gold tooth.

"It will be an honor to be your guest... together with my daughter."

_____________________________________________

You watched the face of your father sunken away in his thoughts, as you made made your way to the palace in a palanquin carried by a couple of slaves and protected by soldiers. The city was painted in darkness which made the palace seem like a temple with all the lights that welcomed you. It was an exciting moment for an upper-class lady to be a guest at the palace, especially for you, a woman that usually stayed away from the most parties. Not because you wanted to, but because it was an order from your father. You obeyed, yet it bothered you, even more when you'd reached the age of a young woman - the age in which it was expected from you to find a proper husband.

"Why are you so worried, father?", you finally managed to get off your lips, pulling Acacius out of the battle he fought in his head. He couldn't just tell you that he despised all of this and especially the Emperors himself as he couldn't be sure if someone outside this palanquin could hear him. So he simply took your hand and placed a soft and caring kiss on the ring that had been a present for your last name day.

"I guess I'm rather tired than worried. The parties in the palace are always quite excessive, music, dances, feasts... i just came back from the desert and now i have to enjoy all those things", he sighed and looked at you. "And i don't want to stay too long, especially not till the orgy starts. The servants will come and bring us home before that." And even you knew he would rather go and murder Dyonisos himself than allowing his daughter to stay and witness this.

All those words and yet you knew it wasn't everything.

"I'm glad that you take me with you this time. I've only known the imperial palace from afar," you confessed, while you straightened the long, blue dress you wore. It was decorated with all sorts of silver embroidery and jewelry, encapturing the stars and moon. Your long hair was styled by your servant Yanna into a high braid and finalized with a silver diadem. For the first time you really got the chance to make yourself so presentable that you almost felt like a princess. In the end, you were about to meet the Emperors which made it important to look like the woman you were - the daughter of a general. And you also presented his household tonight, because your mother felt sick tonight. She often suffered from migraine, which kept her a prisoner for days sometimes.

"You really look beautiful", your father said to you, it was honest, but there was a hint of worry in his eyes, which you still couldn't grasp. But there was no chance to take this conversation further as the palanquin stopped. Acacius got out first to help you out. He knew the way as it wasn't the first time for him to attent an official ceremony or party here. Through a long corridor you reached a large room with with an open access to the garden terrace facing the beautiful gardens. It was packed with people from the Roman upper-class, wealthy merchants, politicians and military officers, who were accompanied by their wives, sons and daughters. While they chatted and feasted on the large selection of delicious looking food, a group of musicians played their melodies to which professional dancers moved their bodies.

All those private parties at the homes of your friends seemed to vanish straight from your mind, nothing could be compared to what you were seeing now. It nearly took your breath away, while two royals were watching you from the other side of the room.

_____________________________________________

Geta and Caracalla were sitting on a higher ground, which was highly decorated with two golden chaise longues, cushions and velvet drapes. They were accompanied by a selected group of slaves, women and men, who were assigned to bring them anything they wanted, to do anything they wanted.

While Geta was in in a conversation with one of the senators, which clearly bored him according to his facial expressions, it was Caracalla, who noticed the new guest first, while he fed his little monkey Dondus a grape.

"Such a shame that he hid his daughter for so long. She is a gorgeous looking bird, don't you think? ", he whispered to his brother with a mischievous grin, patting his arm so that he would turn his attention to Acacius and you. Geta's eyes quickly went to you, admiring the way your dress hugged the shape of your curves.

"The gods must've sent us Venus herself to honor us with her presence," Geta answered, while an unreadable smile played on his lips. „No wonder our dear General is so protective of her. Is she already promised to someone?“

„Why do you ask me!?“ Caracalla snapped back, as if his brother didn’t know that he had a lot of spies around the city, who delivered him the newest gossip from the streets of Rome. With an annoyed eye roll, he leaned forward, adjusting the golden laurel wreath on his head. „No, she is a blank parchment. Probably untouched too.“

Geta still watched you with an intense interest as if you were a rare diamond, he needed to claim. But he was not the only one in this room, because Caracalla stared at his brother, noticing the way he looked at you. There it was again, the old melody. Whenever he wanted something, Geta wanted it too. They already shared the title of Emperors, their wealth, their whores… It was already something that cooked in him for a long time. But now he had an eye on you and wasn't happy about the fact that Geta might try to get you too.

Before he could even bring this thought to an end, his twin brother Geta already stood up from his chaise lounge and made his way through the crowd, the direction was clear. Caracalla's nose twitched in a mixture of nervousness and anger, and he got up quickly as well, not as gracefully as he wanted to, but he didn’t care. He had to tame the inner urge to backstab his brother before he could even reach you.

_____________________________________________

You still stood at the side of your father sipping on your first goblet of fine wine, while your eyes went over all the different guests and the excessive decor. Your father was sunken in a conversation with another general, Marcus Galbanus, an old friend and brother-in-arms of Acacius. But their conversation quickly stopped as soon as the Emperors approached them. Both your father and Marcus Galbanus lowered their heads and greeted them according to the etiquette, while you curtsied deep. This was the very first time you got the chance to meet the Emperor's of Rome Caracalla and Geta. And given the importance of those two figures, you even felt a little nervous.

"We almost feared you wouldn't show up to your own party, Acacius. But we're happy you made your way here... we already heard that your dear wife lays sick. Please, send her our best wishes. Nonetheless we would be delighted if you could introduce us to your company tonight", Geta demanded in a playful tone, knowing how much Acacius had tried to delay this. Caracalla stood at his side, his staring blue eyes drilled themselves into your appearence. Even though he was a man that had tasted a lot of men and women, one even more sensual than the other, your whole appearence, your face, your lips, your smile, everything - you reached a sentience in his mind that could only be gifted by the gods. The mere thought of having you infected his brain like a curse.

You could sense the tension that raised in your father as if everything in him resisted the situation. Yet he placed his hand softly on your shoulder and did as they wished. "This is my daughter, y/n..."

"I'm honoured to meet the Emperors of Rome", you said in a soft voice, earning you an appreciating smile by Geta and an unreadable grin of Caracalla.

"Oh the pleasure is on our side, my dearest. How do you like this Ceremony in honor of your father's victories?", Geta asked. But before you could even answer, his brother added, while he took another sip of his wine "Your father is a Roman hero through and through, isn't it right Acacius?" His tone had something else in it, almost as if it was some kind of mistrust. But you needed to ignore the irritation you felt and simply nodded.

"It is breathtaking. I've never witnessed something like this and it makes me incredible proud to see the gratitute he earned himself through the love he has for Rome and its people," you answered, trying to remind the Emperor's of Acacius loyality, which was undoubtful.

"Then you'll enjoy the ceremony in the arena tomorrow as well, i'm sure. Please, we invite your father and you to be our guests."

"I don't think that such entertainment is suited for a young woman of her status," your father suddenly interfered in a calm yet set tone, only earning the laugh of Caracalla. "Let your daughter decide for herself, General."

The atmosphere shifted to an unspoken intensity. You could sense your father's worries and given all what you've heard from the colosseum, you didn't really think of it as something worth to witness. Seeing people die in such a terrible way only for the pleasures of the masses seemed like a farce. Acacius always called it the most needless form of brutality amongst humans, he despised this himself and therefore avoided going into the arena whenever he could. But you also read the eyes of Geta and his brother, who waited for your answer and would not accept a simple 'No'.

"It would be an honour," you answered, and Geta leaned forward a bit, which made your father's jaw clench in anger. Not because of your answer, he was aware that a choice was not existing, when facing an Emperor, but because the way the twins looked at you as if you were a price they could simply claim. But you were a smart girl and definitely not naive, so he fully relied on that.

"So this is a 'Yes'?", Geta asked again and you looked him straight in the eyes, not backing off. "Yes."

"Excellent!", Caracalla shouted and clapped into his hands. "We'll have a lot of fun tomorrow."

The corners of Geta's mouth twitched to a smile and he nodded in response to his twin. Yet he hid his displeasure of having him as a rival in this little game. It was clear that Caracalla had layed his eyes on you too, but he won't allow him to simply take and fuck you like you were a common whore. Maybe you could've potential for something more and strenghten his position as well as his popularity. Because both Emperors were still unmarried - and it was expected from them that this would change sooner or later.

[ange-olras]

I'm freaking out over this deleted scene

[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.

[rxqueenotd]

damnatio memoriae: PART IV

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

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

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

warnings: arranged marriage, foul language, mentions of blood, bodily fluids, Ancient Rome as a warning in itself, bloodletting, p n v penetration, orgy-ish situation, animal sacrifice.

notes: literally posting this from a McDonalds parking lot on the way to a Christmas party. A quick thanks to my brotha @trashmouth-richie and @londonfog-chan for all the help. I owe you guys what’s left of my soul. Please like and share if you enjoy this series! Over 7000 words in this chapter alone.

IV

The delicate aroma of fresh bread and honey wafted through the air, mingling with the faint scent of blossoming flowers from the courtyard outside. Fine earthenware plates held an assortment of breakfast delicacies scattered across an oval table in the middle of the room: warm, crusty loaves of panis glistened with honey, bowls of ripe figs and olives, and delicate cheeses. A pitcher of cool, refreshing water sat alongside a flask of rich, dark wine—though it was early, you had indulged yourself. The gentle clinking of utensils and the soft rustle of linen filled the dining room as guests served themselves, enjoying the simple pleasures of the morning. A musician played softly in the corner, the gentle strumming of a lyre adding a serene layer to the room. You sighed happily as you sat alone at a table in the corner of the great room with the perfect view of the courtyard. For all the drama of the previous day, you revelled in being alone, relishing the magnificent frescoed walls that depicted scenes of mythological feasts and playful Bacchanalian revelries. The sunlight shone in delicately, warming the marble flooring in which you drug your barefoot across under the table.

“You must have said something to set him off. I could still smell your perfume when I walked into his chambers—he was that quick to summon me,” Caracalla said, plopping down in the chair across from you with an exaggerated huff. You sighed, placing your cutlery down, knowing fair well that any peace you had maintained over the course of the morning was over. His new golden incisor caught the light as he spoke. You had stepped out onto the balcony for just a moment when the physician had come to fix the cracked tooth the night before, a souvenir from Septimius’s fist meeting Caracalla’s lip.

“Just because you think we share a common enemy does not mean we are allies,” you shot back. Making it clear that your act of cleaning him up and reaching an agreement the previous night did not give him the right to intrude on your peaceful breakfast.

“He never even made it to Baiae,” he retorted, glancing at you dismissively. “He only got as far as Ostia. This was just a test to see how well I could manage on my own.”

His face was swollen, bruises bloomed in deep shades of purple and green around his nose and mouth, the latter catching dramatically on the light as he spoke.

“A test you failed spectacularly,” you replied, arching an eyebrow as you bit into a particularly sour grape.

“Did you let him turn you into a quivering mass of need?” he asked, a mocking giggle escaping his lips, “Did he entertain you with tales of his wild sons and his deceased wife?”

“No,” you admitted, shaking your head, “He did not reduce me to anything but confusion.” You let out an exasperated sigh. “I find that I am still confused.”

“If he truly cared for Rome,” he said, his tone dripping with jealousy and hurt as he turned to meet your gaze, “If he truly cared for me as his son, he would step down and stop fostering Geta’s hope that one day this empire may be ours together.”

The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, bitterness lacing his voice.

“Surely you see that I am just your wife—no consul, no philosopher, just a woman.” you replied, feigning innocence as you took a sip of your wine, challenging him with your gaze.

“Ah, that’s a rare admission from you, wife.” he said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Do you think it was him?”

You flicked your gaze toward Senator Blandus, a quick movement that Caracalla caught. Senator Blandus stood with a slight stoop, his height diminished, yet his presence was still imposing. His once broad shoulders sagged under the weight of years spent navigating the treacherous waters of Roman politics. The edges of his toga were slightly tattered, its white wool dulled with age, carelessly draped over his shoulder. The deep purple stripe that signified his senatorial rank had faded, hinting at a man who had seen better days. His gaunt face and sunken cheeks accentuated his unkempt style, with thin, wispy hair and a matching gray beard that was scraggly and untrimmed. His murky brown eyes held a suspicious gleam as they scanned the surrounding people, narrowing even more when they landed on you and Caracalla.

He set his wine cup down with a sigh, glancing around the room before looking back at you.

“I have already had him investigated. He spent the night at his mistress’s villa.”

“That leaves us with only a few suspects.” you countered, leaning in closer, rolling a plump grape between your fingers.

“Indeed,” he replied, shifting in his seat, “But my wager is on Macrinus.”

You leaned back, crossing your arms, challenging his assertion. “Do you honestly think he’s that ambitious? Surely it is some sort of breach of conduct to obtain my correspondence and report to your father regarding your every whim.”

“He has been whispering in Geta’s ear since the unfortunate passing of Plautianus.” He snickered, finishing off his wine and fixed his gaze on you, “Ambition spreads like a plague within these walls.”

He set down his wine cup again, looking around as courtiers, senators, and servants bustled about the lavish dining hall surrounding you both.

“Is this what you have been doing all morning?” he asked, a hint of accusation in his voice, “Leading your own investigation?”

“I do not know what you are talking about,” you replied sarcastically, “I am merely enjoying breakfast, unlike some people.”

“Like I said,” he said, standing and looking down at you with a challenging glare, “there is always a motive here.”

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Anxiety snaked tightly around you as you made your way to your quarters in search of solace. The night spent in Caracalla’s chambers had offered no restful sleep; instead, you found yourself waking unceremoniously on the chaise by his balcony, time and again, while he lay sprawled across his bed, a thin sheet barely covering his bare ass, snoring and mumbling like a drunken soldier. It had felt strange to seek refuge in his quarters, united by the turmoil brought about by his father’s hand.

It was easy to crawl in your bed and get lost amongst the silky sheets. Having not slept properly the night before, you allowed yourself to be pulled under, letting sleep claim you without a fight.

You woke suddenly, a weight pressing you down, your breath caught in surprise as your body refused to move. Above you, a pair of pale eyes—hazy and unrelenting, like the sky before a storm—fixed themselves on you. Their intensity felt heavier than the body that held them. It took a moment for your senses to settle, for your vision to clear, and when it did, you realized Caracalla’s body was tangled with yours—his legs draped over your left thigh, his hands planted on either side of your head as though framing you.

There was no telling how long he had been there, silently watching, and it was clear he had no intention of stopping then, even though you had caught him. You let your eyes roam over his face, taking in the rough texture of his pale skin, like polished, blighted marble under the soft glow of a torch. His pupils shifted, dark and wide, as they moved over you, drinking in every detail, the quiet between you charged with something unspoken.

“Will you have me?” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you gazed up at him. You knew all too well how Caracalla’s moods shifted like the tides—unpredictable and dangerous. The effort to stay steady, not to be swept away by his waves, weighed heavily on you.

He nodded, silent but certain, and tugged his tunic over his head, baring his silken chest to the flickering lamplight. You remained still, letting him take the lead, scared that even the slightest misstep might stir his infamous temper or send him retreating into the shadows. His hands moved with surprising care as he slipped your toga down your slender form, letting it fall away to the ground to reveal your body beneath.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You simply stared, locked in a gaze that spoke more than any words could, as the last barrier between your bodies was cast aside. The air between you was heavy, charged, and waiting.

You felt the heaviness of his cock against the soft skin of your thigh as he worked himself rhythmically, his closeness stirring a deep ache within you, a tension that spread like fire beneath your skin. The intimacy of the moment caught you unguarded, raw, and unspoken. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently to yours, his breath mingling with your own. Unable to resist, you caught his lower lip between your teeth, biting softly before his mouth overtook yours. He sighed into you, his resolve melting as he met your kiss. Your tongues tangled, slow at first, then urgent, as though the space between you had collapsed entirely.

You opened your legs for him, this time by your own will. Yet, as he moved to settle himself between them, his breath, warm and uneven against your neck, suddenly stilled. His movements ceased, and a heavy sigh escaped him, brushing against your skin.

“It is not—” he began, his voice taut with frustration, “I cannot—”

He propped himself up, looking down at you with a furrowed brow, his expression a storm of shame and anger. Unsure of what to say or do, you felt the heat of embarrassment creep up your cheeks as your gaze drifted downward to his softened cock.

“Is it me?” you asked quietly, half-ashamed.

He let out another sigh, his eyes closing as though in pain. “It is not for lack of desire, I swear it.”

“Is there something I can do?” you asked, sitting up, clutching the sheet to your chest, suddenly feeling the weight of self-consciousness.

“No.” His reply was short, and he rose abruptly, pulling his tunic over his head forcefully. He avoided your gaze as he reached for the wine on the bedside table, pouring himself a cup with trembling hands.

The crash startled you. He had flung the cup against the wall, the red wine streaking down like blood spilled from a gaping wound, pooling darkly on the marble floor.

“Get out,” he growled, his voice low but heavy with restrained fury.

“These are my chambers,” you reminded him, pulling the sheet tighter around you, trying to steady your voice.

“Get out, Prima.” His tone was colder now, his warning unmistakable.

Swallowing your pride, you hurriedly adjusted your toga, your hands fumbling to secure it in place. You retrieved your veil, crumpled between the pillows, and made your exit with hastened steps.

Outside, as you slipped your sandals back on, the crash of objects breaking echoed through the wooden door, followed by a muffled scream that sent a shiver down your spine. You clenched your fists, your breath steadying. Though you had lost this battle, somewhere deep within, hope remained—for the war was not yet over.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

As you stepped inside the temple of Juno, you were immediately enveloped by a sense of tranquility. There had always been something about Juno that stirred you, but now, with your own marriage in turmoil, you felt a deeper connection to her. Her struggles with Jupiter mirrored your own in ways you had not fully grasped before. As the patron goddess of the empire, it felt right to ask for help as Augusta yourself. A child granted by Juno’s favor would surely be blessed, a gift of divine intervention. Marital help could wait, you told yourself. For now, you had one prayer, and it was for a child.

The air was cool and inviting, a welcome contrast to the warm sunlight outside. Delicate frescoes depicted scenes from Juno's mythology—her fierce protectiveness over women, her role in the great tales of heroism, and the beauty of marriage. Each brushstroke told a story, and you would have allowed yourself to be swept up by every tale if you had not been on a mission.

The temple was supported by regal, marble columns, their surfaces gleaming, reflecting the light from the stained glass windows onto their polished surfaces. The soaring ceiling was painted in rich hues of blue and gold, much like the sky at dawn, and you found yourself looking towards the heavens at its beauty.

As you moved deeper into the temple, you came upon the central altar, an imposing structure made of polished stone, carved with symbols of Juno—a peacock, representing beauty and pride, and a scepter, symbolizing power. The altar was adorned with offerings left by devoted worshippers: fresh flowers in vibrant colors, fruits from the harvest, and fragrant incense that filled the air with a sweet, calming aroma.

Juno’s statue stood front and center on the altar, surrounded by statues of different sizes, each capturing her essence in their own way. Some portrayed her as a regal figure in flowing robes, while others depicted her in a more maternal light, holding a child or surrounded by symbols of family.

“Your Excellency,” a priest approached, bowing his head in reverence, “it is an honor to stand in your divine presence.”

Upon his head sat a laurel crown, its fresh green leaves glistened with dew, a symbol of both honor and divine favor of the goddess herself. You remembered him from your wedding day- specifically how the laurel matched his deepset, green eyes.

Cassia presented to you a basket brimming with fragrant lilies, glistening white candles, a flask of the finest vintage wine, and a jar of the sweetest honey ever tasted. With a wave of your hand, you dismissed her to take her place outside the temple, accompanied by your assigned praetorians. You felt assured, having sent word ahead to the temple of your arrival, requesting both discretion and a sacred space in which to invoke the goddess.

“I trust that my offering has been prepared,” you remarked.

He nodded in acknowledgment. “Follow me.”

You trailed behind him to the rear of the temple, descending a flight of marble stairs into an atrium of sorts. The soft glow of white candles illuminated the room, their flickering flames dancing upon the golden statues that adorned the shelves embedded in the walls. At the center of the chamber lay a medium-sized tiled bathing pool, set into the floor.

As you approached, the distant bleating of a lamb reached your ears.

"We shall begin when you are prepared," the priest stated with a respectful nod. With a sense of dignity, you removed your robes, standing tall before the gaze of the goddess.

At that moment, another priest entered the chamber, leading a lamb, adorned in a flowing white robe accented with a rich purple trim at the hem, wearing the same radiant laurel crown you had seen earlier.

Both priests raised the lamb above your head, their voices intertwining as they recited ancient prayers to the goddess, carefully steadying the creature before making the first cut. You closed your eyes, centering your thoughts on the heavens. As the warm blood began to cascade over your face and down your neck and shoulders, you raised your voice proudly to the goddess, proclaiming your devotion and intent:

“We adore thee Goddess, we invoke you, Juno, for it is written that you will bless those who call upon you and sacrifice to you. I pray to you, Goddess Juno, and offer these gifts so that you may favor my house and household.”

As you stood there, your thoughts continued to drift back to Caracalla—the way he had faltered just hours before, leaving you feeling a mix of frustration and concern. It was hard not to dwell on the sacrifices you had made and would continue to make, all in the hopes of giving him an heir.

The weight of your marriage pressed down upon you, and you only felt relief when you stepped into the bathing pool, submerging yourself as the thick blood mingled with the warm water.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

As you knelt before the grand statue in the main hall, redressed and feeling lighter, you pressed a gentle kiss to the goddess’s feet. The lilies were arranged just right, symbols of your devotion, a reflection of what you desired and prayed the goddess could help you with.

You dipped the candle ends into the honey, feeling the sticky sweetness as you prepared to light them. The oil lamp glowed warmly as you ignited the first candle. One by one, the other candles caught fire, illuminating the space around you as you set them in the designated holder.

You poured the wine, its rich color glistening in the candlelight, and set the bottle down with care. As you whispered the prayer again, you felt a sense of calm wash over you. Closing your eyes, you let the words sink deep, hoping that the goddess would hear your heart.

Suddenly, your moment of peace in the temple was broken by another presence. Before you could even open your eyes to see who it was, he spoke, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm.

“I cannot believe there is still a lamb left to sacrifice after your wedding. They must have sacrificed so many that the whole flock is nearly extinct.” Geta knelt beside you, a smirk on his face.

You quipped with a serious face, “Shall I offer you as the next sacrifice? Surely, one of your esteemed stature would grant me favor with the goddess.”

Geta laughed, the sound sharp and out of place in the quiet of the room. “Ironic, is it not? Not even a full cycle of Luna has passed, and you are already making offerings to save your fragile union.”

He seized your hand, running the edge of his nail beneath your own with deliberate care. A thin line of blood appeared, evidence of the sacrifice, vivid against your skin. He drew it to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he tasted it, a sly smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“Do you think your husband knows how devout his wife truly is? So unwavering in her dedication?” Geta’s tone dripped with mockery, each word drawn out as though savoring the chance to provoke.

“Why are you here, Geta?” you asked, weariness lacing your words. His constant mockery was like salting an open wound, relentless and cruel.

He tilted his head, his eyes sweeping over your face with the precision of a blade. “Tell me,” he said, his voice like silky steel, “do you know what your husband does while you linger here in the temple, like a devout little dove?”

You sighed, your gaze fixed on the statue before you. “What, pray tell, is he doing now?”

You rose to your feet, giving him a silent nod to lead the way. The journey back to Palatine Hill drew curious glances as Geta’s guards merged with your own, their strides echoing in the narrow streets. You walked side by side, close enough to appear united yet distant enough that the silence between the two of you felt natural, you would offer him no word or glance to break the tension.

Rome pulsed with life around you. The aroma of fresh-baked bread mingled with the earthy scent of clay and smoke, a reminder of the city's crowded living spaces, where families lived stacked upon one another. Cassia, ever dutiful at your side, stole glances when she thought you would not notice. Her unease was palpable, and you made a mental note to instruct her in masking her emotions—though you could hardly claim to be a master yourself. Your jaw clenched tighter with every step, the pressure so fierce your teeth threatened to shatter.

As you approached the grand imperial palace, the atmosphere remained unchanged. You waved dismissively to Cassia while Geta signaled his soldiers to depart. Your own guard bowed in respect, and you returned the gesture with a simple wave of your hand.

Leaving the atrium, you trailed a few steps behind Geta as he strode down a lengthy corridor, ascending a flight of gilded steps that led to the private chambers of the palace. Upon reaching the threshold of his quarters, he paused and beckoned you inside with a wave from the doorway.

“This is a bad idea, and you are well aware of it,” you replied, shaking your head in disapproval, “You know Caracalla has requested that I do not converse with you under any circumstances.”

“You can either come with me or stand there like a fool,” he said, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Your choice.”

With a reluctant sigh, you stepped into his quarters, moving just enough for him to close the door behind you.

“What happens next?” you asked, trying to mask the unease in your voice.

He led you across the room to another door, swinging it open to reveal his impressive study—similar in grandeur to Caracalla’s. Just as you suspected, he slid aside a panel next to a bookcase, revealing a hidden passageway, the same one he had guided you through on your wedding night when Caracalla had been passed out. You navigated the narrow corridor, following Geta, a knot of anxiety tightening in your throat.

“I have had enough of these secret passages, of hidden motives and lies,” you admitted with a heavy sigh. “And I am emotionally drained from dealing with the fragile egos of you and your brother. I am sick from whiplash due to both of your ever changing moods. Have we not moved on from those childish days in Sicilia?”

Geta paused for a moment, the flickering torch light illuminating his features. “You speak as though we have tormented you day in and day out for years. I assure you, it was and will never be personal.”

“What is life if it is not personal, Geta?” you inquired sincerely.

“It is merely a game, Prima. We play the cards we are dealt.” He turned, his gaze thoughtfully assessing your expression. “Do not feign ignorance. You are indeed playing your hand, I have observed it myself.”

“Make sure you cover yourself up properly,” he said, glancing at the veil you wore, adjusting it to better hide your profile. “And take off that necklace.”

Feeling confused, you did as he asked, surprised when he took the necklace from you and placed it gently over the bridge of your nose, fastening it at the back of your head.

“To hide your face,” he explained.

“Hide my face from what?” you asked, but before he could reply, he slid the door open.

He stepped into the chamber, his silhouette suddenly illuminated by the flickering candlelight, a hazy cloud of incense swirling around him like a mist. With a graceful gesture, he extended his hand toward you, and before you could second-guess your instincts, you accepted it, allowing him to guide you from the dim corridor.

Before you, a scene of unabashed hedonism played out, where pleasure took precedence. Bodies entwined on every available surface; no lectus was spared from the terror of lovers lost in ecstasy. The air was thick with a chorus of moans and sighs, punctuated by the occasional sharp sound of flesh meeting flesh.

The chamber itself seemed to have once served as a sleeping quarters, now transformed into a sanctuary of indulgence. An elevated bed rested against the wall, draped in sheer curtains that obscured its occupants, their movements a hazy blur. In the area where you and Geta had entered, a grand table stood opposite, filled with exotic fruits and succulent roasted meats, inviting guests to partake in the feast while they watched the show. They swayed gently to the sultry melodies played by skilled musicians on lyres and flutes, the atmosphere alive and electric.

Geta guided you further into the chamber, his presence momentarily undetected as he settled into a high-backed chair that afforded him a prime view of the bed’s occupants. You lingered before him, your senses overwhelmed by the sights and sounds, when he suddenly drew you down to sit on his lap.

“Geta—” you protested, a hint of disapproval in your voice, “this is highly inappropriate.”

“Amidst all around us, you single this out as inappropriate?” he quipped, a playful smirk on his lips. “Sit still and enjoy the moment.”

His words hung in the air, a blend of mischief and allure, as the curtains on the bed began to sway, promising a view of its occupants lost in their own worlds.

There, amidst a tangle of hands and mouths, Caracalla lay sprawled in the center of the bed. His eyes were tightly shut, back arched away from the mattress as a woman stroked his cock with a dizzying rhythm—first lazily from root to tip, then with a fervor that blurred her hand around his delicate member. His toes curled, and his eyes rolled back as his seed spilled onto the woman’s fist, lost in the throes of ecstasy.

You tensed in Geta’s lap, torn between horror and fascination as the scene unfolded before you. Caracalla’s cock, spent yet firm against his thigh, filled you with a wave of shame as you recalled how flaccid he had been hovering over your own bare form earlier in the day.

Surrounded by three women, you watched as they descended upon him like vultures. The petite one mounted him, her cunt swallowing his spent cock in a single fluid motion. She rode him without pause, her gaze fixed on the other two girls who writhed at the head of the bed, their moans rising and falling in a symphony of pleasure as Caracalla’s fingers danced in and around their cunts, his ministrations causing them to lose all sense of reason as evident by their sounds.

You squeezed your thighs together, trying to block out the pulsing sensation. Sensing your turmoil, Geta placed his hands on your hips, guiding you to press down and grind your damp cunt into the firm flesh of his thigh.

“No,” you breathed, inhaling shakily as you pushed his hands away.

A stunning woman approached the two of you, and you stood, excusing yourself from the scene. You watched as she led Geta away, his head turning back towards you, a fleeting look of longing crossing his features as you slipped away toward the panel, revealing the hidden corridor. It was only once you reached the solitude of your quarters that you finally allowed your mask to fall, the weight of the day finally sinking in.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

It took exactly a week to ready Cassia, building her confidence for the task ahead. Though you had been anxious at first, desperation had a way of gnawing straight to the bone. Once you accepted the reality of your situation, you knew it was time to act—to wound Caracalla as deeply as he had wounded you.

It was common knowledge that Septimius had generously gifted you part of his late wife’s collection: a set of ruby rings, the golden diadem he had placed upon your head on your wedding day, and a striking emerald necklace. Of all these treasures, the rubies had become your favorite, their deep crimson a perfect match for your heirloom wrist cuffs, which you chose for your daily attire.

Cassia took pride in her role, carefully preparing each piece as you dressed daily, her timing impeccable as she laid them out. She beamed whenever she knew she had chosen well, her satisfaction a quiet victory. Though she was still reserved, Cassia had begun to open up, sharing bits of her life before becoming a servant of the palace. She spoke of her family, her village, and, to your surprise, revealed that the two of you shared a name day.

“Perhaps this is the gods’ way of blessing our budding friendship,” you said with a smile, resting your hand gently on her forearm.

“Perhaps, your excellency,” she replied, her cheeks flushing with color.

“I must admit, I detest such formality,” you said, tilting your head with a playful grin. “You may call me Prima.”

“I could never,” she murmured, her gaze dropping to the floor. “It would be dishonorable.”

“I believe it falls to me to decide what is and is not a dishonor,” you reassured her, your tone soft but firm.

Over the next few days, you spoke candidly with Cassia, sharing glimpses of your life before becoming Augusta. You told stories of fleeting childhood encounters with the Imperator and his sons with personal anecdotes, revealing just enough to make her feel at ease.

As the seeds of friendship began to take root, you started to stitch together the threads of your larger scheme.

“Cassia,” you asked one morning as she fastened the clasps on your tunic, “have you ever been to the villa that houses the concubines?”

“I… have not,” she admitted, her hands pausing briefly before returning to their task. “Though I am close with one of the regular servants stationed there.”

You nodded, your expression neutral as you combed your hair before the looking glass, watching her reflection as she carefully selected a veil to complement your attire.

Two days later, as you strolled through the rose garden, Cassia presented a petite blonde girl to you.

“Your excellency, may I introduce Metella,” she said, her tone light yet tinged with nerves.

The girl, no older than Cassia, bowed low. You tilted your head, studying her with quiet curiosity.

“She works at the villa, your excellency,” Cassia added, offering context, doing your bidding without you having to ask her to.

“Yes, of course,” you replied with a measured nod. “A pleasure to meet you, Metella.”

“The pleasure is mine, your excellency,” Metella said softly, her faint smile barely reaching her eyes.

You spent a good portion of the afternoon in their company, walking the garden paths. Cassia and Metella trailed close behind, pausing whenever you stopped to smell a set of roses. At your direction, they clipped the blossoms you favored. As they worked, Metella spoke in hushed tones about the villa.

“Behind the palace,” she began, her voice just above a whisper as she clipped another rose, “up the gravel road that leads away from the stables, there is a villa. Three ladies live there now.”

You nodded, already certain of whom she spoke, but said nothing as the pieces of your plan continued to fall into place.

You stopped abruptly, spinning on your heel to face them. The speed of your movement caught Cassia and Metella off guard, and they nearly stumbled into you.

“If I asked a favor of you both, would you consider it?” you asked, your tone calm but carrying a weight that left no room for dismissal.

The girls exchanged a glance, an unspoken conversation passing between them. Cassia was the first to respond, her face lighting up with a genuine smile.

“Anything for you, your excellency,” she said, bowing low. You couldn’t help but smile softly at her devotion. Metella quickly followed suit, her bow a little less confident. It was in that moment you knew—the plan would succeed.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

It took two days to carefully craft every detail. You scrutinized the scheme in your mind, playing out every scenario until you felt confident enough for the plan to officially be carried out.

Late one night, under the cover of darkness, you met Cassia and Metella in the stables. The air was thick with tension as the girls paced nervously, their movements quick and uncertain. You had already arranged for the stable hands to be elsewhere, ensuring complete privacy.

“There will be panic,” you began, your voice low and deliberate, “and the servants’ quarters will be turned upside down in the search for these jewels. But if you listen carefully and follow my instructions exactly, no blame will fall on either of you.”

Both girls nodded, their wide eyes fixed on you as you reached beneath your cloak and produced a small satin bag.

“In the morning, Metella, place a piece of jewelry into each of their jewelry boxes after you have dressed them and they have left the villa,” you instructed. “Metella, once it is done, come straight to my quarters.”

Metella nodded, her trembling hands reaching for the bag. She tucked it into her satchel, her knuckles pale from holding the satchel so tightly.

“If, at any point, you feel frightened or unable to carry out the task, return the jewels to me immediately,” you said, your tone softening slightly. But then your expression hardened, and the faint moonlight caught the sharp edge of your gaze.

“And know this—if either of you breathes a word of this plan to another soul, I will see you crucified. Your entrails will hang from the city walls, and your families will be exiled to the furthest, most desolate rock beneath the sun.”

The chilling threat lingered in the air. Cassia and Metella glanced at each other nervously.

They turned back to you and nodded, their expressions solemn.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

The morning of, you could not stop pacing your chambers, every detail of the plan playing on a loop in your mind. You woke early, bathing slowly, letting the warm water and scented oils calm your nerves. By the time you dressed and added the finishing touches, you felt more prepared—or at least looked the part.

Cassia appeared in your doorway, her hair slightly out of place and worry etched on her face.

“Your excellency, am I late?” she asked, her voice small.

“I am merely early,” you said, smoothing the folds of your tunic as you checked yourself in the looking glass. You barely had a moment to exhale before the door slammed open, and Metella rushed in.

“It is done,” she said, breathless and quiet.

You nodded, keeping your expression neutral even as your pulse quickened. “Good. Now, listen carefully. I need both of you to prepare an offering to Juno in my name. Once you have gathered what is needed, go to her temple and spend the day praying—ask her to grant me an heir. Do not return to the palace until dusk.”

They exchanged a glance but nodded quickly, bowing their heads.

“I will give you enough time to get ready before I speak with the Imperator,” you said firmly. “You are dismissed.”

The door shut behind them, and the silence that followed was deafening. You leaned against your dressing table, gripping its edge to steady yourself. For a moment, you let the mask drop, your fear bubbling to the surface. Taking a shaky breath, you whispered a prayer—not just to Juno, but for the strength to face what was coming. You could only hope the Imperator would not see right through you.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Prima, what a delightful surprise,” Septimius exclaimed as you approached the table on his sunlit terrace. He nodded, dismissing the praetorian who had guided you inside, returning him to his post.

“I hope I am not intruding,” you said, glancing down at the imperator’s feet, which rested in a basin filled with amber liquid.

“Ah, the trials of age, nothing more,” he reassured you, gesturing for you to take a seat across from him. He poured a cup of rich wine and offered it to you. You nodded in gratitude as his gaze searched your face.

“What troubles you?” he inquired, tilting his head slightly.

“What do you mean?” you replied, taking a sip from your cup, feigning innocence.

“There is a shadow of worry behind those lovely eyes,” he noted, crossing his hands on the table.

You sighed and set your cup down. “I am embarrassed, Imperator,” you began, watching as his brows knitted together, “something has occurred.”

“What has happened, Prima?” he asked, leaning in closer, his concern evident.

“The rubies you gifted me, the ones that belonged to your late wife—I fear they have gone missing.” You covered your face in shame as he reached out to grasp your wrist gently.

“When did this happen?” he pressed, his delicate grip urging you to speak.

“I noticed this morning,” you murmured, “I sent my two servants to the temple of Juno at dawn, instructing them to make offerings in my honor and not to return until dusk.” You paused, gathering your thoughts. “I dressed myself to meet with my father, to catch up on family matters, but when I went to retrieve the rubies from their resting place, they were gone.”

Septimius sighed, leaning back in his chair, stroking the gray stubble on his chin. “Have you confided in Caracalla?” he asked, and you shook your head.

“He is not pleased that I wear his mother’s jewelry,” you admitted. “He has threatened to take them from me and give them to his courtesans if I continue to wear them. He thinks me unworthy.”

Septimius’s eyes narrowed. “He still indulges with his courtesans?”

“Please, your excellency, do not say it was I who revealed this,” you implored, reaching for his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze, asking for his discretion.

“I have heard whispers that the three he favors have taken residence in the villa behind the stables.” You spoke softly, shame flooding your cheeks.

Septimius straightened, his jaw tightening as he regarded you. “Spend the day with your father, and allow me to address this matter,” he instructed, and you nodded solemnly. “Exercise the utmost discretion and speak of this to no one else.”

“Of course.” You rose, but he caught your hand before you could express your gratitude and leave his quarters.

“Everything shall be well in due time,” he promised, kissing your knuckles as he met your gaze.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Word spread like wildfire through the bustling halls of the palace, as the praetorians stormed the servants’ quarters, tearing through each room, leaving a trail of chaos in their wake. It wasn’t long before you learned the news: the jewelry had been found in the possession of Antonia, Tullia, and Marcella, the ladies residing in the villa behind the stables.

As soon as the jewelry was found tucked away in each lady’s respective jewelry box, the villa was locked down tight, with guards stationed to ensure no one could slip in or out, all by the direct order of the Imperator. The three women were swiftly banished from the palace and exiled to the farthest reaches of the empire, their families shamed by their actions, forced to join them in their sentencing. It was truly a stroke of luck that they still had their heads on their shoulders, for the Imperator could have dealt them a harsher fate.

Your plan had worked like a charm, unfolding just as you had hoped. The pieces fell into place perfectly, and you couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction at how it all turned out.

As night descended and you faced the weight of your choices, you let your emotions wrap around you like a heavy blanket—neither ashamed nor particularly proud, but feeling as though you had sunk lower than expected. Shaking off such thoughts, you turned to the polished bronze mirror on your dressing table, brushing aside the strands of hair that clung to your neck and wiping away the remnants of kohl from your eyes.

It was then that the echoes of an angry voice grew louder, approaching your quarters. You sprang to your feet, frozen in place, the sheer fabric of your gown pooling around your feet as your gaze fixed on the door.

When Caracalla burst in, you remained still.

“You!” he spat through clenched teeth, flinging a handful of precious ruby rings in your direction. “You deceitful, rancid wench!” He advanced, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

“You have made a fool of me!” He seized your shoulders, shaking you with fury.

“You’ve done that to yourself!” You pulled away, but he was quick to grasp you again, forcing you backward until your back hit the wall beside the door.

“I was merely reclaiming what is rightfully mine,” you declared, holding your head high, “what was taken from me.”

“What was taken from you,” he sneered, his arms pinning you in place as his hands braced against the wall on either side of your head. “Nothing here belongs to you.”

You struggled against his grip, but he pressed you closer to the wall with his own body.

“If we are to claim our rights, then I shall take what is mine.”

With a sudden motion, he hoisted you by the back of your thighs, slamming your back against the wall once more. You protested, pushing against his shoulders and striking at his solid flesh, but he merely laughed, relishing the moment as he held you against the wall, lifting your gown to expose your bare form.

“Deceitful wench,” he hissed through gritted teeth, yanking down the collar of your gown to reveal your neck and collarbones. You cried out as a sharp sting pierced the skin between your neck and shoulder, his incisors biting into your flesh. He pressed harder, a trickle of blood staining the sheer fabric of your gown.

You felt paralyzed, your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth as he pulled back, wrestling with his toga, his hands trembling with rage.

He held you so tightly that it started to hurt, burying himself deep inside you, lifting you off the wall with every thrust. He devoured the tender flesh of your neck and chest, biting, kissing, and sucking, his teeth grazing your soft skin.

All you could do was hang on to him, clinging to him so fiercely that it was hard to tell where he ended and you began.

With a loud grunt, he spilled himself within you, letting his head drop between your shoulder and neck as he gasped for breath. When he pulled back to look at you, he searched your face just as you searched his. Both of you were left wondering what had just happened and why it stirred feelings in you that you had never felt before.

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

Tag list:

@alwaysahiccupandastrid

@justnobodynothingmore

@miamariposita

@niungguang

dividers: @ghoulbloggerrr

[snazzynacho]

— Sick Side

Part 2/? Part 1 Read on ao3. Masterlist Words: 7k

Emperor Geta x female oc (x Caracalla (one-sided)

Warnings/tags: 18+ Mentions of STD, mental illness, disease, Forced proximity, forced kissing, referenced/implied past sexual abuse, violent urges, obsessive thoughts, delusions of a disordered mind. No non-con s3x, but it's close. She/her pronouns used. Slight canon divergence. OC is a bit naive and way too nice. Tags may change.

Florentia stumbles through the hallways, blinded by her tears and her own panic. Her legs carry her towards the place where she feels most secure, Geta’s room.

The imperial residence feels like a maze to her in her current state, the corridors twist and turn in meaningless patterns. But she knows the way, her feet instinctually carry her towards the path she has taken many times before.

Panting, she finally reaches the door. Its peaceful silence comforts her after the events of today. She shuts the door behind her. Allowing herself be taken by the feeling of being alone and safe, she leans against the door, a wave of relief washes over her as she is in the familiar surroundings of her beloved’s room. She concludes Geta must not be here since he would have noticed her by now. Damn, imperial duties.

Though, she imagines the prospect of him seeing her in this state and the questions that would follow, so maybe this is a good idea, that he is not here right this moment.

With a shuddering sigh, her body sinks to the floor. Her head drops into her hands and she lets out a sob. Tears roll down her rosy cheeks, staining her stola. She pulls her knees to her chest, making herself as small as possible. But, then, the memories come flooding back…The unwanted and unwelcome sensation of Caracalla’s lips on hers, her own panicked reaction, and the way she fled. The image of Caracalla's face when he looked at her—stunned, confused, hurt—is forever burned into her mind. Despite Florentia’s own frenzy, she feels a sharp pang of guilt in her gut. She has never expected to be the cause of such hurt, especially to him, and it stings more than anything.

She has left Caracalla alone without any explanation, leaving him to brood over what happened between them. She knows he must be confused, hurt, and definitely angry. He will no doubt come looking for her, demanding answers. The thought both frightens and comforts her. She also cannot help but wonder how his own disease is betraying him once again as he tries to wrap his head around what happened. This is not to say she will pretend his non-consensual kiss never happened, or never hold him accountable. But she cannot help always having a soft spot for him. Dealing with such a disease with no cure must be awful and incoherent.

Regardless, for now, she needs time to process her own feelings. She needs to calm her racing heart, steady her breathing, and put some distance between herself and the events of the past few minutes. It all happened so quickly. Frighteningly quickly.

Closing her eyes, she tries to force out the image of Caracalla's dismayed expression, to shut out the memory of his lips on hers. As her thoughts continue to swirl around her head, she gradually becomes aware of another noise, besides her own heavy breathing—the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside.

She freezes, her heart rate immediately picking up. Part of her wants to hope that it is one of the servants, or guards, or even Geta, but the more realistic side of her knows it is likely Caracalla, searching for her.

The footsteps pause outside the door, and a familiar voice called out softly, "Florentia...?" Caracalla's voice is muffled through the door but unmistakable.

From the door behind her, she hears the door handle turn. She jumps up on her feet at the sound, out of the way of the incoming opening door, and sees his shadow peeking in from under it. Bracing herself for Caracalla and his unpredictable mood, her eyes seem to shut in anticipation. The door swings open. He stands in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room before landing on her.

He does not speak, merely looks at her. His expression is one of confusion, anger, and a strange undercurrent of hurt. He takes a step towards her, his eyes never leaving her form. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, the knuckles white. His frame is tense as if he is barely holding back a storm of emotions.

He looks dangerous, volatile. She suddenly feels very small under his gaze. This situation is all too sickeningly familiar to her. She wipes her cold tears on the back of her hand, attempting to compose herself.

This is when he notices the streaks of tears on her cheeks, the redness of her eyes…It softens him for a moment, but his confusion and hurt quickly win out over his concern. "Why did you run?" he asks, his voice rough.

Florentia opens her mouth to speak but fails to utter a single word.

His face darkens further at her silence. He takes another step towards her, the distance between them closing slowly.

"You ran away from me," he repeats, his tone hardening again. "Why?" His eyes bore into hers, searching for some answer, some explanation.

She gulps and her eyes look away from him.

He does not like this. He does not like that she is avoiding his gaze. He moves closer still, his movements almost predatory.

"Look at me," he growls, his voice low and commanding.

She warily obliges, meeting his blue eyes she is starting to not recognise. He closes the last remaining distance between them, standing so close that she can feel the heat radiating from his body. He lifts his hand, as if to touch her face, but pauses just millimetres from her skin, his hand frozen in mid-air, almost reminiscent of a marble sculpture.

He studies her, his eyes wandering over her face, noting every detail. The redness in her eyes, the tear stains on her cheeks, the way her lips are slightly parted. “Why did you run?" he asks for the third time, his voice gentler now, but still edged with irritation.

His hand still hovers next to her face, the urge to touch her is obvious but held in check. He cannot understand why she fled, why she looks at him now with a mixture of fear and...something else.

“Because…you don’t deserve me,” she says so quietly he can hardly hear.

His eyes widen at her words, and his brows crease, her response is unexpected. “What do you mean 'I don't deserve you'?" he demands, his voice rising again. "I am Emperor. I can have anything and anyone I want. So why do I not ‘deserve' you?"

“Because I do not love you!” Florentia’s voice is abruptly loud, frustration pouring out of her.

The words hit him like a bodily attack. His hand falls back to his side, all thought of touching her now disappearing in the wake of her declaration. His face darkens, bitterness and ache fighting for dominance on his features. But it's the hint of vulnerability in his eyes that gives him away.

She turns, leaning the side of her body against the wall, in fear her emotions will make her collapse. She gasps a sob, covering her mouth with her hand. He stands there, stuck, staring at her back as she leans against the wall. The sight of her weeping form, the sound of her stifled sob—it hits him like a punch to the gut. He wants to reach out, to comfort her, to force her to take back the words...but he cannot. He is too stunned, too hurt. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms, anchoring himself in the pain.

His mind is filled with a whirlwind of established emotions and a new, undesirable feeling: fear. Fear that maybe she is correct, that maybe he really does not deserve her. Instead, he forces himself to speak, his voice taut, “You…you do not love me?”

Florentia sobs even harder at his words. She tries to understand his disease. Is he asking this to taunt her or does he not remember or understand exactly what she was saying earlier?

He frowns, his mind whirling. Each one of her sobs are akin to a dagger to his heart. But he is still too confused to know how to react. He tries to make sense of her words, but his thoughts are like slippery eels, escaping his grasp.

“You do not love me," he repeats again, his words are more of a statement than a question now.

He wants to know why.

Why does she not love me?

Why does she not want me?

“I do, Caracalla. I do.” Florentia takes a deep breath. “But not romantically. You are my brother-in-law!”

His frown deepens further. He shakes his head, as if trying to clear the fog that is clouding his mind. “No," he murmurs, shaking his head again. “No, you...you love me, I know it..." His words are more a plea than a statement. He's struggling now, his mind trying to reconcile his memories with her words. “That is why you are always with me! He is never around! He does not care about you like I do!” his words are a disjointed mess again.

“That is because Geta is participating in his imperial duties!” she cries, waving her arms in frustration. She then mutters under her breath, “Unlike you,”

He stands there squirming, face contorting, like a petulant child.

“I love Geta. I am promised to him. In a week, I will be married to him. The man I love.” she continues, looking him dead in the eyes.

Each word lands like a hammer blow. He wants to deny it, to argue with her, but deep down he knows she is telling the truth. He feels his world crumbling around him. The woman he loves, the woman he believes loved him too, is going to be married to his brother.

The thought makes him feel nauseous.

He steps back, needing space suddenly. His eyes search the room, looking anywhere but at her. He finds himself staring at a vase of flowers on a table by the wall. Such an ordinary thing, yet it seems so foreign to him in this moment of chaos. He fixates on the petals, the delicate shape, the colour. Purple, the same colour as Florentia’s stola.

His stomach flips. Why must everything remind me of Florentia?

He reaches out, absently runs his finger along a petal of one of the flowers, his touch gentle, almost respectful. But the moment his finger brushes against the delicate bloom, the fragile petal crumbles, floating to the ground like a sigh. He stares down at the petal, his mind and heart in unrest. The sight is too much of a metaphor. His own world, his own heart, also in shards around him.

“I do not mean to hurt you, Caracalla. I wish I did love you, then it would make this so easy.” She speaks after a beat, thinking he has calmed down a little but he looks up at her then, his eyes meeting hers for the first time since her confession. Her words have struck a nerve, stirring his anger and his wounded pride.

“You wished you loved me? How generous of you,” he replies, his voice laced bitterly with sarcasm. "It is the fact that you do not love me that hurts, do you not understand that?"

“I am sorry,” she says just above a whisper, looking down in shame.

He scoffs, the gesture an expression of mockery. “Sorry," he repeats, his face showing true disdain. “You are sorry. Is that supposed to make it better? Is that supposed to erase the fact that you are marrying my brother and not me? That you are going to be wed to him, bear his children, share his bed...not mine."

“Please, stop—” she begs, covering her ears with shaking hands.

“NO!” he roars, his voice rising in volume and in anger. "I will not stop! I want to hear you say it! Say you don't love me! Say you want my brother! Say it to my face!”

Florentia gapes at him, pure fear and shock coursing through her body.

”SAY IT!" he yells again, his face reddening against his poxy skin, veins standing out on his neck as his anger reaches its peak.

His breath comes in ragged gasps, his body tense. He towers over her, his presence filling the room, his anger making the air crackle with tension. He waits for her to speak, to confirm his worst fears. The waiting is torture.

“I already have!” her fists clench at her sides. “And in a week, you will have front-row seats!”

His eyes narrow at her words. Her newfound venom and the image they conjure causes a renewed wave of rage to surge through him. But instead of blowing up in anger, his weak body crumbles to the floor. "Front row seats to my own heart being shredded," he grumbles, his tone bitter. "You think I want to see you marry Geta? You think I can watch you vow to him, and not feel myself being gutted alive?"

“Well, that is how I feel at the thought of not being with Geta.” her patience is wearing thin again.

Once again, her words are like a dagger to his heart. His face contorts, the pain blatant. "You...you fail to understand," he stammers. "You... you have no idea how I feel. How much I've...I have always wanted...you..."

His eyes become wet, and his voice trails off. He lets out a frustrated growl, running a hand through his wild red hair. He starts rocking back and forth, hitting himself on his head, the anger and helplessness in his body needing an outlet. "You think it is easy for me? Seeing you, wanting you, and having my own brother claim you as his? You think that does not drive me mad with jealousy?"

She hesitates. She wants to stop him from hurting himself but is afraid of triggering him further. Ultimately, her good nature overalls her fears and she places her hands on top of his thrashing ones. “I see the storm in your eyes, and I am sorry I cannot take that away. That is why I tried to speak with you earlier. I thought I could break it to you gently…but it seems you are more in love with me than I initially thought.” she tries to explain gently.

"More in love with you than you thought?" he sneers, shoving her hands away, tears streaming down his face as he looks up at her. "You have no idea what sort of effect you have on me! I am...I am completely obsessed with you. I think about you day and night. I dream about you, fantasize about you... and yet, I can never have you. You belong to Geta, and it is maddening!"

His confession is an admittance. An obsession, not love, she thinks.

“You will find your love one day! I am not that person, Caracalla. You will miss them if you keep thinking of me!”

“No one else compares to you!" he protests, his voice ragged with desperation. "You think I have not tried? I have! I have tried to forget you, to find someone else to take your place. But it is no use. No one else can fill the void you have left behind. You have ruined me, Florentia. You have utterly ruined me."

“Your time with concubines does not count, Caracalla,” her voice is curt before her compassion returns, undeserved or not. “I do not want this for you. Is that not enough?! To break the spell, whatever this is- I do not know what to do!” she says. She wants to call what he has an obsession, like he did, but if she does, will he grow furious again?

"Then do something!" he nearly shouts, his frustration nearing its breaking point. "Just... just do something. Anything! I cannot keep living like this, tormented by your presence, your beauty, that I cannot have you. I would rather you hate me, despise me, than see you with Geta. That thought alone burns me to the core."

“I cannot hate you! I want us to be friends!” she sobs again, wanting the old Caracalla back. “I hate seeing you like this”

“Be friends?" he echoes, a resentful laugh escaping him. "Be friends, when all I want is to hold you, to touch you, to have you to myself? Be friends when the mere thought of you married to my brother makes me want to tear my hair out? Be friends when every fibre of my being aches for you and only you?"

“And what if this is how Geta will feel if we wed?! Do you not care about how he feels? About how I feel?”

“Of course I care about how you feel! I... I just..." He falters, voice pointed, dodging the question surrounding Geta’s feelings. The thought of his brother marrying her, being the one to hold her, to kiss her...it is too painful.

"I just... I cannot bear the thought of you with him. I cannot bear the thought of him touching you, holding you, the way I want to—” He rambles on, anxiously biting his fingernails.

As if an Angel comes to the rescue, Dondas—his pet monkey—appears at the doorway, small and fragile looking, searching for Caracalla.

Caracalla glances at the monkey, sensing his presence, a brief distraction from the emotional storm raging within him. “Dondas?” he murmurs, a hint of tenderness in his voice. He rolls onto his knees, reaching out for his friend. The animal hops onto his outstretched arm, climbing up and onto his shoulder as he stands back up again. Caracalla pats the monkey's head affectionately, his focus has momentarily shifted from Florentia to the small animal and she feels she can finally take a breath she does not know she has been holding.

She eyes the fragile man before him, seemingly calming down with his monkey. He does not notice her stare, too engrossed by the monkey’s nuzzling in the crook of his neck, chattering softly, clearly sensing his master’s distress. Caracalla responds by stroking its fur, his fingers brushing the monkey’s fur with gentle rhythmic motions, as he coos softly to it. “There your are…my good little monkey,”

He continues to murmur softly to it, his words gentle and soothing. The tension in his body seems to have eased he interacts with the animal, his full focus on the innocent creature providing a temporary diversion from his erratic emotions. Dondas chitters contentedly, seemingly calmed by his presence.

Florentia cannot help but watch in awe at how Dondas can subdue Caracalla even at, what she has witnessed so far, his worse. After a few minutes, Caracalla finally looks up and notices Florentia watching him, his demeanor still visibly softer than before.

He meets her gaze for a moment, his eyes still tinged with lingering turbulence. He does not say anything at first, his mind sorting through the disorderly emotions. On his shoulder, Dondas lets out a small squeak, breaking the silence. Caracalla absently reaches his hand up to it, stroking its fur, his eyes never leaving Florentia’s.

Shattering the silence, once again, footsteps are heard as they sound down the hall and before they know it Geta has entered the room.

Caracalla’s expression darkens immediately, his grip reflexively tightening on the monkey’s fur. He straightens up, shoulders tense. Dondas emits a soft squeak, clearly sensitive to the sudden shift of movement and the tension in the room.

Geta’s expression is the opposite, a mixture of confusion and surprise cultivating on his features as he looks between two of the closest people in his life and back again. “Salvé Florentia. Hello Caracalla,” His eyebrow arches, as if asking for an explanation.

Reading into this, Florentia says, “Oh! Caracalla and Dondas came to say goodnight!” she laughs, putting on her best smile, motioning towards the troubled brother and his monkey. She prays that Caracalla gets the message and feeds into her lie.

Caracalla glares at the floor, the falsehood rubbing him the wrong way, but he says nothing. His body is rigid, the tension in the room almost palpable. Dondas, the monkey on his shoulder, utters a soft nervous sound, its tiny black eyes darting between the brothers.

“In my room?” Geta questions.

Caracalla's jaw clenches, his patience wearing thin. Before he can say anything, Florentia steps in, her voice smooth and diplomatic. “Yes, we wanted to say goodnight, but you were not here! So, Dondas has been keeping us entertained,” she grins at the monkey, and carefully strokes it. Dondas emits a delicate happy noise, nuzzling against her finger.

Caracalla stays rigid, eyeing her touch. He wants to scrutinise her touch and fling her hands off his Dondas, but something inside stops him. Watching Dondas be happy waivers his anxiety and tension, feeling his body relax a little.

Her words have their intended affect—Geta shrugs, seemingly believing the reason. Caracalla, being free of stress does not last long, as his eyes momentarily flicker back to a storm, fixed onto his brother with a combination of anger and annoyance. Even the monkey on his shoulder seems agitated now, squirming against his grip.

“Well, I am here now,” Geta says, his tone jovial. He walks over to Florentia, draping an arm possessively around her waist. A couple servants follow him in, awaiting to disrobe him and ready for bed. He simply raises a hand, oozing authority and confidence, signalling for them to wait outside until he is ready.

“Yes, goodnight Geta,” Florenfia quickly pecks his cheek with a kiss.

Geta chuckles, clearly more interested in Florentia than the conversation at hand. “Goodnight, sweetheart,”

Caracalla’s gaze traces her lips on his brother’s cheek, his brother’s hand around her waist. His fist clenches at the loved-up couple’s scene before him, his knuckles white with the pressure of his suppressed anger.

Florentia feels Caracalla’s eyes on her, and suddenly steps back from her betrothed. “Goodnight,” she repeats, yet sounds just as jovial.

Geta is somewhat surprised at her sudden detachment but recovers quickly, his smile never faltering. Nevertheless he turns to Caracalla. “Goodnight to you too, brother,” he reaches his hand out, instinctively placing it on his shoulder comfortingly.

Geta turns to Florentia again, his worry increasing. “You seem a bit hot tonight, love. Tired, perhaps? Do you want me to send a healer?” Geta goes on, his worry for his wife-to-be increasing by the second. He places the back of his hand on her forehead, feeling the temperature of her flushed face. The cold touch of his gold rings adorning his fingers send a shiver down her spine, clashing with the warmth of her skin. The sudden coldness immediately alleviates the feverish heat she did not know was radiating off of her. The lying and the tension between her, Geta and his brother evidently have an effect on her.

“No-yes, I- I am quite tired. I think we all are,” she frowns at how odd she’s being and starts to leave the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow,”

Geta watches her go, a hint of concern etching across his face, before turning to Caracalla. Caracalla’s eyes follow her out of the room, his expression filled with frustration and regret. The monkey on his shoulder utters a soft whimper.

“What was that about?” Geta finally asks, breaking the silence.

Caracalla shoots his brother a cold glare, not bothering to hide his annoyance nor jealousy. “Oh, who knows what goes through a woman's mind?” He mutters, the sarcasm evident in his voice.

Raising an eyebrow, Geta is caught off guard by his brother’s harsh tone. He opens his mouth to speak but Caracalla delivers a sharp gesture, cutting off whatever lecture he was about to receive. Dondus, on his shoulder, squeaks, burying its head in part of Caracalla’s robe, disturbed by the tense atmosphere.

“I am not in the mood for conversation,” Caracalla snaps, his eyes still fixed on the door, as if he is willing Florentia to come back through it and kiss him. She forgot me.

Geta studies his brother for a moment, taking in the tenseness of his frame, the clenched fists, and the troubled look on his face. He knows Caracalla well enough to recognize when something is bothering him, particularly because his disease confuses his mind.

“I suggest we all get some rest,” Geta says calmly.

Caracalla scoffs, his irritation evident in his voice. “Easy for you to say. Some of us do not have our lovers waiting in our beds at night.”

Geta smiles slyly, enjoying the chance to goad his brother. “Jealous? You have your choice of consorts to keep your bed warm tonight.”

For Caracalla, it is the wrong thing to say. His lips twist into an irritable snarl, unable to control his inner tumult about Florentia any longer. “Why would I want a common whore when you have Florentia?”

Geta's smile vanishes at the insult in his brother's tone. He steps closer, his own annoyance beginning to show. “Florentia is mine. Soon she will be my wife. You must accept that. Do you not, Caracalla?”

Caracalla breaks. The mention of Florentia becoming Geta’s wife from the man in question’s mouth is more than he can take. The mere idea of it makes his blood burn, boiling over and igniting a sudden explosive outburst. “I cannot accept that! She should not be yours! She should be mine!”

Geta is taken aback by Caracalla's sudden eruption. He’s seen his brother lose his temper before, but never about someone else be loves. He knows that Caracalla's illness clouds his rationality, so he tries to keep his own voice calm and steady.

“Caracalla, control yourself. This behavior is unhinged, even for you.”

Control himself? How can he possibly control a feeling so powerful, so consuming? When it comes to Florentia, Caracalla feels he has no control whatsoever.

“I can’t control how I feel!” he nearly shouts back, “I’ve tried! But nothing works! Nothing can make me forget her, not even alcohol or a hundred whores!”

He’s almost pleading for help. Underneath the the affects of the disease is a sincere man and Geta knows this. Geta shakes his head, both exasperated and concerned. He reaches his hands out, gently holding Caracalla’s rosy cheeks. “It is the illness talking, brother. It warps you. You understand that, yes? You are not yourself.”

Caracalla growls, the sound low and throaty, like a cornered animal, but his face instinctively yearn for the closeness and comfort of his brother as he leans into his touch. His shoulders and the rest of his body stay rigid. “Oh, I am perfectly aware of the illness! But that does not change the reality. You know I want her. You know I cannot have her, and you insist on rubbing that fact in my face, day after day, night after night. You cannot stop yourself, can you?”

Geta’s jaw clenches in frustration. It’s not entirely untrue, but he knows Caracalla isn’t completely guiltless in this situation either.

“You had your chance to court her, win her heart. But you blew it, with your impulsiveness, your mood swings, your rages…that is why she chose me.”

The words hit home, and Caracalla visibly winces. It’s true, he knows, deep down. His illness ruins everything, destroys everything, even himself. And yet, he can’t help but protest.

“I tried! I tried to be the man she would want! But I cannot...I can’t control my feelings, cannot control myself…”

He clenches his fists again, the veins in his forearms standing out with the effort. The monkey on his shoulder lets out another whimper, its small paws clinging tighter to his shoulder. He falls back on Geta’s bed, sitting with his head in his hands, sniffling.

Geta watches his brother, torn between anger and pity. Seeing Caracalla reduced to tears is not uncommon, and it is a poignant sight. He reaches out a hesitant hand, unsure if he should try to comfort his brother or leave him to his anguish. “Caracalla…” he says softly.

Caracalla sniffs again, the sound childish and pitiful in the silence of the room. He swipes at his eyes angrily, still trying, in vain, to preserve some measure of dignity. His hand goes up to pet the monkey on his shoulder. There’s a slight tremble in his fingers. “Why can I not have her?” he whispers, the words choked with emotion, “Why have the gods cursed me with this ailment? Why can I not have what I want? It is not fair.”

Geta takes a step closer, sitting next to him. With a hand on him, he gently rubs his back. “You cannot always have what you want, brother. Even as an Emperor. Life does not work that way. You have known that since we were boys, though I suppose that knowledge has been lost somewhere in all that has happened to you. Florentia is not a prize to be won, a toy for you to play with. She is a woman. She has a mind of her own, and she has chosen me.” he explains calmly, yet with a certain seriousness.

Caracalla can’t disagree with that. Florentia is her own person, not a possession, but it’s difficult for him to accept the fact she’s chosen Geta. Every cell in his body rebels against it.

“Have you had her yet?” he can’t resist asking. The question is harsh, laced with jealous spite.

Geta knows exactly what Caracalla is implying. Frowning, his eyes narrowing slightly. He was beginning to think that Caracalla was calming down, but now he is not so sure. “What happens in our bed is none of your concern,” he responds coolly, “but I’ll tell you that we’ve yet to consummate our relationship, if only for her sake.”

“For her sake?” Caracalla repeats, raising an eyebrow. He is both surprised and a little suspicious. It’s not like Geta to abstain from such pleasures, especially when they’re on offer.

Geta sighs, his face a mix of annoyance and concern. “Yes, for her sake. Florentia is not like the courtesans and whores you are accustomed to. She is a lady, honorable, and a virgin. I will not risk compromising her or staining her reputation by giving in to my own carnal desires.”

“How noble of you. I am sure Florentia appreciates your patience, plenty,” Caracalla mutters bitterly.

“She does, yes,” Geta responds calmly. “She trusts me. She feels safe with me.”

“And she does not feel safe with me, is that it? Is that what you are implying?” Caracalla’s voice raises at each word, his temper rising again.

“I do not know what happened between the two of you today, but it is clear that something happened…” he pauses, eyeing Caracalla with a hint of suspicion.

Rising from the bed suddenly, Caracalla has his back turned to Geta, unwilling to meet him in the eye. By the gods, he is acting as guilty as ever.

Geta follows in-suite, standing also. “What happened? Tell me,” he tries to speak gently, to will any information out of his brother, but his protective streak is not going away anytime soon.

“What did you do, Caracalla?” Geta asks again, firmly. His expression turns cold. “You touched her, did you not? I will not ask again—“ his words are laced with quiet fury. He can handle his brother losing his temper, shouting, even throwing things, but this, this he cannot tolerate.

Caracalla keeps his gaze averted, refusing to look at his brother, the accusation landing with a sickening thud to his gut. He fiddles with his hands, and picks at his poxes on his cheek. A seemingly ever-present tense silence continues to fill the room, broken only by the low, anxious whimper of the monkey on his shoulder.

“I just…I just wanted to feel her, that is all. I needed to know what it would feel like to hold her. To feel her skin against mine…her lips…” Caracalla slowly admits, his voice just above a whisper, meek and pathetic.

Geta closes his eyes in barely suppressed anger. This is worse, far worse than he thought. His brother’s illness is a constant burden, but moments like this, when Caracalla completely loses control, are the most dangerous. It’s a reminder that his brother can’t be entirely trusted, that there’s a monster lurking beneath the surface. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“And what did Florentia say when you did this?” He asks lowly.

“She…she pushed me away,” Caracalla says weakly.

Geta glares at his brother, a deep sense of disapproval and disappointment radiating off of him. His mind pictures the scene before him against his will. He feels tears well up, threatening to fall at the thought of Florentia, his love, being forced into something as intimate as a kiss, to her, by his own brother. To hear that she had to push him away, that she did not want to be touched—it is unbearable.

“You scared her,” he accuses, “You let your illness take over, and you scared her. Just like you always do.” The urge to find Florentia, to hug her and comfort her until the sun rises again, is intense.

Caracalla winces, the words hitting him hard. He knows it’s true. He can recall the look on Florentia’s face so easily, that mixture of fear and revulsion when he’d grabbed her, tried to force himself upon her. He flinches, tries in vain to justify his actions.

“I was not myself. The illness….it was taking hold. I couldn’t…couldn’t stop myself.”

Geta scoffs bitterly. “What would have happened if she had not the strength to push you away, mm? Would you have forced yourself on her, even if she did not want it?”

“No!” Caracalla cries. Geta looks unconvinced. He can’t put it past his brother, not after everything he’s seen and experienced.

“LOOK AT ME.” Geta roars. Caracalla jumps in his skin at the sudden noise, and Dondus squeaks, burying himself deeper in his robes. Caracalla shakily turns around, still refusing to make eye contact. Geta says, his voice is hard, full of judgement. “You say that, but I know you. I know how much control you lose when the illness takes hold. So forgive me if I have trouble believing you.”

Caracalla struggles to keep his emotions in check. His brother’s accusation hurts. More than anything, he wants Geta to understand. But it’s hard to find the words to explain just how overwhelming the disease can be, how much it twists his thoughts and feelings. “You do not understand what it is like! The headaches, the…the voices I hear...the nightmares when I sleep. It is like there is another person inside me, someone I cannot control.”

Geta shakes his head, frustrated. He does understand, in part, but sympathising with his brother’s illness is hard at times like this. Caracalla has not exactly made it easy for him.

“I know that, brother. I know it is not easy dealing with all that. But it is no excuse to take your anger out on others, especially not on someone as delicate as Florentia,”

Caracalla growls, his pride pricked. He doesn’t think of Florentia as delicate, not in the same way Geta does. To him, she’s strong, capable, someone who can match his intensity. “You act as if she’s some fragile doll that can’t handle a bit of passion. I know for a fact she is capable of handling me,”

Geta snorts. Caracalla’s insistence on proving her worth is as irritating as it is ridiculous. Anyone can see Florentia is strong and resilient, but that doesn’t mean she deserves to be subjected to his brother’s violent, erratic behavior.

“Perhaps she is. But do you really think attacking her, scaring her, is the correct way to show your ‘passion’? Because let me tell you, brother, it only pushes her further from you.”

Caracalla falters, some small part of him knowing that Geta’s right. He grips Dondus tighter. He’s hurt Florentia and it’s pushed her away. But at the same time, he can’t understand why. Why can’t she see past his illness to the man beneath? Why does she resist his advances, when he loves her so fiercely?

“You do not think I know that?” he snaps, “You think I enjoy scaring her? That I am some monster who enjoys seeing her frightened and on edge?”

Geta is unsure at first. The thought of Florentia scared out of her mind, enough to push Caracaa away, knowing what ba happened in her past—it becomes unbearable again. “I know you do not. But you make it hard for anyone to see that, brother. You lash out when you are hurt or sick or upset, and people remember that. You have given them every reason to fear you.” he takes a deep breath. “And I must check on Florentia now,”

“No! You cannot leave yet—” Caracalla looks away, a muscle ticking in his jaw. It’s true. He doesn’t mean to hurt people, but it happens regardless. The headaches, the voices, the nightmares—they all get worse when he’s stressed or angry, and that clearly lead to…to whatever happened with Florentia today. He grits his teeth, frustrated and ashamed in equal measure and looks up at his brother.

“Wh-what do you suggest I do? Just be meek and mild and polite all the time?”

Geta sighs again, his expression one of weary patience.

“No, I am not suggesting you change your entire personality. I am saying you need to find a better way to control your anger. Find outlets that do not involve hurting those around you. If you truly care about Florentia, you will learn how to restrain yourself.”

“How? The healers…they know nothing!” Caracalla shrieks, exasperated, grasping at Geta’s hands for stability almost as if to gain his healthiness.

Geta grimaces. Caracalla’s frustration is understandable, but it doesn’t change the fact that the physicians they’ve consulted have been unable to find any effective treatment for his illness. “I know they are not helping, brother, but you cannot give up just yet. We will keep searching, find more healers, more doctors until we find some way to help you,”

Caracalla scoffs, shaking his head. He’s tired of healers, of their useless concoctions and empty promises. “You do not believe that. I can see it in your eyes, you think they are all quacks, every one of them. And you are not exactly wrong. If there were a way to help me, we would have found it by now. I am beginning to lose hope, brother. I do not think there is a cure for what ails me,”

Geta’s jaw tightens, but his eyes show sympathy. He doesn’t exactly deny the accusation since Caracalla is correct—Geta doesn’t believe much in the healers and physicians that come to court to try and ‘treat’ Caracalla. Yet, he also can’t accept his brother’s fatalism. “I will not allow you give up, brother. There must be a way. Even if we have to scour the entire world, we will find it. I swear it.”

Taken aback by emotion, Caracalla’s lip wobbles. He gives his brother a look that’s full of appreciation, tears brimming his eyes. Geta’s determination, it’s bordering on naive. Still…there’s a stubborn part of Caracalla that still wants to cling to hope, to the idea that he can fight his illness, that he can overcome it. “You are as stubborn as a mule, you know that?” he blubbers. “You are going to send people halfway across the world on a fool’s errand.”

Geta smiles wryly, the expression more fond than amused. “That’s something we have in common, brother. We both have stubborn streaks a mile wide.” He pauses, looks directly into his brother’s eyes. “And I will go to the ends of the earth for you, if that’s what it takes. Don’t dare to doubt my convictions.”

Caracalla can’t help but smile at that, touched in spite of himself. For all their disagreements, Geta has always been loyal, always believed in him and loved him in a way nobody else has, even if he cannot remember. He appreciates his brother, even if he won’t admit it. “I do appreciate your conviction. Even if it is wasted on a poor, ill-fated wretch like me.”

Geta shakes his head, his expression almost pained. “Don’t say that about yourself. You’re not doomed, brother. Not if I have any say in it.” He squeezes his brother’s hands gently. “I will not let you give up. Not ever. Understood?”

Caracalla looks at his brother’s hand on his, a lump forming in his throat. He appreciates the reassurance, even if he doesn’t completely believe it. But…he’ll try. For Geta’s sake, he’ll try to believe things can get better.

“Understood,” he mutters, voice thick with emotion.

Dondus chitters happily. “See? Dondus agree,” Geta chuckles. “Now, I must see to Florentia,”

At the mention of her name, Caracalla cowers. His stomach fills with a strange mix of guilt, love, and jealousy.

“No! Don’t leave me,” He grabs onto Geta’s hands harder.

“Caracalla, you should get some rest. I will see you in the morning,”

“No,” he shakes his head. More tears fall down his rosy cheeks, his nose drippy. He’s like a stubborn child, too scared or stubborn to go to bed. That is sometimes how he feels when Caracalla gets into these states he’s in, consumed by his disease.

“Caracalla, it’s time for bed. You are tired,” Geta calls for his servants, while Caracalla stands blubbering, holding onto Dondas. “See that Caracalla goes to bed,” he instructs his servants, “And call for the healer. I fear he will struggle in falling asleep tonight. I am sure there’s something they can give him for that,”

“Lavender,” Caracalla voices meekly, as the servants carefully guide him away from Geta.

“Lavender, that’s…lovely,” Geta says, nodding in encouragement as Caracalla follows the servants, leaving the room. “Goodnight, brother,”

A few moments after Caracalla leaves, Geta races to leave the room, hurrying down the hallway. He must find Florentia.

Meanwhile, Caracalla’s legs carry him to his chambers with the servants. They are as delicate as a mother is to a child while they disrobe him, plump up his pillows and fill them with flowers and herbs which evoke calmness and sleep. They then tuck him into bed. Dondus is curled up on his chest, like a cat as Caracalla sucks his own thumb—something he does when alone, to self-soothe.

YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS.

A/N:

God, I love Caracalla at the end. Like yeah ur just a little baby let me tuck you in. Omg.

I wanted to write Dondas as a girl but the monkey is actually a boy believe it or not. But I do love when other fanfic writers refer to Dondas as a girl…genderfluid icon. 💅 Also there’s so many different ways to spell Dondas so if you notice it changes throughout this fanfic, no you don’t 🩷

I'm tired as I'm finishing this but I really wanna post it. Let me know if there's mistakes or something. I hope u enjoy it.

Comment if you want to be on the taglist!

I made a playlist for this fanfic if you care! Link here

[megalony]

Maimed My Wife

This is a new Emperor Geta imagine that turned out rather long. I'm very happy with this one and I hope you will all like it.

Please tell me what you think.

Taglist: @justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @woderfulkawaii @amberpanda99 @daggersquadphantom @marvel-and-chicago-fan @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyje @kmc1989 @itsmytimetoodream @noonenuts @hiireadstuff @ashie-babie @classyunknownlover @jayyeahthatsme @sp1ritssz @dumb-fawkin-bitch @oliverstarksbae @gimatida @heart-35 @supernaturalstilinski @kyky9103 @gay4hotmilfs @itshamleth @chaoticnosleepinfluencer @gs29 @wh0reforsmutstuff @mel-vaz @natashamea18 @chrisevansdaughter @alexandra848484 @deena-beena-weena @targaryenluvs @kpoplover-19 @marvelmenarebeautiful @gillybear17

@zoeybennett @mrspeacem1nusone @zephyrmonkey @estella-novella @eleventhdoctorsangel @kniselle @senjoritanana @shauna-carsley @dottierose @cfdhouse51 @darkfemme1 @rainechase45 @lolalolsstuff @jupiter1700 @ashdoctor @an-aliens-ghost @lunaroserites @houseoftwistedspirits @callsignwidow @winterreader-nowwriter @reneinii @bellsbomb @western-pyro @itsgigikay @harry-satellite @midsummereve1993 @babyqueen17 @buckyyyismahhlife @sammiejane22 @mrsyixingunicorn10 @op-81-lvr-reblogs @talicat713 @niamhmbt @strawberry-canyon @bieberhoodforever @911fangirlie @hollandxxmix

Main Masterlist

Summary: Geta is very protective of his wife. And when a General in the palace attacks her, he sees to it personally that said General will no longer be a threat.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A deep warmth spread through (Y/n) and her mouth curved into a tender grin when a familiar pair of lips attached themselves to the side of her neck. Silently, she inclined her head to the left, allowing more access while she tried to keep her focus on the book in her hands.

Her fingers skimmed across the corner of each page, an action she had done for long enough that the corners were starting to crinkle as if they had been dampened with water. Each page was still pristine and crisp, but there was a small, noticable mark of wear and tear in the corners and the remnants of ink smudged across the side of the pages when each one had been turned.

The words began to blurr on the page the longer (Y/n) felt Geta's administrations on her neck continue. Added with the movement of his hands which were fiddling with the fabric of her dress and the belt around her waist, he was making it very hard to concentrate.

Geta's arms were encircled around (Y/n)'s waist as if he were caging her in his embrace, not that she ever wanted to leave.

It wasn't often that they could scrape moments together like this without having some kind of audience or interruption. Being here, just the two of them with no guards or family or servants hovering nearby, it was heavenly. It was a sense of serenity.

(Y/n) re-read the same two lines for what felt like the tenth time until they finally seemed to sink in and she could focus on reaching the bottom of the page. But when Geta's teeth sank down against her lower neck near her shoulder, she was sure he was trying to leave a visible mark. A signal that she was his, she was taken. As if no one already knew who she belonged to.

The book started to tap against her knees that were drawn up so her feet could press down into the sofa and steady herself. The words weren't making sense anymore, she wasn't really paying attention.

(Y/n) hadn't been in the library long before Geta wandered in, knowing this was exactly where his wife would be. As soon as he sat down with her, (Y/n) knew her book would end up being forgotten and would have to be finished another day. Even as Geta murmured into her hair that he just wanted to sit with her as he had a moment to spare, and the promises he uttered into her skin that he wouldn't be a distraction. (Y/n) knew he would be.

Her chest leaned further back into Geta's chest until she was reclined against him and her head fell back against his shoulder. He was sat slightly slouched down into the sofa while (Y/n) was sat sideways so she could be tucked into Geta's arm. It didn't take long for him to twist and curve both arms around her and attach to her like he had been apart from her for days, not hours.

"You're making this difficult." (Y/n) murmured with a sly smile, already residing to the fact that she was giving up with reading for today.

"Hm, I can tell."

Her hand draped across the sofa, fumbling about to try and find the speckled feather she had been using as a bookmark for quite some time now. Once it was slotted safely in place between the pages, (Y/n) leaned forward to set her book down on the other end of the sofa.

The library was (Y/n)'s sense of peace. She had been thrilled when she moved into the palace after marrying Geta and he showed her the library. He had quickly realised that if he couldn't find his wife anywhere, this was where she would be hiding. Buried in the books the library provided, catching up on her Latin and Greek and delving into the mythical stories each book provided.

Geta understood her love of books, even if he didn't read half as many books as her. He had been tutored well. He and Caracalla had been taught to read and write since the moment they could stand on their own two feet. Emperors had to be well-schooled and be given rich educations. Geta wanted the same for his children, even if he wouldn't go about it as strictly as his parents had. And he had promised himself never to treat his children the way his father had treated him and his twin.

He began to feather his fingers up and down (Y/n)'s waist, grinning into her neck at the way she squirmed against him and moved her hands down to clasp over his wrists now that she wasn't holding her book.

When Geta lifted his head, (Y/n) turned and angled her head up so she could peck his cheek.

She took the chance to admire his pale features, amplified with a lacquer of paint to make his features more ghostly and frightening. On anyone else, (Y/n) was sure looking so pale and deathly would look a horrid sight, but on her husband it was enchanting and regal.

One hand reached up to brush a stray strand of bright orange hair away from his dark eyes that fell closed as he leaned into her touch and nudged his nose against her wrist.

Moments alone like these were few and hard to grasp, Geta liked to bask in them for as long as possible before they morphied into something else or became broken by interruptions.

He continued to glide his fingertips along her waist, drawing patterns into the pure white dress that crinkled and ruffled along her thighs and over her bent knees. He liked how her dress contrasted to the golden clothes he was wearing beneath the cold golden armour over the top. When being seen out in public, Geta was used to wearing his armour. It was for spectators as well as his own protection. They never knew what people were lurking around each corner.

While Geta had his eyes closed, (Y/n) took the opportunity to turn around so her back was no longer against his chest. She moved round so she was knelt up beside his thigh, now able to loop her arms around the back of his neck and lean her chest flush against his.

Her touch was surprising but very welcome and Geta's hands moved to cup her hips, digging his fingers into her flesh as he leaned further back and tilted his head so he was gazing up at his wife. His own Goddess.

The word "Beautiful," passed his lips as he gazed at her in splendor before he leaned forward to capture her in a kiss. The touch was soft and warm and loving and (Y/n) gasped into his mouth when she felt his teeth bite down on her lower lip.

(Y/n) began to stroke her thumb up and down the back of Geta's neck, brushing against the short hairs and tangling her finger in his longer locks at the back of his head. When she tightened her grip it earned a quiet growl to rumble from deep within Geta's chest. And she felt his hands tighten on her hips in retaliation and he scrunched her dress up between his fingers, just starting to pull up the material as if his intentions were to bunch her dress high around her hips.

She was sure that was what his intention was and she leaned further against his chest to try and deter him. Anyone could walk in. People didn't tend to knock on lounge or library doors the same as they would if the Emperor and Empress were in their personal chambers.

(Y/n) would hate to be caught by anyone if she and Geta were in a compromising position. She knew her husband wouldn't bat an eyelid, but she would.

When she tugged on his hair again and tilted his head back without breaking their kiss, (Y/n) felt his hands give a sharp pull on her hips. He was about to pull her onto his lap and (Y/n) would have obliged, if the wooden doors to the library didn't creak and groan as they opened.

Their lips quickly broke apart and (Y/n) glanced over her left shoulder while Geta let his head drop back against the sofa while he casually looked towards the doors.

A smile instantly formed on his lips and his fingers dug into (Y/n)'s hips, pulling her back down against his chest again when they both saw that it wasn't a guard or a servant requesting something from them.

It was Caracalla, with his niece in his arms.

Caracalla's hair looked rather disshevelled as if he had woken up from a hundred year nap, but he had a bright smile on his features and his head inclined to one side as he waltzed into the library.

He jostled his niece who was perched high on his chest with her little arms draped around the back of his neck and her head nuzzled up against his cheek.

There weren't many people in the palace that Geta would trust with his child. The nursemaid who had been employed with them since the princess's birth, the two guards who were to watch over the princess without fail, wherever she went. And his brother.

When the princess was with her parents or her uncle, no guards needed to constantly have her within their sights. They could walk a few paces back or wait outside the room rather than stand inside and observe.

"Oh, and what are you doing?"

Geta chose to ignore his brother's words and the smile that broadened on his features because they both knew what the couple had been doing.

As the large oak doors closed behind him, Caracalla walked further into the library, looking around the grand room he hardly ever came into anymore. He didn't find books fascinating, his attention span was short these days and with his changing moods, curtesy of his illness, the mood to sit peacefully and engage in a book never came about. He was either much too frivilous or much too riled to read.

But he knew his sister in law was quite often found in here and sometimes this was where he had to come in order to find his niece. Caracalla was immensely fond of her. He was childlike at heart and found he could entertain the little girl and enjoy spending time with her rather than most of the people who frequented the palace.

"She can walk, brother." Geta dropped one hand from (Y/n)'s hip so he could motion his hand towards his daughter.

His daughter had recently learned to walk and it made her much more of a trickster. Geta was forever finding her sliding the rings off his fingers and running off with them, clearly wanting him to play her game and chase her for the jewels.

And now that she could walk, it meant the princess would run into meetings and abscond around the palace with her maid right behind her, unable to stop her from trying to explore and find her parents. Geta never declined when his daughter found her way to the meetings and he would sit her on his lap and let her play with the jewellery hanging around his neck or the rings cladding his fingers while the Senates talked state business. Her presence was calming.

"Where's the fun in that?" Caracalla countered with pursed lips and a huff that ended with him kissing his niece's cheek.

He knew she could walk, she had ran right up to him this morning, clearly wanting him rather than her nursemaid and Caracalla obliged. He dismissed the maid immediately and took to wandering around the palace with the little princess by his side and then in his arms. He loved carrying her around. Why walk when she could be carried like the princess she was?

But he seemed to relent when she started to wriggle and he set her down to her feet so she could toddle across the dark purple and crimson rug with her arms outstretched towards her parents.

(Y/n) slowly turned back around and slumped back down on the sofa so she was sitting beside Geta rather than kneeling up against him. Her lips curved into a grin and her hands draped over Geta's shoulders when he leaned forward to reach out for her.

A squeal burst past Floriana's lips when Geta scooped her up from the floor and leaned back to sit her down on his lap.

"Hi flower," He murmured softly and when her little hands patted his cheeks, Geta obliged and leaned down to kiss her temple.

(Y/n) watched the both of them with fondness amplifying in her eyes and causing a bright smile to etch across her face. Her hands squeezed his shoulders and she leaned forward to perch her chin in the crook of his neck as a little incoherent murmur left their daughter's lips.

She loved to see Geta with their little girl. Although it was frowned upon to have the father at the birth, Geta had burst into the room when he couldn't wait around any longer and listen to his wife's tortured cries.

(Y/n) had been nervous when she had Floriana. She didn't know how Geta would react to a daughter, it was something that had rattled her and caused her many sleepless nights. Everyone had expected her to bear a son, to give an heir to the throne to secure Geta's place as Emperor. Having a girl simply meant everyone would be pressuring her to have a boy sooner or later as if she had done something wrong and she would have to keep retrying until she got it right.

Geta quashed those worries immediately. The tears in his eyes and the bright smile on his face when he held his daughter showed he wasn't disappointed in the slightest. He was enamoured with his little girl and he wouldn't change her for the world. She and (Y/n) were Geta's everything.

The three people in this room with him were his family. These were the people he would give his life for.

"Have you two had some fun?" (Y/n) reached her arm across to brush her finger against her daughter's cheek, watching the little girl giggle and burrow into Geta's chest.

Although her fingers started to tap against the golden armour covering his chest. She couldn't reach his undershirt or his robes. Floriana had a new obsession with hiding herself away in Geta's robes like she was doing some kind of magician's trick. With his armour in the way, she couldn't tuck herself into his clothes or make herself disappear.

"We've been for a stroll in the gardens with Dondus." Caracalla perched on the arm of the sofa nearest to (Y/n) and brought his feet up to rest on the sofa cushion. His sandals began to tap against the cushion and his hands patted his thighs as he continued to smile. He was in one of his good moods today.

When Floriana pushed up until she was stood on Geta's thigh, he tilted back to see what she was doing.

"What are you doing, little one?"

Her hands scrunched up in the collar of his shirt that poked through above his armour and her cheek flopped onto his shoulder near (Y/n) as she pushed into his chest. Geta kissed the top of her head with a smile as he realised that she was tired. She would need a nap now and if he had the time, he would lie right here and let her lay on his chest. He would cuddle her and stay with her as she slept if he could.

"Acacius is back from his venture, we should go and await his arrival." It wasn't like Caracalla to be prompt and ready to follow procedure, but they had sent the General on a mission to conquor lands in the name of Rome. And both Emperors were eager to hear of his triumph and know just how much he had procured for them while he had been away.

"We should." Geta hummed against the top of his daughter's head but the sigh he let out told (Y/n) he didn't really want to leave.

"I think we will stay here and have a nap while you await your victories." (Y/n) turned to gently ease their daughter into her own arms because she knew if she didn't, Geta was unlikely to let his daughter go.

She made a little whine at the movement but once her head was nestled into (Y/n)'s chest and she began drooling on her mother's sleeve, she seemed content. The little girl curled up in her mother's embrace who slouched back into the sofa so her daughter was lying down and could settle to sleep.

(Y/n) was more than eager to stay here in the library where it was quiet and serene. Her baby girl could take a nap and (Y/n) could continue reading while the Emperor's went about their business.

A lot of the ladies in court had told and advised (Y/n) to leave the nurturing of her daughter to the maids.

'That is what they are there for.'

That wasn't good enough. (Y/n) wanted to be with her daughter. She loved to read to her and cuddle her and take walks with her and be in her presence. (Y/n) wanted to be involved just the same as Geta rarely let his girl out of his sight when he wasn't in his meetings. He checked on her at almost every moment of the day, he wanted to be involved when she began to take her lessons and tutoring.

They would both be involved in their daughter's upbringing more than the servants and maids would be.

"Sleep," Caracalla muttered and grazed his fingers against his niece's thin strands of hair before he bounced up from the sofa to take his leave. He had done his job with entertaining her for the morning and now he could go and drown in spendor and victory.

"I won't be too long."

Geta pressed a finger beneath (Y/n)'s chin, tilting her head up towards him so he could steal a kiss from her warm lips. Her touch was enticing him to stay and he hummed against her lips, swiping his tongue against hers in a battle that had him yearning to stay here with them than to go and deal with the victories of Rome.

When (Y/n) finally pulled back for air, Geta groaned and bowed his forehead against hers. He didn't want to leave his girls.

"Rest, little flower." His words were hushed against Floriana's temple which he kissed, twice, and his finger brushed along her cheek before he finally parted from his girls. His eyes lingered on them as he left the library, feeling like he was walking away without his heart that had been left behind with them.

He wanted to be back with them already.

***

After both Emperors departed, it didn't take long for Floriana to drift into slumber, resting against her mother's chest. Her head was tucked against (Y/n)'s neck and she had curled up like a cub, dozing peacefully.

(Y/n) had her cheek resting on top of Floriana's head with one arm draped around her daughter and the other hand expertly balancing her book and preventing the pages from wavering and losing her place.

She wasn't sure how long they stayed there, tucked up in their own little world of peace together with no disrruptions or people clattering around and making a fuss. It was lovely to spend some time together with her little girl.

(Y/n) could feel her own eyes desperate to close but she powered through, wanting to use this time to read and sit with her daughter rather than fall to sleep and lose the moment.

They had been tucked up together for a long while before a quiet knock sounded at the door and (Y/n) looked over to see the nursemaid poking her head around the door. She wondered if the maid knew instinctively that the princess would be in here with her mother or if she had spent a while searching round the palace for the pair of them. Or maybe one of the Emperors had mentioned in passing where they both were.

It didn't matter either way. The maid walked into the room with a smile gracing her plump features as she looked down at the princess who was just beginning to stir in her mother's arms.

"Would you like me to take the princess for some lunch?"

"Please." (Y/n) nodded and placed the feather back in her book which she set down beside her.

She eased forward until Floriana was forced to sit up on her lap and the little girl rubbed her fist against her eyes to try and wake herself up. Her head lolled from left to right and a yawn escaped her lips as she smiled sweetly up at the maid who reached down to scoop her up.

They both knew if the princess tried walking now she would stumble or lay down with only just waking up and she would dawdle. It would be much easier to carry her back to her room to have something to eat.

(Y/n) pressed a kiss to her temple and brushed her short strands of golden hair away from her little eyes before she was in the maid's arms.

"Are you joining us, Empress?"

"Soon, I'll find the Emperor first." It wouldn't be fitting for (Y/n) not to find out how their meeting with General Acacius had gone- or was still going, depending on how long this meeting would drag out for.

(Y/n) knew the Emperors would entertain the General and want to hear about every triumph and each obstacle he overcame so they knew how to better strategize their next invasion. And she knew as Empress that she needed to take an interest too and find out how things had gone.

She watched with a smile as the maid nodded and left the library with the Princess bundled up in her arms, still half asleep.

(Y/n) wasn't that hungry yet, anyway. She would take a walk to liven herself up and then go and see how things were fairing with both Emperors. Hopefully this meeting would go well and there would be reason for triumph and celebrations. (Y/n) knew both Emperors were desperate to entertain more Gladiators in the colosseum. It wasn't a sport that (Y/n) particularly enjoyed witnessing, but seeing her husband so eager and cheering and giving the casting vote of a Gladiator's life was thrilling to watch.

With her book laid on the small table beside the sofa, (Y/n) stood up and smoothed down the wrinkles in her dress that pooled towards her ankles. The pure white cotton always glistened when she walked in the sunlight and Geta always commented that she reminded him of a star with how the light sparkled on her when she wore white. A blinding beauty was how he often described her.

She made her way to the door and headed out of the quiet library, into the corridor that had very limited windows and therefore not much light. The shadows cast darker in this corridor and made (Y/n) feel like she was wandering the palace in darkness rather than the middle of the day.

The sound of her sandals clicking against the stones echoed and bounced off the walls and she slowly descended towards the end of the hall to the stairs.

(Y/n) wasn't too sure whereabouts her husband would be having this meeting with Acacius, but she knew it would be downstairs. Either in one of the drawing rooms or the great hall which they used for meetings with the Senate. The only thing she was sure of was that he and Caracalla would speak to Acacius on their own. Without an audience so they could truly discuss their plans and news.

A gasp tumbled past her lips and she stepped back just before she reached the corridor leading to the stairs when a firm chest almost barrelled into her.

Her left hand pressed into the wall and her right hand pressed against her chest to steady her breathing.

Her round eyes looked up to see who she had almost collided with and she stepped back again to add a bit more space between them and make sure that she wouldn't tumble over.

"Oh, General Caius." (Y/n) nodded her head at the General who stood tall in front of her.

He was one of the men she didn't know too well. (Y/n) knew only a few of the Generals who paraded round the palace and led her husband's armies. Caius was one of the men she was more acquainted with but she never really had many dealings with him. It was usually a smile in passing when he would come to deliver news to the Emperors.

"Empress." He bowed his head to her and (Y/n) watched a smile light up his features.

His smile seemed somehow too large and crooked for his face and the way his beady eyes trained in on her made her chest tighten. Being married to an Emperor made (Y/n) the subject of scrutiny by many people, and it was never something she handled well.

She couldn't help the way she cast her eyes around the hall as if waiting for someone to wander out of one of the rooms and cease this awkward encounter or strike up a conversation.

"Have you seen the Emperor?"

"No my lady." When he stepped closer, (Y/n) tried to form a placid smile as she carefully stepped to the right. "No guards?"

The way Caius cast his eyes around the hall and ticked his head made (Y/n) look behind her rather stupidly. She knew she didn't have guards following her. Geta had agreed to her wishes not to be followed around the palace at every waking moment.

When she had been pregnant, he had been a little less willing and made sure the guards followed at a safe distance behind (Y/n), for his peace of mind. And of course if the princess wasn't with her parents or uncle, she was to be guarded at all times. But Geta had allowed (Y/n) the luxury of not having guards trailing her every movement if she did not want them to.

She only had guards if she left the palace or when they were entertaining company, for curtesy.

Caius knew this. He often did guard duties in the palace from time to time and he knew (Y/n) was different to the Emperors. Both Emperors liked to have guards nearby, they never knew who might be lurking around each corner or when someone might turn into an enemy and attack. Whereas this had never happened to (Y/n) so she had no reason to think it might happen now.

"Good day, General." Dipping her head down in curtesy, (Y/n) scratched her fingers against the palm of her hands as she stepped to the right a little more to try and walk around Caius.

She had no wish to entertain him in conversation today, she wanted to go and find her family and celebrate their victories.

Her eyes trained on the floor, following the cracks in the carefully carved stone but a jolt ran through her system and made her chest tighten horribly when a hand curled around her upper arm. Her feet stumbled over one another and her shoulder bashed into Caius's chest when he roughly pulled her back towards him.

"What's the rush?" His voice seemed to lower an octave and his grin had turned sickening as he stared down at her.

His fingers were starting to grip bruisingly into (Y/n)'s flesh and when she tried to yank her arm out of his hold, he simply reeled her back towards him again.

What was he doing?

"You forget your place. General." (Y/n) held her chin high and ground her jaw as she wrenched her arm out of his hold and fought the urge to reach out and slap him for his indignation.

He had no right to be grabbing her like that. (Y/n) wanted to go and he had no cause to stop her or try to entertain a conversation with her when she said no. All it took was one word to Geta for General Caius to be demoted; not that (Y/n) would ever want to use her status and power like that, but she would if she had to.

"And you clearly don't know yours, my lady." The way he sneered down at her made (Y/n)'s stomach churn but before she could try and bolt towards the stairwell, he grabbed her. Again.

A hand curled around the back of her neck with shuch a viper's grip that (Y/n) felt too afraid to breathe. She felt his other hand press down against the centre of her chest and her tense legs tripped and scuffed her heels against the floor when Caius pushed her back until she was pressed against the wall.

The cold stone bruised her shoulders and her spine ached when she jolted back against the wall, staring up at Caius in terror.

No one had ever been so bold as to do anything like this to her before. They knew who she was married to. They knew the madness that dwelled within her husband and the deep rage that jealousy provoked within him. If someone so much as looked at (Y/n) for a second too long, Geta's arm was around her waist and his petrifying gaze was burning into whoever was looking at her.

He had dismissed men from the palace for staring or hovering too close to his wife and for striking up much too informal conversations with her.

(Y/n) didn't want to think what he would do to a General under his command who laid a hand on his wife and who would try and put her in such a compromising position.

"Caius- that's enough!" (Y/n) clenched her hand around his wrist and tried to force his hand from her chest where he was pushing her so harshly into the wall that the stone was beginning to grate againt her exposed shoulders. But she couldn't seem to move when he all but thrust her back against the wall again and his head inclined closer to hers.

He took two steps closer until the smooth silver armour he wore clinked against her chest. It felt like (Y/n) was trapped between two walls that were closing in on her. At any moment she felt like she was going to be crushed.

When his other hand moved down and had the audacity to grip her hip, (Y/n) let go of his wrist. She reeled her arm back and slapped him across the face with as much force as she could muster.

The blunt force caused Caius's head to propell to the left and it weakened his hand against her chest enough for (Y/n) to push against him and stumble to one side.

Why was he doing this? Didn't he know the punishment for this would certainly be his death? If he went any further in his torturous advances, (Y/n) wouldn't be able to stop Geta from unleashing Hell onto him. If he stopped now, if he backed off and let (Y/n) hurry to Geta, then Caius would get away with being stripped of his General status and being exiled from Rome. But if he continued, (Y/n) wouldn't be able to stop her husband from taking his life.

"That was bold." Caius rose one hand to his mouth where he could taste blood from where he bit his tongue from the slap. But the way his grin splintered into a sideways smirk showed he wasn't going to stop at that.

(Y/n) screamed when his hand knotted in her hair and dragged her back against his chest, but when a thin hand blade was pressed over her neck, her voice cut short.

"Don't make me use this." He pressed the knife deeper against her throat until (Y/n) couldn't breathe without discomfort, as if she didn't know what he was referring to. "Although I do wonder… does your blood run blue when cut?"

A cry bubbled up in (Y/n)'s throat but she clamped her mouth shut and closed her eyes to try and steady herself. Her hands grasped Caius's arm to stop herself from wavering and to try and keep him from pressing the blade too far and cutting off her breathing.

Oh dear.

How was she going to get out of this? How was she going to explain this situation to Geta? Her husband wasn't going to react well. She needed to get out of this now before Caius did something horrible. (Y/n) didn't want to know if he would cut her or not. She didn't want to be hurt with a blade. She didn't want to know what his intentions were or how far he would go or if he would truly try and defile an Empress.

His motives were clear and disgusting.

The word 'no' uttered past her lips and her neck tensed and began to tremble against the blade as she tried to push him back but it wasn't working.

The blade held her in place and when she felt his free hand move to clutch at her lip it felt like his fingers were fangs piercing into her skin. She could feel her dress being scrunched up in his fist along with how tightly he was gripping her skin that would surely bruise beneath his poisonous touch.

With what effort she could muster, (Y/n) rose her knee up and rammed it into his crotch as swiftly as she could manage. But the movement caused Caius to crash forwards into her as he doubled over with a loud grunt.

His face pressed awfully close to hers until (Y/n) could see the emotions bubbling over in his eyes. Rage. Lust. Anger. All of it, mixing together in a sinister concotion that had her stomach churning in fright.

She could barely draw in a proper breath with Caius pressing into her and the blade against her throat. But she tried. She tried to inhale one deep breath that expanded her lungs to the max and allowed her to hold her breath so she could push forward.

She took the risk of pressing her throat further into the blade until she could feel a slight sting and a few droplets of blood dribbled across the blade. It caused Caius to pull his arm back an inch or two.

He didn't want to cut her. He didn't want to use the blade unless he had to. He was smart. He hoped the threat of inflicting pain would be enough to subdue (Y/n) and make her listen to him. Actually harming her wasn't something Caius wanted to do because he knew if he was caught and (Y/n) was harmed, that would be it.

Harming the Emperor's wife was a death sentence and although Caius was playing with fire, he didn't want to get burned.

"Enough!" The word spat past (Y/n)'s lips in a breathless scream and she thrashed her arms out until they bashed down into Caius's elbows, forcing his arms to tense and drop down.

The action caused the knife to slice through her skin. It wasn't deep enough to reach muscle, but it was enough to make (Y/n)'s knees shake in agony and a scream erupted from her lips. The feeling of her skin peeling apart like fruit made her body cringe and writhe. She felt the knife carve from the side of her neck down to her collar bone.

When Caius's arm slid from her frame, the knife roughly slashed against (Y/n)'s dress, cutting the strap across her right shoulder so the material hung loose and barely stayed over her chest.

With her right hand cradling her neck and feeling the blood trickling across her palm, (Y/n) thrust her other arm out until she smacked the General at any angle and area of his body that she could. She flung her left side into him, shoving him back as she tripped over her skirts and stumbled away from him.

Her feet became caught in her dress that was floundering around her like sails caught in the wind and her body slumped against the wall to her right to stop herself going down on her knees.

Tears tumbled down her face as another scream belted past her lips, trying in vain to alert anyone that she needed help. There had to be someone around here. Surely. Someone had to be walking these halls or cleaning the rooms on this floor or just loitering around. There had to be someone who could hear her.

"I will have you!"

Caius's shrill, gritty tone made (Y/n) whimper and she turned around just in time to raise her left arm in defence when she saw the glittering edge of the blade coming towards her. The blade cut through her forearm deeper than the wound to her neck and had her arm trembling and coiling back towards her chest.

Why was he doing this? Why (Y/n)? Was the thought of harming or defiling an Empress worth the price he was going to pay for this?

Surely he knew that if he didn't kill (Y/n), she would tell Geta and that her husband wasn't likely to ignore her. Geta would believe her, he wouldn't never think his wife was lying and therefore Caius would have no defence when Geta found him. He couldn't lie his way out of this situation.

When his hand clenched around her upper arm and gave a rough twist, (Y/n) stumbled towards him. She let herself go limp and allowed him to drag her to her knees before him while her right hand slithered round from her tense, bleeding neck to scrunch her fingers up into her hair.

Caius seemed too interested with the sight of the Empress on her knees before him to notice what she was doing. His eyes were roaming her skin, taking in the sight of her tense throat that was gasping for air and her heaving chest trying to regain enough oxygen so she didn't pass out. He seemed to enjoy the hatred pooling in her eyes that would not look up beyond his chin, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of staring into those beastly eyes.

He made the mistake of leaning towards her. He made the grave error of letting go of her arm in favour of grasping her chin which he man handled so he could tilt her head back and roughly force his lips against hers. He was so rough that his teeth clashed against hers and caused her lip to cut against her teeth and the touch was sickening.

But the distraction was enough. (Y/n)'s trembling fingers pulled one of the pins from her hair that had previously kept her hair pinned neatly at the back of her head. Tendrils of hair fell loose as (Y/n) clenched the thin metal between her thumb and index finger.

Her watering eyes narrowed and she focused on the General before her as she thrust her hand forward until the pin punctured into his eye.

The action made her stomach churn and she could feel bile rising at the back of her throat as she gagged. The squelching sound made (Y/n) cough through a cry and when Caius roared, (Y/n) took her chance.

She twisted his wrist until the blade punctured through his lower abdomen where the silver armour he wore could not reach to protect him.

Another roar of agony left the General's lips as he crashed to his knees. Blood lathered around his eye socket where his eyelid was pinned closed and blood continued to trickle down his face. His white robes beneath his armour quickly started to change like a magician's trick, turning a horrible shade of crimson.

The wound in his abdomen wasn't as deep as (Y/n) wanted it to be, but she didn't have the strength to push the blade any further when it needed so much effort and Caius's hand was fighting against her, repelling her motion. But the flesh wound was all she needed to escape him.

(Y/n) sank back on her heels and scraped her bloodied hands along the floor so she could turn over and scramble to her feet.

Her hands bunched around her dress, yanking it up so she had no fear or tripping over her skirts as she pelted down the hall.

Tears whipped across her face, horrid wheezing breaths tumbled past her lips causing her chest to heave. And blood coated her previously crystal white dress that was now ruined. She would never be able to wear this dress again. She would never wear white again or look at her white gowns in the same way.

She looked like a ruined work of art.

Blood coated her palms. It dried like flecks of paint along her neck and she could feel slithers trickling down her chest beneath her dress. The fact that Caius's blood was now painted across her dress made (Y/n) want to be sick.

Her sandals slid across the stairs and had her stumbling down three steps at once causing her to grip the handrail before she tumbled down the staircase.

Terrified sounds tumbled past her lips and tears blurred her vision as she gasped for breath, running on adrenaline and fear.

(Y/n) coiled both her arms into her chest and bowed her head, running slightly hunched over to try and rid herself of the pulsing pains coursing through her body in time with her rapid heartbeat. Her eyes aimed on the floor that blurred before her eyes and she ran off memory. It was a relief that she knew this palace like the back of her hand and could run its halls in the dead of night with her eyes closed.

A scream erupted past her lips when her shoulder collided with another and sent her veering to the right.

"My lady-"

(Y/n) recognised the voice of the maid she had clearly barged into, but she couldn't place her name. Her mind was too scrambled to make sense of anything except for the fact that she needed her husband. Now.

"No!" (Y/n) flung her arm out when the maid tried to rest a hand on her shoulder. She didn't care for anyone's touch or anyone trying to help her. It was too little too late. She needed help ten minutes ago when the General had started his attack. Not now, when she had already defended herself and took care of the matter on her own.

Her feet picked up the pace and she was back to pelting unsteadily down the corridor, aiming for the great hall. If her husband wasn't in there then (Y/n) would find the nearest servant and demand them to find him. But she had to keep moving. Standing around in empty corridors was clearly unsafe now. She had to move until she was somewhere safe. With someone safe.

"You have brought great victory to Rome, General. You must be rewarded." Geta's fingers tangled together behind his back while he looked at Acacius stood opposite him and his brother.

They had listened to him reel off the plans of attack, what had worked and what needed improvement. The land he had procured for them and how they had only lost a few good men in their army.

They would plan games in the General's honour, to celebrate what he had done for the good of Rome.

Geta glanced over at his brother who was stood to his right with a beaming smile and a chuckle of agreement. Caracalla was all for celebrations, especially if it meant watching the games in the colosseum. The more blood and guts and gore, the better, in their opinion.

Just as Geta went to say something else, the words faded out on his tongue and he twisted to look behind him over his shoulder when the large oak doors burst open.

Reprimands and arguments flooded his mind as he was ready to punish whoever it was for entering the hall without knocking. Without permission. The servants knew not to interrupt, they knew a meeting was taking place and none of them were needed and should not interrupt.

He found no such arguments getting past his lips when he realised who had burst into the room.

His wife.

Such a belting scream emmitted past (Y/n)'s lips that Geta cringed and his shoulders rose up while his brother flinched and grunted at the noise.

Geta found his jaw hanging open and every part of his body turned rigid at the sight he was faced with.

His wife dropped to her knees once she was two feet over the threshold into the hall. Her body went down with a thump that echoed off the walls and her arms encased around her waist while she leaned forward and bowed her head. Her hair fell all around her in tangled knots and rampid curls that had come loose from their earlier, beautiful style that Geta had witnessed not more than an hour ago.

But it was the sight of his wife's dress that left Geta speechless and on the brink of collapsing himself. Blood. It tainted her dress. It embellished her smooth skin and speckled across her face and mingled with her torrential tears.

"Guards! Fetch the guards- and a healer. Now!" Geta spat the words as he shoved his hand into Acacius's shoulder to get him to move fast.

The General seemed as panicked and confused as both Emperors, but he nodded. One hand moved to grip the hilt of his blade just in case he encountered some thieves or thugs or crazed lunatic running around the palace. Acacius glanced his eyes down at the Empress as he rushed past her, panic and pain filling his gaze as he hurried past her.

He didn't have time to stop and try to help, he had to fetch a healer and alert the guards that there was a clear problem within the palace.

Geta could feel his brother hurrying behind him as the pair of them aimed for (Y/n).

The marbled floor hurt when Geta sank down to his knees before his wife and his hands immediately found her elbows so he could carefully reel her up so she was no longer crumpled over her thighs. He had to know what had happened. He had to know where all the blood was coming from. He had to help her. Somehow.

He couldn't help the way he flinched when he reached out for (Y/n) and her blood and tears soaked into his palms. His teeth sank down into his lower lip while he cupped her face in his hands and began smoothing his thumbs beneath her eyes to try and coax her to look at him.

But as Geta tilted her head back and tried to look her up and down, he didn't like what he saw.

There was a large cut, not too deep but not exactly superficial, going down the bottom of her neck and ended in the centre of her collar bone. And when (Y/n) reached her trembling hands up to grasp Geta's wrists, he tilted back and leaned his head down to look at the wound on her left arm. Blood was coating her arm like a red scarf had been wrapped around her forearm and droplets were splotching onto the otherwise clear marble floor.

Not to mention the fact that the right sleeve of her dress had been ripped, causing the top of her dress to bunch and sit lower on her chest than it had been earlier.

Someone was going to pay for this.

Geta's manic eyes couldn't stop roaming up and down his wife's frame and his hands were at the point of trembling until he was nearly shaking her head in his grasp. He couldn't find any words, all he could do was take note of each mark, each droplet of blood and each scuff mark on her skin. Noting all the discrepencies that someone was going to pay for. Each mark would account for every stab wound Geta would personally inflict on whoever was the cause of this.

"Where is little flower?" Caracalla looked from (Y/n) to glance behind her and then he darted his eyes around the room. His voice filled with a sudden air of panic and his features became enraged with every passing second.

His niece had been with (Y/n) when both Emperors left them. Was she too injured? Was she alright? Did they need a healer for the Princess too? Did the Emperors have to gut someone for daring to harm a hair on both the Empress and the Princess's heads?

A sudden breathlessness took over Geta when the thought of his daughter came to mind. He looked from his brother to his wife, noticing how his brother was starting to huff and his features had gone bright red at the thought of something happening to Floriana.

Where was his daughter?

"W- wi- with the maid. Safe." The words barely spluttered past (Y/n)'s lips. She couldn't find the nerve to speak and her panicked breaths and rapid heartbeat made it hard to utter a proper sentence.

But she had to let them know that Floriana was safe. (Y/n) dreaded to think what the General would have done if Floriana had been in (Y/n)'s arms when he approached her. Maybe he would have resisted and carried on walking. Maybe he would have hurt the princess too in order to get to the Empress. Perhaps he would have tried to drag (Y/n) away from her daughter. The possibilities were endless and each possible outcome made (Y/n) shudder and whimper. Thank the Gods her daughter had been and still was with her maid.

"Who did this?"

The tone of Geta's voice made (Y/n) cry harder and she couldn't meet his gaze until his hands were cupping her face more firmly and he tilted her head up so she had no choice but to look at him.

He wanted names. He wanted to know exactly who he had to castrate and murder for this madness.

"C-Caius."

"The General?"

Both Geta and Caracalla shared a look of confusion with each other while (Y/n) pulled her face out of Geta's hands so she could push forward into his embrace. Her face buried in his shoulder and her hands clutched at one of his arms, reeling it into her chest as she tried to curl up as if wanting to make herself disappear.

A General had done this? A man of power and influence, someone who should know much better than to mess with an Emperor's wife. A man who was trusted with the ruling and discipline of the Emperor's armies. A man like that had done this to the Empress of Rome.

"What did he do?" Geta feared to ask the question because he wasn't sure what kind of answer he would receive. The tears pouring down his wife's face told him the General had vastly overstepped the mark and tried to harm her, but exactly what he had done was unknown to Geta. He couldn't get the full story simply by looking at her wounds.

"He h- had a blade, he… he pinned me to t-the wall, but I stabbed him." (Y/n) closed her eyes, shuddering at the mere memory of what she had done.

She had never stabbed anyone before. She had never so much as slapped anyone before today, she had no need. No one had ever been inappropriate with (Y/n) before and the only person who had insulted her had almost been blinded when Geta fought him for the indignation.

"Okay." Geta hushed quietly while a mixture of relief and violent torment circled through his system.

The General clearly hadn't gotten as far as he wanted, Thank the Gods, but knowing he had even tried in the first place made Geta's fury boil over. (Y/n) had had to resort to stabbing him. She had resorted to defending herself when she shouldn't of had to, not in her own palace where she was supposed to be safe from threats and vile people like that.

Once Acacius led the way back into the hall, he was followed by a dozen guards, all waiting for instructions but instinctively on the look out for anything and anyone who looked out of place. Their eyes cast around the room but all fell silent when they looked down at the Empress.

One of Geta's hands moved to carefully cradle the back of (Y/n)'s head and the other arm encased around her waist, making sure she was tucked up safe against his chest. His lips smothered her temple for a few moments before he looked up at Acacius.

There was a great fire burning within Geta's eyes to rival the worst atrocities in the colosseum and the way his upper lip curled into a snarl was more than unsettling to witness.

"The healer is in the drawing room." Acacius could barely find his voice. His words were low and his eyes cast on the floor as he spoke. He didn't dare look at the Empress. Something told him that Geta would strike any of them if they dared to look at his wife while she was in such a state.

"Come here, my love." Geta's voice was unusually calm and the words were whispered against the shell of (Y/n)'s ear.

Her whole body broke out in trembles when Geta carefully moved her arms to loop them around the back of his neck. He left her face tucked up into the crook of his neck while his arms swooped around her lower back and the other slid beneath her knees.

He eased her against his chest and pushed up from his knees that had gone numb with how he had been knelt on the cold floor. It was hard for Geta to stop from digging his fingers into her skin. All he wanted to do was squeeze and grip her as tightly as he could but he knew better than to do that and risk hurting her anymore than she already had been.

His lips attached to her temple but his steely eyes focused ahead of him as he stormed out of the hall and into the corridor lined with guards who were watching and waiting his every move.

"What are you all looking at?!"

It took Geta by surprise, but he didn't shudder or jerk when he heard his brother's sudden scream. He simply pursed his lips and took a deep breath while he continued in his strides towards the drawing room that overlooked the gardens.

He could feel Caracalla and Acacius following close behind while the guards hung back a few steps, clearly unsettled by Caracalla's outburst. If any of them were caught staring at the Empress, Caracalla might raise his own sword to their throats. He was liable to fleeting moods and he was rattled, anything and anyone could provoke him. His sister had been hurt, he wouldn't take this lightly.

(Y/n) kept her face smothered in Geta's neck, brushing her chin and lips over the golden armour cladding Geta's shoulder. She could feel the cold metal turning her arms numb and making her blood run cold, but it was soothing when her skin felt like it had been overheating until now.

She wanted to disappear. (Y/n) wanted to curl up and make herself as small as possible. She wanted everyone to leave, she wanted this nightmare to end and to wake up like she had this morning with no problems on the horizon.

Once Geta stormed into the drawing room, he stormed ahead to the sofa that was in front of the large canopy windows and he knelt down to carefully lower (Y/n) onto the sofa. He sat down beside her, allowing her to continue to curl into his armour.

He cupped the side of her bloodied face and smothered his lips against the top of her head, breathing into her hair and inhaling her scent to try and calm himself down. He didn't remove his other arm from her waist that kept her tucked up against him. If the healers wanted to help her, they would have to do so while she was wrapped up in her husband's embrace.

The sound of Geta's voice murmuring "It's okay, you're okay," caused (Y/n) to cry harder and she didn't dare lift her head from his chest. She didn't want to look at anyone and see the fear or the sorrow filling their eyes. She didn't want their gazes falling on her.

It was a relief to see that the two healers had already started to get things prepared. There was a small table moved beside the sofa, covered with balms, remedies, cloths soaked in cleansing oils, bandages and opium, for the pain the Empress was clearly suffering.

"I want General Caius found and brought to me."

"The General?" The implication in Geta's voice was clear, but Acacius couldn't quite wrap his head around it. Surely this madness couldn't be down to the General's doing. Surely Caius hadn't done or caused all of this.

Acacius was a General himself and he would never dare to lay a hand on the Empress without great reason. It was rare for anyone to strike up a conversation with the Empress. For someone to lay a hand on her, to harm her in such a way was unspeakable and unthought of. No one would imagine something like this happening, within the palace no less.

Acacius took a step back, his eyes casting down when he found himself under Geta's scrutinising gaze. The way Geta's lips curled was frightening and the vengeance he wanted was clearly written across his face.

"He has maimed my wife!"

His usually pale complexion was overrun with colour. The make up Geta wore couldn't hide the blood rushing to the surface of his skin and the black make up smudged beneath his eyes only made him look deathly and spiteful. "Look what he's done to her!"

Geta realised his voice may have been a fraction too loud when he felt (Y/n) whimper and flinch in his arms, but he couldn't help it.

Could General Acacius not see what had been done to his Empress? Could he not see that she had told Geta exactly who had done this and that Geta wanted his head?

He wanted Caius brought to him now, and he wanted to inflict the fires of Hell onto him for this madness.

"And I want guards with the Princess. She is to be within their sights at all times."

With the wave of his hand, the General and the guards all left the room in search of Caius. Three guards stayed positioned outside the doors, making sure no one came in without permission. They would all be stationed to protect the Empress from now on. She wouldn't be walking the halls alone again, not after this.

And four guards were ordered to go to the Princess's chambers and keep watch over her. They were to make sure she was alright and ensure no one visited her or went too close to her. The Empress had already been attacked, Geta wouldn't stand for his daughter being hurt or frightened in any sense.

A frustrated growl left Geta's lips. He couldn't foresee how this atrocity had happened. Guards should have heard the commotion. Servants should have been filtering around the palace at some point. Someone should have stopped this. Were these people not paid enough to look after their rulers? Were they incompetent? Would Geta have to replace each and every one of them to ensure the safety of his family?

Whatever Geta grunted and grumbled under his breath went unheard by (Y/n) and the healers around them.

She tried to nuzzle her face into Geta's neck but her watering eyes opened when she found his hand cradling her chin and he carefully tilted her head back on his shoulder so he could look down upon her.

Without saying a word, he took one of the cloths from the table and began working to rid the blood from his wife's features. It felt like polishing a diamond, cleansing away every bitter element of the world to find the beauty hidden beneath. He scrubbed the flecks of blood away, watching as hazy burnt orange water the same as his hair trickled down her features as the blood was cleaned away.

The healers didn't make a sound, allowing Geta to be the one to clean the wound on (Y/n)'s neck so they could apply tonics and rags soaked in lotion. The wound wasn't deep enough to require stitches, the tonics would help the skin mend back together on its own and as long as it was clean, there would be no infection to deal with.

When he was done, Geta tossed the rag onto the floor and went back to gluing his lips against his wife's temple. He resisted the urge to start swaying them from side to side, knowing that would make the healer's job much harder as he was tending to the cut on her forearm. That one would require stitches, the blood loss made that very clear.

His thumb stroked across (Y/n)'s jaw while his other hand tensed and twitched against her hip, trying to control the rage that was mounting up within him. But when he glanced to the left, adrenaline fueled his heart and made extra beats course through his blood when he noticed Acacius had crept back into the room.

With a lasting kiss to the side of (Y/n)'s temple, Geta carefully slid from sitting behind her and approached the General.

He was pleased when his brother took his place, sitting down beside (Y/n) with a tepid smile and his hand held out so (Y/n) could squeeze his hand. Caracalla took it upon himself to take the vile of opium and press it to his sister in law's lips, urging her to drink so the pain in her arm would be lessened and the discomfort from the gash in her neck would go away. And with any luck, it might help her sleep.

"We found him." Acacius murmured quietly and the grave look on his face told Geta all he needed to know. By the looks of him when they found him, there was no doubt that he had been the one who attacked the Empress.

The weak sound of (Y/n) trying to call out his name had Geta shivering, but he didn't look back. He couldn't. If he looked at her, he wouldn't be able to leave her and right now, he had to. As much as he wanted to stay by his wife's side, he had to let the healers tend to her wounds so Geta himself could tend to the obscenity that had caused this mess. The threat needed to be vanquished.

Geta let the General lead him through the twists and turns of the palace until they were down in the dungeon.

It had been a while since Geta had been down here, it wasn't a place he frequented often. He sent people here, he sent a lot of people down here, but he didn't administrate the torture they received or visit them as they spent many days, weeks, sometimes even months down here.

If he ever unleashed his violence on people, it was usually up in the main quarters of the palace. In front of servants or an audience.

But this was different. This was a General that Geta had to deal with. And although the people of Rome would be understanding that someone hurting the Empress needed to be punished, they wouldn't take kindly to witnessing a General being slain.

This was a necessity. No one got away with harming the Emperor's wife. General Caius had taken liberties and Geta needed to show him that he wouldn't allow that and that the price was his life. He had to pay for his crimes.

His sandals clicked against the grime covered stones lining the floor, differing from the marble floor that was in many of the upstairs chambers of the palace. The torches did nothing to cast a good light around the dungeon, the lighting was dim but it glimmered off of Geta's golden armour.

He removed the sword from his belt and tossed it to one side. Caius didn't deserve a swift end. Geta wouldn't grant him that.

Once Acacius led him to one of the cells on the right and a guard unlocked the iron door, Geta lowered his head to step inside the small cell with an oval brick ceiling matching that of the wine cellar.

One brow arched and his head angled to the side, both to overlook the General and to stop his golden hair from touching the low ceiling. Geta's eyes narrowed in scrutiny and something of a smile formed across his lips as he looked over the doomed General.

Hands bound in shackles chained to the wall. On his knees where he belonged in the grime and dirt and puddles of water that leaked through the small slits in the ceiling that provided very little light. The General had his head lowered but once he lifted his chin, something seemed to wash over him and his skin turned pale.

Geta revelled in the way Caius shivered and how his chest started to rise and fall rapidly, sensing his impending doom at the sight of one of his Emperors stood before him.

Turning to the side, Geta overlooked the wooden table in the corner of the room right beside the door. Everything he needed to ensure a torturous death; everything from tongue clamps to iron pokers and a various assortment of blades.

With a deep breath and a wider smile, Geta waved his hand to dismiss Acacius. He didn't need a witness or any protection, and Caius was going to receive no mercy. Geta didn't want Acacius to try and vouch for this man or try to earn the sparing of his life. He was going to die, Geta had already decided upon it.

Once Acacius departed to wait outside the chamber, Geta crouched down in front of Caius. His arms perched on his thighs and a sickening grin lit up his face as he leaned in close to inspect the wounds on Caius. He reached out and roughly gripped Caius's chin, twisting his head from left to right to take a good look at his wife's handiwork. She shouldn't have needed to defend herself in the first place, but nonetheless, Geta was proud of her.

"My wife has wounded you well; I have come to finish the task."

Whatever had been stabbed into his eye had been removed, but the blood was still covering the eye socket and both eyelids had swollen shut over his eye. He stared across at the Emperor with only one good eye to witness his own demise. And there was a lovely puddle of blood gathering around his knees from a wound beneath his armour.

They hadn't bothered to call a healer for him. What use would it do to patch up a condemned man? He was already dead, he just hadn't known it until now.

He roughly let go of Caius's chin, allowing his head to drop down while he rose to his feet and turned to face the table of instruments. Geta's fingers danced across each one before he decided which one to use first.

When he crouched back down in front of the General, glee lit up his face when he saw the panic strike Caius right in the heart. His head began to shake and he tried to shuffle back, but Geta tutted. He should know better.

"Tsk-tsk. True Generals show no fear; and true Emperors shall show no mercy."

Caius had nowhere to move to, he was limited by the iron clasped around his wrists and the chain welded to the brick wall. He dropped from his knees to flop onto the floor with his heels scraping against the puddle of blood beneath him and his back slumped into the wall.

His good eye screwed shut and he swallowed down a groan when Geta gripped his face and squeezed his cheeks until he had no choice but to open his mouth. The iron clamp snapped down into Caius's tongue, earning a croaked groan as Geta pulled the clamp so his tongue was on display. He knew the General knew what this meant, he was sure the General had used this device before. The tongue was either twisted until the muscle snapped or it was held until a blade sliced through the muscle and the tongue was cut out.

Geta slowly rose to his feet, a sickening look crossing his face as he reached out for a suitable blade. He stood close and hovered over the General like a beacon of Death. The Emperor was the bridge between life and death, he would deliver the General personally to the Angel of death.

"When I am done with you, what's left can be fed to the beasts in the colosseum."

***

A grimace flooded Acacius's face and his nose scrunched up as he tried to hold his breath so he didn't gag or make a disgruntled sound. He was used to witnessing death, he saw it whenever he went into battle and when he oversaw the games at the colosseum.

But he had never witnessed the gruesome death of a fellow General before. And the sight of the Emperor in front of him was one that was rather unsettling.

Geta glided down the hall like he was walking on air and the calm look on his face contradicted the heinous act he had just carried out.

It was as if he didn't seem to notice his attire was not all that fitting of an Emperor, but it seemed more fair to say that he just didn't care. He didn't care that his golden armour gladding his chest was now smeared with blood. He didn't care about the clear, bloodied hand print on the base of his robes near his knee from where Caius had begged for mercy. In vain.

Geta didn't see a problem with his ghostly white features that were now painted with a mixture of blood and dirt.

He paid no mind to the blood and grit stuck beneath his short nails, or the tiny cuts to his fingers and the palms of his hands from where he had hacked blades into Caius's flesh.

The clothes he was wearing would have to be burned, there was no saving the mixture of white and gold cloth from the stains this afternoon's torment had littered them with. And Geta would need to bathe and soak in boiling water for at least an hour to rid every morsel of blood and grime from his body.

He didn't care.

The smile on his wicked features said as much as he waltzed down the hall until he reached his chambers.

He wanted to see his wife. He wanted to see how she was fairing, how her wounds had been treated and if she was feeling any better. And Geta wanted her to see and bask in the blood and guts that he was painted with like a massacred work of art. Geta wanted her to know that he had taken care of the threat posed to her. He wanted her to see that she was safe and know that whatever Caius had tried to do to her, he got his comeuppance ten times worse.

He had already made sure that the Princess was in her own room and therefore wouldn't have to see her father in this state. Geta knew the Princess wouldn't understand and would most likely think it was paint that was covering her father, but Geta still didn't want this memory imprinted on her small, innocent mind.

Geta opened the chamber doors like he was walking out into a bright summers day and taking his first gulp of fresh air.

He cast his eyes around the room, noticing his brother sat on the chair by the window with Dondus perched happily on his shoulder, chittering away. And when he looked towards the bed, he saw her. His wife, his reason for living, sat in the centre of the bed looking like she wanted to fall to sleep but couldn't quite manage the task yet.

When their eyes met, their silent gaze spoke a thousand unsaid words as Geta strode towards her. It was all their in his eyes, his smile, his attire and his now crimson skin.

She was safe. He had made sure of that.

[gorbo-longstocking]

starting this geta and caracalla x reader fic and realizing with horror that im 2.2k words into the first chapter and not even a quarter of the way done with what i want to happen in it AND THERE ISNT EVEN GOING TO BE GETA AND CARACALLA IN THE FIRST CHAPTER 😭😭😭😭😭

anyway heres a sneak preview

[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.”

[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.