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s-lverwing · 1 month ago

Text

LIVE ENTOMBMENT

pairing. emperor caracalla x priestess!reader.

summary. Not even the holiest temple of the empire, nor its towering walls, nor the sanctity of Roman faith could shield your sacred oath from the reach of Emperor Caracalla.

word count. 5.6k

warnings. dark themes. religious themes/guilt. dub-con. fingering (f). vaginal intercourse. unprotected sex (please use protection if u don’t want a baby or an sti). creampie. talks about first times. blink and you’ll miss the sti mention. death through live entombment. historically inaccurate (dont look at me) deprecating language towards concubines i’m sorry. fem!reader. i didn’t provide much physical description just small breast. this may touch topics bigger than this fic and the whole movie, please don’t take anything seriously. shame, shame and shame because you can’t take the catholic school out of the girl — so in roman faith it maybe not shame oops. english isn’t my first language.

a/n. please if you enjoyed this leave a comment, reblog, whatever u want 🐛. this is my first time writing smut and i have NO experience at all so expect whatever. caracalla gives small dick energy but it’s fine. please babes read the warnings i don’t want to trigger anyone, stay safe 🫶🏼 ily all.

tags: @miragens-para-uma-vitoria @spookysquids @ghosstbb @snazzynacho @hazelwebsterboo2 @krissy1736 @janis01127 @dollyonm0lly

THE FIRE ALMOST LICKED YOUR FACE AS YOU LEANED IN, STRETCHING TO RELIGHT ONE OF THE CANDLES THAT HAD GONE OUT.

The heat pressed against your skin, and for a fleeting moment, you reached up to touch the veil covering your face, half-expecting to find it scorched, melted away like wax. Should it be taken as a sign? The goddess often spoke in symbols, in whispers of smoke and flickering flames, guiding the six Vestals entrusted with keeping the sacred fire alive.

But you had never felt the goddess close.

Not once.

The thought sat heavy in the back of your mind, an ache you rarely allowed yourself to acknowledge. If the gods had abandoned you, if they had never truly called you to this fate, what did that mean? The stories suggested that those forsaken by their divinities had only one path left— painful death. You don’t fear death, but if you were left by your own devices, there’s only a few punishments you would go through if the slightest sight of what’s inside shows.

A rustling of fabric broke your thoughts.

“We should take turns,” said Aurelia, her voice soft, hesitant.

You turned to her, watching as she fidgeted with the delicate folds of her veil. Aurelia was the embodiment of faith, the very vision of purity and devotion—never nervous, never uncertain. And yet, here she stood before you, hands trembling slightly, her eyes darting away as if afraid to meet yours.

You studied her for a long moment, searching for answers in the quiet between you.

“Is something wrong?” you finally asked.

She hesitated. Just for a breath. Just long enough for the flickering firelight to cast shadows across her face.

“I—I’m tired,” she murmured.

It was a lie. You could hear it in the slight hitch of her breath, see it in the way her fingers twisted around the fabric of her robes.

Your own eyes fluttered shut for a moment, the weight of unspoken truths settling over you.

Something was wrong.

But you let it pass, unfortunately.

YOUR FOOTSTEPS WERE DELICATE, SOFTENED BY THE CRACKLING HUM OF THE FIRE.

Thoughts swirled in your mind, feelings of uneasiness crawling through your spine as you pondered why Aurelia had seemed so desperate to escape. There was a strange weight in your stomach, an unsettling sense that perhaps you were being excluded, left alone in this sacred space. The temple had always been a place of solace, yet tonight it felt foreign, far and almost suffocating. You had never been alone here before—nor had you ever felt quite so distant from the others.

It wasn’t that you lacked a belief in the gods, nor were you entirely devoid of grace, but somehow your spirit always felt like it existed on the outskirts of devotion. The other girls were steadfast, their faith blooming like a garden of unyielding confidence. And you, in comparison, were a flicker—a flame too fragile and small to catch the attention of the divine. People might have called you fortunate, chosen to safeguard the sacred fire, but months of solitude had quietly eroded any certainty you had about your own place within the temple walls. Your heart grew heavy with doubt in your sanctity and in your purpose.

The day the twin Emperors visited, it all seemed to shift. Geta, calm and composed, held himself with some dignity, though there was a certain sharpness in his gaze, a warning to those who dared fall short. His presence, though commanding, was distant. But Caracalla… Caracalla was something else entirely. His recklessness set the air on fire, he had a wild energy. He wore a mischievous smile that stirred something primal in your chest, making your pulse quicken, your breath falter.

He approached you, too close, too boldly. His ring-clad fingers danced with ease along the hem of your veil, grazing the curve of your shoulder. It was the smallest of touches, but it burned—seared its way into your skin. And when your eyes met his, when you stupidly allowed your gaze to linger, something in his expression shifted. It was no longer a smile, but something darker, something dangerous. You couldn’t name it then, but it made a fire bloom deep in your core, a warmth that spread in waves through your veins. The flame expanded when his knuckles brushed your cheekbone. His smile deepened, his eyes turning as dark as the night sky. And in the naïveté of your mind, you dared to think it was the gods themselves drawing near. You foolishly believed they had come to speak to you.

But then, with a slap of his hand, Geta’s voice cut through the haze in your mind, and everything turned to fog. After that, you remembered nothing.

Now, as your name echoed softly through the blurred silence, you turned, your breath catching in your throat. The world around you felt uncertain, hazy, as though you had crossed into a realm where nothing was meant to happen, and yet everything was. Confusion poured down your face, but still, you recognized him—Caracalla.

His energy, raw and untamed, circled you, wrapping around your mind and heart in a dizzying blur. There was a part of you that wanted to pull away, to retreat into the quiet sanctity of the temple, to places only you knew, to remind yourself of the sacredness you were meant to uphold. But that part of you was drowned out by an unspoken call that urged you forward, into the chaos he brought.

And then, with a suddenness that took your breath away, he was there. His hand on your waist, pressing you against the cold stone, and all your thoughts scattered. Despite his smaller stature, Caracalla’s force was overwhelming, driven by a newfound force. His presence swallowed you whole, leaving no room for thought, no space to resist.

“Aren’t you a little Godsend?” His voice was low, mocking. “Rome’s favorite Vestal… so pure, so untouchable.” His smile widened, darkening his features.

Caracalla’s laughter, dark and sardonic, hummed against your ear. His voice was a ripple in the air, the sound of something so dangerous yet tantalizing. Your body froze, whether it was fear or desire you couldn’t know. The line between the two blurred as the pleasures of the flesh—foreign, forbidden—saturated your senses. His touch was invasive. You had never wanted to be touched like this, you didn’t know you could. Your heart hammered, and in the dimness of your mind, you begged the Gods to turn their eyes away, to you, to let the sacred fire burn out in atonement for your sins, for the betrayal of your vow. The Gods could blind themselves to your transgression, your weakness, your broken oath. Perhaps this was your punishment.

His fingers, driven by a reckless hunger, sought your center—awkward, eager, and almost feral in their pursuit. You fought the urge to speak—to ask him, with a trembling voice, if he knew what he was doing. But that would be dangerous. Too dangerous. His state only weighed your unholiness further. Buried beneath 6-feet of dirt. It made your breath heavy, it made your mind turn into a downward spiral.

Your breath quickened, a strange weight pressing on your chest. And then, when his fingers finally found their target, you jolted against him involuntarily, as if the air itself had shifted in your lungs. He kissed your neck, a soft graze of lips against your skin, and you had no choice but to melt into him, as though your body had betrayed you too. His rings scraped your sensitive flesh, an almost mocking reminder of the weight of his power over you.

The delicate, sacred space you had once held in reverence was slipping away, slipping into his hands. The center that had been yours alone, the place where no man had ever tread, was now violated—corrupted by him. And everything else, your dignity, your faith, your sanctity, would follow. It would all be his.

Caracalla was finding momentary sanity in the action.

“You’re a gift sent from the Gods,” he whispered against your ear, his words dripping with a twisted promise, like a threat beneath honeyed temptation. The sound of your breath—choked, gasped—was foreign to you, a new thing emerging from your throat. It was a moan, or something close to it, unrecognizable and raw.

His movements were unrefined, a desperate rhythm against your clit, slick with the evidence of his intrusion. The sensation sent waves of confusion and discomfort through you. You arched your back, instinctively attempting to distance yourself from the foreign touch. But it was a new sensation, one that both terrified and confused you. It was unlike anything you had ever felt—the same unnamable feeling you had experienced the first time he dared touch your face, but brutal and more suffocating. Words and knowledge were smaller than that.

When his fingers trailed along your slit, his cold rings grazing your clit, your body reacted violently—your knees buckled beneath you. You leaned forward, struggling to keep your balance, only for your elbows to crash against the unforgiving cold marble. Caracalla was quick, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you upright, guiding your trembling body back in position. His wet hand slid to the side of your face, squeezing it roughly against the marble.

“Stand still. Don’t be stupid,” he growled, frustration creeping into his voice. His short fuse was infamous amongst the Vestals. You could feel it in the harshness of his grip, the sharp edge of his command.

His hand returned to the warmth between your thighs, this time tracing soft, deliberate circles around your entrance, playing, teasing. The cool bite of his rings brushed against your clit, drawing another moan from your lips—this one unrestrained, wanton. Caracalla pressed closer, his body molding against yours, his hardness unmistakable against the curve of your ass. Yet thought itself felt impossible, dissolving into the heat pooling in your core as his finger finally entered you, finding the place that was once sacred.

For a fleeting moment, the sensation was so wholly consuming, so unlike anything you had ever known, that you almost believed the Gods were speaking through him. But then a broken sob escaped your throat, and as your gaze flickered downward, reality sharpened. His fingers lay claim to your most untainted place, and you knew—this was no divine intervention.

It was close to a secure and painful death, buried alive. But you couldn’t be selfless enough to try and make him stop.

A whimper escaped as he pushed another finger inside, stretching you open, slow and unyielding. The sensation was a paradox—pain and pleasure entwined, like pressing against the sting of a wound, knowing it would hurt and yet seeking it still. Your walls fluttered around him, instinctively resisting, and he exhaled a quiet, satisfied hum.

“Would you like a taste?” he whispered, his lips grazing your cheek.

Before you could comprehend what he meant, he pressed his slick fingers against your mouth, parting your lips with ease. The taste was unfamiliar, strange, yet not unpleasant. “Suck them,” he commanded, and you obeyed—what else could you have done?

A pleased sound rumbled from his throat as your tongue hesitantly curled around his fingers. The response was immediate. Your body arched, pressing into him, seeking the return of his touch before you could even think to deny yourself.

As if he could read your mind, he obliged. But this time, there was no patience. He thrust his fingers back inside, deeper, rougher, as if he had only been toying with you before. You had no way of knowing. No way of understanding. There was only the rhythm of his fingers, disappearing into your slick heat, withdrawing just enough to tease before plunging back into your warmth.

He barely felt any pleasure from the moans, groans, or breathless cries of his concubines. Their sounds were rehearsed, predictable. It was a performance meant to appease him, to convince him of his own prowess. They existed to stroke the Emperor’s ego, not to satiate his desires. And so, more often than not, he silenced them—pushing their faces into silken pillows, muttering sharp commands that reduced them to nothing but warm, pliant flesh beneath him.

But this was different.

Your sounds were uncertain, trembling on your lips because you understood the weight of this sin. Your moans were small, caught in your throat, untrained. There was no calculation behind them, no attempt to please him, no knowledge of how to. You were real. And that alone was enough to undo him.

“Caracalla,” you breathed, voice breaking as his short but thick fingers curled inside you, coaxing a sharp arch from your spine. Your hands grasping at the cold marble as your knees threatened to buckle once more. The unyielding surface bruised the delicate skin of your arms, but you barely registered it beneath the slow, torturous drag of his fingers within you.

He kept his pace unhurried, savoring each tremor that rippled through you. He was impossibly hard, grinding against you in reckless, languid movements. And then, he laughed—soft, breathless, as if delighting in a private, nasty joke.

He was having the sweetest thing in the empire. Not even his brother could claim such a gift. To take a Vestal, to be chosen by the Gods themselves to desecrate something so holy—there was no greater privilege. No greater proof of his favor.

But you felt only the weight of abandonment.

His hand ghosted over the curve of your waist, sliding upward until his fingers found the swell of your breast, still covered in soft linen. He squeezed, possessive, branding bruises into the tender skin beneath the fabric.

The fire that had settled deep in your core spread, licking at every inch of your skin, turning your clothes damp with sweat. Strands of hair clung to your fevered face, the scent of sweat and something faintly sweet lingering in the air. You swallowed hard, shame clawing its way up your throat as the unbearable sensation built between your thighs.

“I think I need to pee—” you whimpered, mortified by the confession. It was unbearable, a pressure unlike anything you had ever known, twisting deep inside you.

He pressed a kiss to your cheek—brief, careless, lacking tenderness. A hollow gesture of gratitude beneath the watchful eyes of the Gods. He would play his part, and so he continued, his touch growing rougher, more insistent. The hard edges of his rings grazed your clit in passing, a clash of warmth and cold, of flesh and metal, sending a sharp tremor through your body.

You could not name this feeling. It was neither fear nor excitement, yet it curled deep inside you, spreading quickly.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you braced yourself for the humiliation that was sure to follow—for the shame of breaking in front of the Emperor, the one whom the Gods spoke through. A whisper at the back of your mind wondered if he ignored your trembling because he thought you might run.

If a soul knew of this, it would be the end of you.

And then, in a single breath, your body was separated from your mind. A slow, uncoiling wave surged through you, leaving you trembling, your form convulsing against the cold marble and the solid press of Caracalla’s body. It was an eruption, a collapse—inside the temple, inside yourself. For him, it was all the same.

No sound escaped your lips, only the soft shudder of breath as the moment shattered within you.

He slowed his movements, his grip turning almost indulgent. Soothing his newly claimed treasure, his sacred offering.

One hand lifted, wrapping firm and possessive around your throat, his fingers pressing just enough to make you feel the weight of his claim. Like a hound with its prey.

“You’re truly a godsend,” he murmured, his voice low, reverent in its own way. “I knew it the first time I saw you… My stupid brother was wrong.”

You did not know what he meant, nor did you know what to say. You could only stand there, caught between his grasp and the remnants of something nameless unraveling inside you.

Your body stirred, aching, the dull throb in your neck reminding you of its strain. You shifted, instinctively trying to turn toward him, but he stopped you. Why should he deny himself the sight of you—the flush warming your cheeks, the softness in your features as you unraveled beneath him? One hand still pressed your cheek against the cool marble pillar.

“Stay there. Don’t try anything.”

But why would he think you would? Why assume defiance when you had already surrendered, when you would fall to your knees if it meant this feeling could last forever? Hadn’t you spent your life in prayer, in devotion? Hadn’t it been all you ever knew, all you ever were?

You felt him shift behind you, heard the quiet muttering of a curse as he wrestled with his own garments. Your eyes, following his movements as best they could from your awkward position, caught glimpses of him—his form smaller than his brother’s, his features marked by the cruel affliction whispered about everywhere.

Compassion ghosted through your heart, a fleeting thing. But you did not pity him. Perhaps he was right—perhaps he had been forsaken by the Gods only to be rewarded in the end. Even if you could not understand why you were his gift.

The struggle ended with a quiet exhale, and then he was upon you again. His hands, rough, found the bare skin beneath your garments, pushing the fabric aside with practiced ease. Another breeze slipped through the temple, meeting your newly exposed flesh, making your body arch instinctively—anticipating, aching, silently craving for the fire to consume you once more.

But then—something else. Something different.

A slow, deliberate glide through your folds, featherlight. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, soft sounds escaping his lips, slipping into the sacred hush of the temple.

And all you could do was wait, trembling, caught between the cold marble and his touch. It was foolish to ask. Foolish to do anything but wait, to surrender and expect nothing and everything all at once. The fire inside you rekindled, licking at your skin, unfurling through your limbs. Everything bloomed again, sharper, stronger, until it pushed soft, breathless moans past your lips.

He pressed against you, the hardened length grazing your clit over and over, sending exquisite tremors through your body. Instinctively, you sought more, aching for him to consume you entirely. You wanted to melt against him, for your skin to become his, for this moment to live beyond time—a myth whispered through the ages, even if its end was tragic.

A groan, deep and unrestrained, spilled from his lips as he pressed the tip inside you, his teeth dragging along your cheek in a near-affectionate torment. Your breath hitched. It was no longer his fingers seeking refuge within you—this realization alone sent your mind spiraling, shattering the chains of prejudice and inhibition. Then you understood.

He thought he was about to explode when he pushed the tip inside your welcoming and holy walls. A high pitched groan kissed your ears, as his teeth caressed your cheek. It was no longer his fingers seeking refuge within you—this realization alone sent your mind spiraling, shattering the chains of prejudice and inhibition. Then you understood.

Now, even as pleasure clouded your senses, you grasped why this was forbidden, why it was punished by death. The Gods had to be jealous of earthly delights, of mortal pleasure. Of the way divinity itself could be found in something so profane.

He pushed deeper. He was not large, bit thick, but the sheer intimacy of it made your body tighten around him, made your breath catch as the stretch burned sweet and unbearable. You couldn’t remember how to stop, how to breathe properly.

His breath was hot against your cheek, heavy, his presence overwhelming. With every inch, he stole the air from your lungs, until there was nothing left of you but this.

Caracalla laughed again—a low, humorless sound, thick with madness and possession. It slithered down your spine, coiling itself around your throat. There was no escaping this. No running from the hands that bruised your hips, from the hunger that devoured you whole.

His touch burned, his fingers pressing into your flesh as if to leave his mark beneath the skin. He was savoring you—drinking you in—every tremor, every flutter of your cunt around him, the way you stretched, soft and wet, to fit him. It was a feverish worship.

“Even holier than I thought,” he murmured, almost reverent.

But you weren’t listening. Not to his words, not to reason, not to the lingering taste of sin on your tongue. Your mind floated somewhere between pleasure and death, where all things bled together. You pressed your forehead against the cold marble, your cheek slipping from his, as if to escape the heat of his breath.

But there was no escaping him. The Emperor of Rome had carved himself inside you.

A ragged groan spilled from his lips as he withdrew just enough to make you whimper. He did not leave you, would not leave you—just hovered on the edge, teasing, savoring, as if you were something holy. The last thing he would ever kneel before.

Then, with a slow, deliberate push, he sank deeper.

Your body shuddered violently, pleasure and pain melting together, and when your knees threatened to give, his grip only tightened. He would not let you fall.

And then he did it again. And again. And again.

Each slow thrust burned through you, stretching you open inch by inch, his cock dragging against every trembling part of you. He was deliberate, agonizingly so, grinding deep, only pressing further into your undoing. You felt yourself unraveling. His scent, earthy, musky, heavy with sweat, sank into your skin, drowning your senses.

It was torment for you both, though for different reasons. Caracalla was nearly edging himself, caught in the cruel conflict of restraint and indulgence. He should be taking you as he did all others—without thought, without care, without this unbearable intimacy. He should be brutal, impatient, spent and gone before he even learned the shape of your pleasure.

But you were no common whore. No concubine plucked from the outskirts of the empire. You were a gift from Venus herself.

You should’ve been ashamed, mortified, trashing against him… under every opportunity you had. Yet there was no shame to be found in something that carried you so dangerously close to heaven. No guilt in the way your back arched, the way your body curved into him, silently begging for more. Your skin knew no hesitation, no hesitation at all. Not in this temple. Not in the sacredness of the moment.

He moved inside you like a slow-burning prayer, his thrusts deep and deliberate. Just enough to fill you, just enough to claim you without pain. His breath was ragged, strained, as he fought the instincts that begged him to ruin you. His hands, restless and greedy, traced your body relentlessly.

And when he spoke, his voice was nothing more than a hushed, broken confession. “You feel divine.”

“You’re mine,” he rasped, pathetically.

His hips faltered, momentarily losing control, and in his desperation, he drove himself deeper—sharp, bruising thrusts that tore a strangled cry from your throat. The sound, so raw and unbidden, made his cock twitch inside you, sent a shudder rippling down his spine.

Caracalla felt like he was slipping, spiraling, unraveling into something violent and insatiable. He wanted. And he would take.

The rhythm he set was slow but merciless, each thrust deliberate and punishing. Flesh met flesh in a sinful, wet sound that would haunt you long after your body was spent. His balls slapped against your slick center. He dropped his head near your shoulder, mouth grazing the sweat-damp skin, inhaling you.

“I should’ve taken you sooner,” he admitted, and there was something almost mournful in the way he said it. “I shouldn’t have waited.”

The thought of his brother’s voice, his warnings and his disapproval only fueled him further. The sacred place. The sacred women. And yet here you were, bent and broken against the pillar, moaning for the emperor’s cock. It was a desecration. And the Gods did nothing to stop it.

His fingers found your neck again, grazing at your jaw as he squeezed softly, just to get your attention, just for you to feel the weight of his desire. “You belong to me.”

A brutal thrust, deeper this time, made you gasp, your breath catching in short, ragged moans.

“You were always meant to be mine.”

The words ghosted over your skin, lingering, sinking into your very bones. And all around you, the temple remained still, silent.

The Gods were only witnesses.

His words wove themselves into your skin, into your very marrow, a curse. Each thrust was ruthless, driving you deeper against the pillar, your body trembling, breath spilling from your lips in sharp, uneven gasps. The wet, obscene sound of him inside you filled the temple, mingling with the lingering scent of burning incense, the smell of sweat and sex thick in the air.

In a moment of clearness you wanted to resist. You wanted to push him away, to tell him this was wrong, that the Gods would never forgive this. But you couldn’t. Your body betrayed you—hips rolling back against him, nails scraping against the cold marble as you arched, as you offered yourself to him. And it was long forgotten again.

A low, ragged groan tore from his throat as his fingers raked down your spine, pressing into the small of your back, forcing you to take him deeper, harder.

“My Vestal,” he rasped, his voice like gravel, thick with possession. “My sacred little thing.”

The words sank into your bones like poison. A violent shudder ripped through you, your walls tightening around him in response. Always belonging to something greater—a city, a people, a divine presence. To the Emperor.

Caracalla let out a sharp, guttural sound, his pace losing all restraint, turning erratic, frenzied. He wasn’t simply fucking you. He was branding you, consuming you, as though he could carve his name into your flesh, into your soul, until nothing remained of you but him.

His grip was merciless, bruising fingers dragging you onto him with thoughtless hunger, as if you were not a woman, not flesh and soul, but something crafted for him—his to desecrate, his to break. Everything he touched was bound to be annihilated. And now, so were you.

The pleasure was unbearable, searing through you like molten iron, scalding and consuming, turning you into something raw, something wild. It built deep within, unrelenting, teetering at the edge of violence—so intense it almost hurt.

Then his hand slid between your legs, fingertips brushing over your clit, teasing, pressing.

It was too much. A strangled cry ripped from your throat, your body recoiling, snapping forward as pleasure crashed through you like divine punishment. You clawed at the marble, at anything, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to run from the overwhelming force tearing through you.

Your walls clenched around him, spasming in the throes of your release. A strangled moan broke from your lips—raw, wrecked, helpless. Your legs trembled, your body shuddering as ecstasy crashed over you in unrelenting waves, leaving you undone, ruined, and his.

Trapped between the pillar and his tiny body.

Caracalla groaned, his breath hot against your ear, his thrusts turning erratic as he felt you tightening around him, dragging him deeper into his own oblivion. His body seized, pleasure snapping through him like a lightning strike.

But he didn’t stop moving.

His hands crushed your waist, forcing you onto him as he buried himself to the hilt, the last shuddering thrust stealing his breath. His body trembled, taut with pleasure, and a choked, wrecked sound escaped his throat as he spilled inside you—hot, thick, branding you.

For a fleeting moment, there was only the sound of his ragged breaths against your cheek, the weight of his body pressing you into the marble, your own limbs still trembling from the aftershocks of what he had done to you.

His lips brushed your skin—not a kiss, but something reverent, something he believed was devotion.

Then, a sharp gasp shattered the silence.

Three Vestal Virgins, sisters in faith, the girls who had walked beside you through womanhood, through duty, through sanctity, stood close, eyes wide, faces pale, their hands trembling as if they had witnessed the fire of Vesta itself extinguish before their very eyes.

You pushed against Caracalla’s chest, your heart lurching in terror, in shame, in something close to grief. But he did not move. He did not release you.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head to look at them—his grip on your waist tightening possessively, his body still pressed flush against yours, the evidence of your ruin still wet between your thighs.

And he smiled. Not a smirk, not a sneer, but something horrible. Something knowing.

Because he knew what he was going to do to them.

They had seen too much.

And worse—they had looked at you as though you were defiled. As though you were disgusting. As though his holy gift had been anything but sacred. They would pay for that. He would make sure of it.

“Emperor—” You choked out, your voice barely more than a strangled breath as you shoved against his chest once more.

This time, he let you go.

The loss of his warmth should have felt like relief, but it was nothing of the sort. Cold horror settled into your bones, spreading through you like ink seeping into water. The weight of fate crashed upon you, cruel and suffocating. There was no undoing this. No running from it. By morning, you would be sentenced. By entombment, your life was already forfeit.

The realization struck like a blow, sending you stumbling toward them, the only ones who might understand, who might save you. But your feet tangled in the heavy folds of your robes, and you collapsed onto the marble with a sickening crack. The impact jarred through your knees, the cold stone biting into your flesh as you scrambled forward on trembling hands, crawling. The adrenaline of the situation soothed any pain you could’ve felt.

“Please,” you whispered, voice raw, desperate. “I didn’t… I could never… I—”

You couldn’t even form the words. You didn’t know what you were pleading for. Mercy? Silence? Forgiveness?

They stood unmoving. Their faces were pale, their expressions stricken, their hands clasped so tightly they trembled. They had always been your sisters, your kin, bound to you by sacred oaths. And yet, in that moment, they looked at you not with recognition, but with dread.

They knew what had happened. They knew what they had walked in on. But acknowledging it—bringing the truth into the open—was something else entirely.

To accuse you would be to condemn you. To accuse him would be to invite his wrath.

No one would believe them. No one would dare.

“Get up.” The words came sharp as a blade, slicing through the silence that had settled like a shroud.

You barely registered the voice at first, still kneeling on the cold marble, your limbs trembling, your mind struggling to stitch reality back together. But then a hand gripped your arm, yanking you upward with startling force.

“Go find some poor drunk man,” she commanded one of the other girls, voice low, desperate.

The weight of her meaning pressed against your ribs. A lie. A scapegoat. A way to twist the truth into something palatable for those who would judge. You opened your mouth to speak, to protest—to beg—but the words never came.

When you turned your head to search for him you found nothing. Caracalla was gone.

He had left as effortlessly as he had come, slipping into the night without a second glance. There was no hesitation in his escape. He had abandoned you in the wreckage of his sins.

Before you could move, the temple doors burst open.

His Imperial guards stormed in, the gleam of their armor flashing under the sacred fire’s glow. There were no accusations, no trial, no time to plead. The three women who had stood beside you for years, who had once sworn the same oaths, were seized with brutal efficiency. Hands wrenched behind their backs, prayers torn from their lips as they were dragged away.

You did nothing.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t fight. You didn’t so much as lift a finger as they were pulled from the temple and cast into the night.

THE NIGHT PASSED IN A BLUR.

You didn’t remember how you got back to your chambers. You didn’t remember if you had washed the sin from your skin, if you had tried to sleep, if you had prayed. Perhaps you had wandered the temple in a daze, or perhaps you had simply stood there, staring at the embers of the fire until the sky cracked open with the first light of dawn.

But morning came. And with it, judgment.

The remaining Vestals stood in silence at the edge of the dirt pit, their white robes ghostlike against the moist earth. Their faces were unreadable, their eyes avoiding yours.

You lifted your gaze.

Emperor Caracalla stood across from you, watching.

His face was unreadable, his sharp features betraying nothing. But it was his eyes that struck you the most—those cold, dull eyes, absent of guilt, absent of remorse.

And it was in that moment that you realized—you felt nothing either.

a/n: i thought about killing the reader but i chickened… thank you for reading and supporting akl my caracalla works 🫶🏼 ily babies.

#emperor caracalla #emperor caracalla x reader #caracalla 🪲#emperor caracalla x reader smut

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