abundance-of-fic-reblogs

[abundance-of-fic-reblogs]

i'm your man (sfw alphabet)

danny johnson x reader, ghostface x reader

a/n. i don't thiiiiink i referenced any particular gender outright, but if i do i'm sorryyy :'3 also the title is a reference to the leonard cohen song if u wanna listen to that while reading lol

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

danny is affectionate in his own way. he's touchy, yes, but he's also big into watching you. he'll spend hours just staring at you, whether you're aware or not, just memorizing your mannerisms. he knows any time something is wrong, he's very in-tune with your feelings. his favorite way to show affection is acts of service. back when you were just another victim, before he'd decided you were more than that, he'd fix small things around your place. a broken sink, a creaky hinge, a loose cabinet. now that you're dating he still does that, just with your knowledge. i hc that he's a good cook, he grew up in a single parent household (mother died young and he had a military dad) so he learned from childhood how to take care of things on his own.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

you were originally just another victim, a piece of meat, somebody he'd gut like a fish just like all the rest. but something along the way changed, he became strangely fond of you. one night you awoke to rapid banging on your bedroom window, and in a sleepy haze you stupidly decided to open it. a masked man, bleeding and limping, slumped onto your floor. "help me or i'll slit your fuckin' throat." you didn't have to be asked twice. from then on he'd show up when he was injured, when his victims fought back a little too hard, and eventually he'd just wander to your place whenever he felt like it. you two, oddly enough, became quick friends. he showed you more humanity than he had anyone else in the town, viewing you as more "on his level" compared to the "useless scum" that populated the rest of the city.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

danny likes being in control of everything he does, including cuddling. he's a big spoon, but he's not entirely opposed to letting you hold him if you're persistent enough. or if he's having a particularly rough day, like if a kill didn't go as planned. he likes you laying on his chest, he can smell your shampoo and kiss the top of your head that way. he likes cuddling, feeling your heart beat against his body reminds him that he is human, makes him feel almost normal.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

lol... he could never settle down, at least in the normal sense. at some point he comes to terms with the fact that he's in love with you, and decides for you that you'll be moving across the country with him for his work. like i mentioned earlier, he's pretty damn good at cooking, but not so much when it comes to cleaning. he can clean (especially when it comes to getting blood out of shit), he's not incompetent, but he hates it. so you'll be doing most of the cleaning, sorry! but he'll make it up to you in other ways.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

i hate to break it to you but if you guys ever end it he'd kinda have to kill you. no hard feelings! you're just a liability, sorry doll.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

eeeh. you certainly wouldn't have a wedding, he's just not that type of guy. but i think he'd consider putting a ring on it, helps him "blend into normal society" is how he justifies it. but deep down he does like the idea of being tied to you by marriage. i think his parents probably had a lot of issues too, his dad was probably pretty damn abusive and his mom committed suicide so it's left him with a lot of baggage that he has to get through. but he's willing to do it for you.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

he's so strong, he could easily hurt you in ways you could never even imagine, but he doesn't. in fact, the idea of hurting you makes him feel fucking disgusting. it didn't used to be that way, originally he'd planned on butchering you like a goddamn animal. but now he sees you as an angel, too good for this world but too good to take out of it. you're the only person danny actually cares about.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

he loves sneaking up from behind and hugging you, feeling the way you gasp and tense up before relaxing into him. and he's damn good at it, too. he's very stealthy for obvious reasons.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

i think he wanted to say it for months before he actually did. he waited for you to drop it first, though, and boy did his ego surge when you said it. it excited him, the way you know how much of a monster he is but don't care. he fucking loves it.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

danny johnson is one jealous man! say some customer flirts with you at work, they'll be found dead pretty soon after. just say the word and he'll kill a bastard for you. or don't, he'll still do it. god forbid some jackass try and follow you home, he won't think twice about spilling their guts.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

his kisses are hungry, you're like a drug to him and he needs his fix. he loves to kiss your neck, he loves feeling how you react to him nibbling at your soft skin. he loves to be kissed pretty much anywhere, but he especially loves it when you pepper kisses all over his scars. its such a gentle show of affection, he can't get enough of it.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

he's actually rather good around children, he has a lot of empathy for children. they're helpless, completely vulnerable to the filthy world. he'd never have kids, though. he has zero paternal instincts.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

nighttime is his busy time, so most mornings are spent snuggled up to you until one of you is forced to get up for work. he's so soft for you, he'll spend hours just admiring your sleeping form before you're awake.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

he's usually out until early morning hours, so nights in are few and far between. but if you beg, he'll give in and take a night off.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

he was very slow to reveal super personal things, such as his name and face. about 2 months into your friendship he told you his name, and he loved the way it rolled off your tongue so effortlessly. and maybe 3 months after that he took off his mask, and he couldn't help but smile at the way your fingers traced delicately over his features.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

danny is a patient man, especially with you. you'd have to really fuck up for him to genuinely get angry at you.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

oh, he knows everything about you. he keeps journals, meticulously documenting every single thing he notices. if you keep a diary, he's read over every single entry at least thrice. once he gets past the stalking phase, he asks every thing he can imagine. he knows most of it, but he likes hearing you talk.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

your first kiss. you gasped as he took off his mask, he was so goddamn beautiful. you cupped his face gently with your hand, running your fingers over each scar and freckle with your other. the way you looked into his eyes is permanently ingrained in his mind. he pulled you gently onto his lap, and you let out the sweetest noise he'd heard in his life. and you kissed him. you actually fucking kissed him. you knew who he was, what he'd done, but it didn't matter. that's when he knew he loved you.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

#1 guard-dog! he'll kill a bitch for you, or just torment them mentally and drive them to suicide. either way works. he'd laugh if you got protective over him, muttering something like "you're so cute, my little lamb".

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

he's a fucking sucker for you, seriously. sometimes he'll come home with expensive jewelry, you don't bother to ask where its from, you know he stole it from some poor soul he killed. but its a sweet gesture regardless. he's not really one for flowers, thinks they die too quickly, but he'll bring you virtually anything else. but if you insist on flowers, he'll pick out the prettiest ones for you.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

well, he kinda kills people. but other than that, he has a habit of tracking dirt and blood inside the house. you scold him and he'll clean it up, pouting like a child.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

he knows he's hot, yeah. he's not overly concerned with his looks, but he keeps up with his appearance well. it helps him blend in better.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

at first, he seriously doubted it. but as time went on, you wore him down. you turned him soft. only for you, though. if anything happened to you he'd never let it go, he'd probably lose it a little.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

he grew up in a military household, and as a kid he wanted to be a sniper but quickly realized he hated being told what to do. he couldn't deal with the whole military discipline shit. he got his dream of becoming an assassin, though. just on his own terms. i also think he smokes cigarettes on occasion, only when he's particularly stressed. he smoked a lot in high school, he'd steal cigs from his dad and it became a sort of coping mechanism.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

he wouldn't deal with somebody who wants to change him, sorry. he's perfect content with what he does and who he is. you can't fix him!

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

he has a fucked up sleep schedule. the long nights he spends stalking people and planning his murders usually leave him with little time for sleep. i think he gets pretty bad night terrors, not due to the violence he inflicts onto others, but because of his childhood. most nights its the same memory, walking into the bathroom and seeing his mother laying there in her own blood.

[abundance-of-fic-reblogs]

Worth Remembering - 19

Part 18 | Masterlist

Emperor Caracalla x fem!reader x emperor Geta - 18+

Summary: You find yourself widowed, pregnant and forced to chaperone your sister-in-law at the imperial court. At least mourning traditions keep you practically worlds away from Rome's twin emperors. That is, until an injustice calls you to the other side of the imperial seaside residence.

Includes: reader is a (very tired) pregnant widow; Caracalla has mommy issues (this is an understatement); reader has a name and I think a personality (?); historical inaccuracies, because I am writing this based on what I remember from secondary school Latin classes; undoubtedly spelling mistakes (sorry!!)

Series warnings: the twin emperors; non-con/dub-con; violence in various degrees; misogyny; slavery; pregnancy

Chapter warnings: violence; gladiator games (finally); some semi-(?)vivid descriptions of crucifixions

Word count: 5.5k

Once your litter nears the Colosseum, you call it to a halt. As soon as you push back the curtain separating you from the city, the clamor of the people swells into an obtuse mix of yells, cheers and applause. Varus hurries to your side.

‘Empress, you should —’

‘I want to see them,’ you dismiss him, getting out of the litter.

As soon as you are on your feet, you are flanked by Praetorians on all side. The people of Rome are kept at bay only by their fear of these men’s swords. You know Geta and Caracalla mistrust the masses. They only like to show them their faces on official occasions, when there is a comforting distance between the imperial persons and the faceless crowd. But while your husband and brother-in-law barely leave their palace unless official business calls them away, you leave the palace’s ground occasionally for prayer. And thus you have come to realize that for all their shouting and screaming, there is little to fear of them. Or at least, if there is some imperial person they wish to hurt, it is not you.

You pay no mind to their calls, their questions, you are only focused on one thing. Macrinus and his spies have been nailed to wooden crosses. And it is along the Via Sacra, the road connecting the very heart of Rome, that these crucified traitors are exhibited. In total around a fifty people are thus suffering on high crosses by the roadside. Fifty people dying such a gruesome death because they would dare to harm your husband, you, your child. Even your child unborn. It is strange that even when seeing the lethal pain on their faces, in their naked bodies, you do not feel any pity, let alone remorse. There is only emptiness.

You stop at the cross to which Macrinus is crucified. The soldiers even nailed down his feet to the wood. To your dismay he is already dead. Alongside all of his minions he looks ordinary. Mundane even. There is nothing to look at here.

You turn back to your litter, but then notice something in the common commotion around you. There are just not shouting your name, praises or obscenities — all things to which you were used to.

No, there are two rarities in today’s clamors.

The first — the title augusta.

The second — questions about your unborn child.

You gesture to Varus and whisper in his ear. He straightens his back and in his deep voice he shouts, ‘The empress’s unborn child is dead — murdered by these traitors.’

And then you point at the many crosses, crooked and bloodied by the road, at the people either writhing in torment on them or hanging limp and lifeless from them. The people begin to yell and boo and some even try to pull down a few crosses, apparently insistent on bringing bloody justice to the conspirators themselves.

‘Empress, I beg of you, return into the litter, lets get you to the arena.’

Seeing that, indeed, a terrible pandemonium has settled over the populace, you adhere to Varus’s plea and retreat into your litter. As your slaves hurry to get you as quick as possible to the Colosseum, you pull your knees to your torso, hugging yourself.

They did not kill your child. Nona told you so, as soon as the two of you had a moment alone. She whispered her sins into your ear: when news came to her of the miscarriage, she took her chance. And now you took yours.

It is not as if you lied. Sooner of later, Macrinus would have killed the whole imperial family, you and your child included. So you did not lie, although you were not entirely truthful either. It simply does not matter. The people of Rome love you. And to survive this imperium, which so despises your husband, you have to be loved by them. Who knows, perhaps through loving you, they may come to loving their emperors as well.

As soon as you walk through the private entrance for the imperial household and their guests, a pair of hands grab your shoulders. Out of instinct you try to push them away, but they hold you in too strong a grip. It is Geta, you realize when you have gathered yourself, and his dark eyes are wide with anxiety.

‘Are you hurt?’

You blink, then let your gaze drift from his panicked expression to his ringed fingers digging into your shoulders. ‘I am fine.’

An enthusiastic babble draws your attention. Caracalla approaches, carrying your little girl so that she sits upright with her back against his torso. She is dressed in a pretty, yellow tunica onto which Caracalla pinned a pretty brooch in the form of a moon. Nerulla may be dead now, but Telesina still received a teething ring — on which she is biting insistently. She is blissfully unaware of the way her father is gnawing his lower lip.

‘They could have — they could have killed you,’ Caracalla stutters. ‘The people they are vile.’

That’s strong coming from him.

‘They may hate you, but they love me,’ you retort. ‘Geta, hands off, if you please.’

Your brother-in-law relents and you reach for your babygirl, but she is insistent on staying in Caracalla’s arms for now.

‘Daddy’s girl,’ you sigh.

At least that wipes away Caracalla’s anxiety. He grins proudly.

‘Do not make a habit out of getting so close to them,’ Geta whispers as he takes his place at your other side. ‘The masses are unpredictable.’

You only hum, not interested in discussing this any further. Even though you have a lot to say. After all, having miscarried only yesterday you would have preferred lying in bed all day. Alas, your presence is required to show the people the imperial household stands strong.

‘Gods, Thurina, do you relish in making me look like such a fool?’ Geta laments.

At this Caracalla laughs. ‘Brother, you have no idea what you have gotten yourself into.’

Not quite pleased to be talked about thus, you ask, ‘Are we just going to stand here?’

Geta scoffs, then claps for everyone to take their position. You are confused when Geta and Caracalla insist on you standing between them. ‘My husband should be in the middle, his —’

‘For today you are seated between us,’ Caracalla interrupts.

‘The people may hate us, but they love you,’ Geta adds.

You feel heat settle in your cheeks at him using your own words against you. Clearly, this is a non-debatable topic. So you brace yourself and flanked by the twin-emperors you walk up the stairs to the imperial box. The clamor of the crowd crashes into you like stormy waves. You are once again reminded of how many people this theater can host: sixty five thousand. And today the it is packed full. It is as Caracalla said, a third grand chair has been placed at the front row of the imperial box. Yet, instead of allowing you to sit down immediately, Geta takes your hand to lead you down the few steps to the edge of the balcony. You make sure to slip your hand from Geta’s as soon as you need no assistance.

While the emperors wave at the crowd, you only look at them solemnly. Your husband is dressed in luscious red, ears pinned with dangling earrings, while Geta is clad in heavy bronze and blue. Both of them wear laurels, despite the campaign being celebrated not being theirs. Once again you must appear quite underdressed in comparison. You have donned a dark blue stola and palla — as close to mourning black as would be proper on such a joyous occasion. The only jewelry you are wearing, is a ring Caracalla gifted you. Despite all this, the crowd is once again chanting your name. And that title again.

Augusta.

Telesina, confused by all the clamor, looks around with a deep frown. She almost lets her teething ring fall, but you take hold of it quickly. When she refuses to accept it again, you bop her little nose, making her yelp. Your interaction does wonders for the crowd’s reception of the imperial family, as they set to applauding more. The chanting of your name and the title you have not been bestowed, only ceases when the man himself enters. Then the name on everyone’s lips is Marcus Acacius. The laureled general seems to modest to approach, but Geta gestures for him. You greet your friend with a subtle smile and inch closer to your husband, to make place for him. Geta all but forces Acacius to address the masses, and once he does, the whole Colosseum bursts out in cheers.

The whole affair is crazy and absolutely dizzying. You are quite relieved when you are finally allowed to sit down. Although then you only feel out of place. Sitting between both emperors, you are elevated to the heart of the imperial household. Only now you are seated, do you take the time to take in your surroundings. Acacius and Lucilla are seated on the row behind you, together with Egnatia Agripinilla and her father. Yet Geta goes on happily ignoring his fiancé.

The gladiators are announced and you hold your breath for a moment. Even before Cato decided to die in a match with a gladiator at a party, you never much enjoyed games. The last time you attended them, must have been half a decade ago. You left early, feeling so sick to the stomach that by the time you arrived home, you had already vomited in the front yard of one of your neighbors. This time, too, you feel an uncomfortable feeling settle in the pit of your stomach.

The morning is all about men fighting beast. The first animal these ten or something gladiators have to confront, are baboons. As soon as the fighting begins, you turn to look at your baby girl. She is too young to understand what she is watching at — that is, if she even sees the arena from where she is seated. You hope the violence remains out of her sight. Caracalla rocks her on his knee, as he follows the bloodshed below in the arena with twinkling eyes. Biting on your tongue, you force yourself to watch as well, but you tense as you see an especially rabid baboon bite a piece out of a gladiator’s neck. A mere moment later another one pierces the beast’s head with a sword. The fight goes on for half an hour or so. At the end, one corpse is removed and one gladiator is pulled out of the arena to receive immediate medical care.

A break of a quarter of an hour follows, in which you retreat with your husband and babe to the rooms behind the imperial box. You sit down behind a drawn curtain to feed your babygirl, while Caracalla rants about the fight. He comments on sorts of violence which you blissfully failed to notice.

‘The real danger of the animal bites is not the bleeding or even piercing vital organs. No, no, you see, if they do not kill the gladiator immediately, well, the beasts carry all sorts of diseases.’

‘In that case, I understand why the gladiators would prefer a death in the arena,’ you comment.

Caracalla pulls aside the curtain and slips into the small space with you and your child. ‘I hope one of them dies today. On the sand. Perhaps, perhaps! Perhaps I will finally be allowed to bestow judgment.’

You take your husband in as he is now, all giddy and excited. How he can relish so in needless bloodshed, even if it is supposed to be a sacral ordeal, is beyond you.

‘By midday Telesina and I shall return to the palace,’ you say as you unclasp the fibula still in place and move Telesina so she may suckle from your other breast.

‘Whatever for? You’ll miss the spectacle. Mellitula, just stay and enjoy.’

‘You know I do not quite like this,’ you retort. ‘I much prefer races.’

‘Then we will have races for Bassiana’s birthday!’ he decides, but then, again he pleads, ‘Please, do not leave. It’s much more fun with you around.’

‘How? I just… sit there.’

‘Exactly. You sit there. Beautiful, wonderful you.’ He cups your face in his hands and then with playful severity he decides, ‘You must stay, wife, I insist. It is your place, right beside me.’

Between you and your brother. You keep the thought to yourself.

He leans in and kisses you in that soft, careful way he does when he is trying to coax you into being the obedient wife. You wish you were not swayed so easily, but when his lips brush so sweetly against yours, you find yourself relenting too easily.

‘As you wish, husband.’

He grins, and disappears behind the curtain again. When you return to the imperial box, you find Caracalla annoying one of the Praetorians and Geta conversing with the general and his wife. His own fiancé is, to your chagrin, once more neglected. Egnatia Agripinilla is trying to face the embarrassment by staring straight ahead, into the momentarily empty arena. Even if she fails to show you the respect your position deserves, you feel for her. She is barely sixteen, she has no idea what she has gotten into except what she has been thought: she will wed a man, be loyal to him, and provide him with as many babies as she can. You can only imagine how hurt she must be due to Geta refusing to show her even simple cordiality. Still keeping Telesina upright against your shoulder, you stop by the young lady’s chair and ask, ‘How are you enjoying the games?’

Agripinilla looks at you with liquid fire in her eyes. The poor girl is at the verge of tears. Yet, she still speaks with arrogance, ‘It is wonderful, thank you, Volusena. How is the little Bassiana liking them?’

‘She has no idea what is going on,’ you dismiss her rudeness. ‘That is most likely for the best. Geta —’ You turn to your brother-in-law. ‘— your bride-to-be looks thirsty.’

Geta turns to you, disturbed mid-phrase. You confront his challenging gaze head-on. The time when you feared his annoyance or dismay have long passed, and neither do you much feel intimidated by the threat in his dark irises. He relents and snaps his fingers. A slave brings him a cup of wine, which he offers coldly but cordially to his betrothed.

‘Thank you, my emperor,’ Agripinilla speaks.

‘Agripinilla inquired about the gladiators performing today. You know better than I, Geta, why don’t you enlighten her?’

Before he can protest or try to complicate you into the conversation, you approach the lady Lucilla, leaving Geta to tell Agripinilla all there is to know about today’s arena fights.

‘You look radiant, milady,’ you tell Lucilla. ‘I am happy to see you once again in the company of your husband.’

‘Thank you, empress,’ she bows her head slightly. You do not expect more from Rome’s most favored princess. ‘I see your little girl is bothered by teething aches.’

‘Very much so.’

‘I believe we must thank you, milady,’ Acacius comments.

You frown. ‘I do not…’

‘The emperor Geta and Caracalla have granted Lucius leave to Hispania,’ Acacius explains, and his wife adds, ‘It is still not Italia, but in this province he is allowed to roam freely.’

‘I am not involved in this,’ you reply honestly. ‘But I am happy. For all of us. It is time to leave needless feuds behind.’

‘I do think you are involved,’ Lucilla remarks, ‘even if you do not realize it.’

Before you can assure you that your influence does not reach so far, trumpets announce the beginning of the second round. You sit down, with Telesina still pressed against your shoulder. You are surprised the crowd sets to chanting your name. It is Geta who urges you, ‘Stand, show them the child.’

You hesitate, but then convincing yourself that your baby girl will not even realize what is going on, you do as he demands. You stand and turn slightly, so Telesina may see the crowd, chanting over and over again the name bestowed onto her by your husband.

Bassiana.

After a minute or so Telesina begins to squirm in your embrace, and you return to your seat, exhausted. Your heart is thumping hard against your ribcage. And still the crowd cheers, but now for the gladiators entering the arena. Those who survived the first round will now have to face the wrath of hungry lions.

‘Mellitula,’ Caracalla calls and blinking you turn to him, ‘Are you alright?’

‘That was a bit too much,’ you admit.

He leans over and makes you take a sip from his cup of wine. ‘You need to drink more. The day is warm..’

A drop spills and when you retreat it drips down your chin. Wiping it away with the back of your hand, your gaze falls on Geta, looking at you as if he is contemplating something terrible. Caracalla reaches for your hand, however, and so as an obedient wife you accept to hold it. Telesina falls asleep against your shoulder, paying no mind to the raging of the crowd.

‘Whatever makes you think I would agree to go to Hispania of all places?’ Nona scoffs while a slave girl combs her dark moist curls.

The tepidity of the bath has made you all soft and relaxed. After the hectics of today’s gladiator games you felt you deserved to be pampered just a bit. You lean over the edge of the bath, resting your chin on your forearm, as you take in Nona’s figure. The damage of her marriage has yet to fade; the bruise on her shoulder is still dark blue, and the scars on her thighs a deep red. She has not spoken a word about it, and you would not be surprised if she never did. What she must have gone through under the hands of that man must have been beyond nightmarish.

‘I hear my estate near Tarraco is very beautiful,’ you try.

‘And very old. Do not get me wrong, I do not intent to stay in this godsforsaken city,’ she assures you, ‘but I am leaving for Cato’s — your estate, I mean, just outside of the city. I will not evacuate myself to the other side of Mare Nostrum.’

Although you have missed her banter, this is not the topic on which you wanted to meet her in discussion. ‘Nona, please, I only trust you with this.’

‘Just send Sejanus. If you allow him to bring his wife and daughter, he —’

‘I cannot be subtle about this, can I?’ you interrupt her with a sigh. You stand up, water droplets falling from your naked form. ‘I am trying to get you there, because a certain someone will be there as well.’

Nona looks at you with narrowed eyes. ‘Who?’

You let a pair of slave women wrap you in a towel and then slip closer to your sister. You whisper the name in her ear.

‘Are… are you messing with me? If you are, Thurina, I swear to Mars —’

‘I am not,’ you insist. ‘I wanted to surprise you, but I see now that I cannot. I spoke with the emperors at dinner. Lucius will be sent to Hispania and allowed a career in law or literature or anything which has nothing to do with the military or the state. And you are free to go to my estate in Tarraco to see that it is maintained.’

‘But Geta would not allow it,’ Nona retorts, pushing the woman combing her hair away. ‘He despises me. And Lucius, why would he — Why would your husband? Caracalla even more than Geta hates Lucius, fears him as —’

Softly you interrupt her ranting, ‘They are finally opening their eyes to the truth of the world, Nona.’

She shakes her head, unconvinced by your reasoning. Agitatedly she demands a slave to hand her a towel, and clenches her jaw as she wraps it around herself.

‘I will not go,’ she asserts.

‘Nona —’

‘No, I will not do it,’ she insists. ‘I will not leave you with those two men. I only just returned to your side —’

‘Sister, I am married to Caracalla, nothing can ever change that. This is my place, I cannot go, but you?’ You take deep breath. ‘Nona, I urge you, go to Hispania. Be with the man you love. You are still too young to suffer all on your lonesome on our estate outside of Rome. Neither do I want to see you become a shadow of yourself at this court.’ You see her hesitation lingering and add with a roll or your eyes, ‘You do not even have to marry him, you do know that? Just go have some fun, or, or something. If you want to return in half a year do so. But please go. For his sake. Your sake.’

‘We are only just reunited,’ Nona murmurs.

You give her a soft smile and push a lock of her hair behind her ear. ‘I missed you too.’

She wraps her arms around you, and you make sure the embrace lasts a while. Admittedly, you do not want her to go. You want her all to yourself. But after all she has been through, she needs to be away from this city. And she needs to see the man for whom she has suffered so or the wounds she has suffered will only fester. When you finally retreat, she admits, ‘I will go. But only to see your estate put in order. I do not care about Lucius.’

From how she speaks, how she lowers her eyes it is obvious she cares about Lucius very much. But you allow her to keep her pride. Once both of you are redressed, you see her off to the guest quarters before retreating to you own. The hour is late already. When you go check up on Telesina, she lies fast asleep in her crib. Her little lips are parted and her fingers are moving as if she is trying to grasp something.

‘Sweet dreams, sweetheart,’ you whisper before kissing her little head.

You are disappointed to find your bed empty. Caracalla must have set of to his concubines once again. As if your unborn baby did not die inside your womb just yesterday. As if the both of you have no loss to grieve. For a brief moment you fear he may just have forgotten. It would be the first. He may fail to remember courtiers’ names and faces, he may mix up details on state affairs, and at times he believes his mother to be alive, his father to stalk these halls — but he never forgets when it comes to you. But maybe this was a tragedy he’d rather ban from his memories. The thought alone brings tears to your eyes and you sit down on the bed slowly.

Placing a hand on your belly, you finally allow yourself to drown in the loss. The confusion. You had not been sure you wanted this baby, until you lost it. Perhaps grieving it would have been easier if it had indeed been poison taking it from you, and not your own body failing. Why did it happen? Why did the gods resent you? Perhaps they feel you are failing Rome. But you are doing the best you can.

You do not know if you can handle this a second, third, gods forbid, fourth time.

A banging sound in the distance. A bolt of fear rushes through your body, as a short scream escapes you. When you turn to the general direction of the disturbance, you, however, only see Geta emerging from the small adjoining room serving as Caracalla’s closet. In his hands, he holds a lush coat.

‘Did I scare you?’ he asks and he does not even try to hide his amused smile.

You are in no mood for his stupid antics. ‘Just go.’

But he does not move. You feel his gaze on you, and feel terribly vulnerable under it.

‘Sister, what is wrong?’

Why does he have to ask that? You are in no state to react to this simple question as you should. And indeed, all it does is bring tears to your eyes, set a lump in your throat. At this Geta drops the expensive looking mantel and approaches you, as if he would a wounded horse.

‘Thurina,’ he says softly, ‘if it was today, if it was too much, the people and the games — you can stay here tomorrow.’

‘I lost my baby, Geta.’ The words finally escape you, all broken and messy. ‘I… I just… And Caracalla, he…’

He hesitates, just for a handful of seconds. But then he sits down beside you, ‘I am sorry for you. What Macrinus and his rats did. Their souls will be tormented for this.’

But it was not them, it was you. Only you failed in this. You repress the confession. They must never know Nona’s lies, the treachery you became implicated in, even if it was for the greater good. But gods, you cannot go through this again.

‘How can you bear it, Geta?’ you whisper. ‘I hate being empress.’

‘Yet you far outshine me and my brother in imperial grace, augusta.’ When he sees the compliment does not draw a reaction from you he tries, ‘This is all I have known. I do not know who I would be without Rome.’

‘Well, you’d be just Geta, I suppose.’

‘Just Geta,’ he repeats. ‘You are the only one who treats me like that. As if I am not crowned and throned.’

‘As your sister I am one of the few people who can,’ you retort.

‘I had a sister before, and she could not manage me, let alone my brother.’

You tense at the mention of Fulvia Plautilla.

‘You have no idea, do you?’ he asks. ‘How… grateful I am that you are here?’

You meet his dark eyes, drowning in an affection you did not know he could even hold. Softly you tell him, ‘Geta, I do not want to be here.’

‘I know. That is why I am all the more grateful.’ He swallows down hard. ‘You once asked me, why I was so occupied with how you are raising your daughter.’

‘You sounded angry with me,’ you retort.

‘Caracalla and I had a wet nurse each.’ He adverts his eyes from you. Solemnly he goes on, ‘We were not raised on the same milk. But we did experience the same cruelty. Whenever my mother would try to sing us to sleep, care for our childhood bruises, play along in our games, our father would see to it that it never happened again.’

‘That is heartless,’ you only manage.

‘When he died, I considered cutting open my father’s corpse to see whether he truly had a heart,’ he states dryly. ‘I must admit, being raised like that, you confused me.’

‘I can understand.’

‘My brother is extremely lucky, Thurina, to have you as a wife, as a mother to his children, and as an empress. I am sure…’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I am sure the two of you will have more children. Lots.’

‘I just wish…’ you begin to say, but you shake your head.

‘What do you wish, sister?’

And when he speaks to you so carefully, so kindly, you fail to keep it to yourself.

‘I just wish my husband would hold me when I am hurt. Instead of setting off to his concubines, he should… he should…’ The tears finally spill from your eyes. ‘I am a married woman, then why am I so lonely?’

And when Geta finally pulls you into his embrace, you allow yourself to sink into his touch. His one arm holds you close by the small of your back, while his other hand softly cups the back of your head. The smell of him — deep and tangy — comforts you. You let your head rest on his shoulder and feel your breathing settle in a steady rhythm, your tears drying on your cheeks.

‘Caracalla does not mean to hurt you,’ he whispers. ‘He is just… clumsy.’

You sniffle. How delicately his fingers massage your scalp — you cannot imagine you felt awful just a minute before.

‘I know.’

He holds you so closely and tenderly like that for a long while. And it may have lasted even longer, if the doors did not open. In comes walking your husband. You tense, but Geta does not let you slip from his arms. Being kept in place as you are, you can only watch as Caracalla comes to a staggering halt before the two of you. He is keeping his arms secretively behind his back. He grins, raising an eyebrow, but before he can make a lewd comment, Geta says, ‘Your wife is feeling lonely, brother.’

‘I — I am sorry,’ he stammers, ‘I did intend to be here before she, but it took longer than expected.’

Then he shows what he is keeping hidden: a small wooden figure in the form of a cat. It is not that which draws your attention, but the tidbits of cloth tied around his fingers. They are stained red.

‘It is your Silvatica, mellitula,’ he announces.

You sit up straight, but still Geta’s arms remain around you, as does your hand stay on his strong torso. ‘You cut yourself, husband.’

‘Yes, I carved it myself!’ he beams with pride. ‘It has been a long time, but I managed —’

‘Your fingers, my sweet, you cut yourself.’

His mouth is open for a moment without a sound coming out and then he scoffs. ‘Just a few drops of blood. I would spill more just to see my wife smile.’

You accept the little figurine and are quite surprised to see it is so detailed and finely carved. Such delicateness you would have thought beyond Caracalla’s mastery.

‘Your spilled blood would not make me smile, husband.’ And then you add, ‘Thank you.’

He licks his dry lips. ‘So you like it?’

‘Yes,’ you stand, Geta’s touch falling from your body.

You turn to your brother-in-law — and are utterly confused by the tenderness you feel for him in this moment. ‘Thank you as well, Geta. Do not forget what you came here for.’

He stands slowly and then sets to receive the cloak.

‘That’s mine!’ Caracalla immediately retorts, but before they can set off discussing, you place your hand on your husband’s cheek and tell him, ‘Let’s get that white paint of your face, shall we?’

‘It is mine, I just let you borrow it,’ Geta says as he walks past, but Caracalla is to distracted by you to react.

‘Bassiana likes Dondus,’ he says as you sit him down on a settee.

‘Maybe I should carve her a little ape.’

You ignore his suggestion as you dip a sponge in bowl of water. ‘I thought… I thought you were with your concubines again.’

The giddiness in his demeanor dies down. He is gnawing on his lip when you place the moist sponge against his cheek.

‘I prefer to be with you,’ he says, as a layer of white is wiped of his face. ‘We’ll have more children, mellitula. It is like you said, not easy at all, but… we’ll have more.’

‘Lots,’ you agree softly, rinsing the sponge in the basin, before bringing it to his face again. ‘You know, I much prefer you without all that paint.’

Post-scriptum

Somehow you have fallen asleep. Seated between two emperors, while the crowd is yelling and cheering and applauding, and a naval battle is being performed in the flooded arena — somehow you managed to fall asleep in the midst of all this chaos. Admittedly, little Bassiana did keep you awake almost the whole night. The little girl refused to just be quiet and good and fall asleep, and you refused for a slave to take care of her.

Seeing that his brother too is marveled at your feat to fall fast asleep during the games, Caracalla mouths to him, ‘Do not wake her.’

Geta rolls his eyes, and gestures for another cup of wine. Caracalla scratches Dondus’s head. The monkey is sitting on his shoulder. As Dondus chirps, Caracalla’s attention drifts to the pretty girl sitting behind Geta. Egnatia Agripinilla looks down at your sleeping form with a childishly angry frown. He does not like the girl much, not with how she tries to seduce his brother and leers at you and keeps her head so high.

In the flooded arena the two ships finally crash and you jolt awake at the crowd’s rising cheers. Blinking you find his gaze.

‘What?’ you ask bluntly when you see him stare.

‘You fell asleep, mellitula.’

Your eyes dart from left to right as if caught in an unbecoming state. Then you must see something quite debauched in the arena for you shake your head and say, ‘I was dreaming so nicely and now this.’

‘Were you dreaming of me?’ Caracalla inquires.

You keep silent, but the smile on your lips betrays it all.

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[abundance-of-fic-reblogs]

Emperor Geta: Castration

The Emperor pulls your from you common life to become his wife and Empress, his gentle touch towards you is a far cry from what you had initially thought of him, that is until he catches a man watching you bathe and issues his justice.

A/N: I may do a part 2 of the aftermath but it depends how I feel because it will probably include smut

2.9k words

You could still remember the day that you were given to Geta, it was a mild day in the midst of spring, tending to the strawberry plants that your late mother had placed within the garden of your home. It was all too sudden when the palace guards arrived and with unwilling permission from your father, they pulled you from the only life that you knew to one in the royal palace that you would have never imagined, pleading silently to your father as he watched you be escorted away, it pained him to see you so sad and vulnerable, trying hard to push away the thoughts of what would become of you within the Emperor's palace. 

What you were feeling was nothing short of shock when you were made aware why you were plucked from your home, to be delivered to the Emperor and become his wife, blissfully unaware of how he had been watching and craving you. The vision of you was that of Venus in Geta’s eyes and he wanted to claim you as his own, to have what he deemed to be the beauty of Rome by his side. 

You had only seen Geta in passing at the games and often wondered why it was you that was chosen as you had never spoken with him, only watching as he made speeches alongside his brother in the pulvinus of the colosseum, though the question rattled often in your mind you never voiced it. Though you had only been within the palace for a few short days, your life here in the palace was good, you missed your old life but could not deny that this new one of yours was easier and filled with elegance, you did not want to jeopardise it now with unnecessary lines of questioning or for fear of disrespecting the Emperor and his choices. 

The moment you arrived in the palace days ago you were swarmed with servants, each one to attend you for every need that you may have, bringing garments of the finest silk and jewellery of the finest gold that Rome could offer. It was all a blur the first few days as you accustomed yourself to what would be the new norm for you, never before had you been waited upon with such fervor, to have so many people at your beck and call was strange to you and as such you were almost reluctant to ask for anything, yet anytime you attempted to do something yourself you were stopped, attendants quickly rushing in to stop you and and insist you sit with a glass of wine. 

In this time you hardly saw your soon to be husband, only catching fleeting glances of him as he walked the palace halls with his entourage of guards surrounding him. Geta rolled out the servants and all the finery that he could gift to you, yet his presence was the only thing lacking, you wanted to meet with him and ascertain why it was you that was chosen, however he always seemed to slip through your fingers like fog on an early day in spring. 

As the time drew on you realised that Geta was not avoiding you, he was simply just preoccupied with the politics that surrounded his position. When time allowed it late into the night, Geta would enter your bed chamber, to sit at your bedside and stroke your delicate skin, soft was his touch as if he was scared to hurt you. In these times you would be half awake and smile at his touch, unsure whether it was a pleasant dream or if he truly was sat before you. The way you unconsciously leant your face into his touch made his heart flutter, Geta had plucked you away from your family due to your beauty, he never expected you to feel anything for him but resentment, to only act polite and do your duty as wife as was expected of you, never did he think that this sort of affection would be returned to him.

As the political year began to die down, so did Geta’s need to attend the Roman court, the Roman Army was returning home for the winter and the citizens of the fair city were starting to prepare for the celebrations of Saturnalia. Though Saturnalia was months away it was a time where all of Rome came together to celebrate, many political events died down or put aside in favour of preparing for the celebration

Geta had now started to spend time sporadically with you throughout the day, to spend dinners with you making small talk and giving you gifts of wine and jewellery, complimenting you and stealing soft touches of your hands. It was strange to see this side of him at first, as a Roman citizen you only knew of the ruthless and unforgiving side of the Emperor, one who was quick to sentence a man to death for even looking at him in a strange way. Yet the Geta you were slowly coming to know now was different, he lavished you with gifts and looked upon you as if you would disappear the moment he looked away, taking in the features of your face as if it was the first time he was seeing you again.

Time spent within Geta’s company was a blessing for you, no longer having to make small talk and converse with the attendants he sent for you was a nice change of pace, whilst you were happy for their company it was all a one sided relationship. The attendants you had were pleasant and polite but would never open up to truly become your friends, living in fear that if they said the wrong thing it would cause them their life. Now that you were finally able to spend time with your husband, you began to understand what made him tick, what he desired and what dreams he had for Rome. 

It was strange at first when you began to spend time together, you only were aware of what you saw at the gladiator games, the ruthless and sycophantic ruler of Rome, one that was bloodthirsty and craved the adrenaline of the battle, yet it somewhat disappointed you to not see him show you any of that passion. Geta was ever gentle with you, treating you as if some delicate flower whose petals he was scared to ruin, you had still not consummated your marriage or performed the wifely duties that were expected of you, you had stolen gentle kisses and walked hand in hand but had never taken that next step. It would be a lie to tell yourself that you were not disappointed by this, you enjoyed your husbands company and wanted more from him, he was handsome, strong of will and respectful of you, many of your friends had husbands that were none of these and they were common men, yet you had it all with an Emperor expect the one area that you were now beginning to crave yet did not want to voice it for fear that he would not take it well.

Quiet moments with Geta were spent walking within the palace grounds, his demeanour ever calm in your presence, a thing that not only confused yourself but also the other servants in the palace, they looked on in awe and shock as you walked past them expecting some vituperative rant to fall from his lips. You were a welcome change in the palace, the servants favouring your presence as you were the quiet and calm change in the Emperor that they had all dreamed of, gossiping in quiet corners of the palace about what you could have done to tame the mad Emperor . 

Rome was currently in a drought, the air was hot and stifling and with each rainless day it grew harder to stand, craving more than just cold wine and a servant to fan you to offset the heat. If you had been a commoner still then your request for a bath would have been laughed at by your father, telling you that if you wished for a bath then you had better pray to the Gods for rain, yet as Empress your request was quickly attended to. The palace baths were opulent and carved of the finest marble, filled with the coldest water and adorned with bright rose petals of all colours and scented oils, if you were to bathe then it would be an insult to the Emperor to not fill the room with luxury for you. 

The water was cool and soothed your delicate skin, the sun had been beaming down on you for the last few days and a soft red burn hard started to take hold upon you. Geta had been preoccupied these last few days as he and his brother set about the task of organising some Gladiator festival, to appease and entreat the Gods to bless Rome with rain, a light shower or even a deluge, just something to ease the drought upon the land. 

The lack of your husband's presence once again did not disturb you much this time, you had grown comfortable with him now and knew that he did not desire to leave your side often unless his duty called him. Instead you enjoyed the quiet of the bathing pool, the scent of rose and lavender soothing your mind and the cool water easing the heat upon your skin, fading away the stress of the heat.  

The water started to warm with the air around you, the heat of it now starting to make your brow sweat, as you were about to call for fresh water to be added to your bath you heard voices in the distance, ones confirming that the Emperor was due to enter the palace after having finished his business within the senate. With this in mind you decided it was time for your bath to finish, to dry up and make yourself presentable for him, to welcome him home in the way that he loved for you to do, with open arms and a loving kiss. 

The water rippled beneath you as you stood from, droplets of the oiled water dripping slowly down your body as you made your way to your dry robes and a towel, normally your lady attendants would dry and dress you but you did not want to call them and delay seeing Geta, you wanted to see him if only briefly once again. As you began to dry yourself the door creaked open quietly, so quietly that you were not even aware of it, to busy drying off your body and attending to your hair before you dressed, it was only as you turned to grab your robes that you saw the door open and the face pressed within the open gap. Before you could even fully register what was happening you let out a piercing scream as you attempted to cover your naked body from the man who was looking upon it for who knows how long. 

The scream was heard throughout the palace, one that Geta knew belonged to you and sprinted to the bathhouse, catching the culprit that was staring upon you, pinning him roughly against the wall and demanding to know what his wife was screaming. The man could not stutter an answer, his face growing redder and looking more guilty with each passing second, with no answer spilling from his lips Geta threw him into the hands of his guards before rushing towards you. 

Tears spilled from your eyes as you tried further still to cover your modesty with what little towel you had, as Geta forth to comfort you he unclipped his cape and wrapped it around your body, preserving your dignity and holding you close. It was hard for you to tell Geta what had happened between your sobs, to explain that the man, whoever he was, had been watching you dry yourself, apologising for letting him see you naked before he could. 

Your words hurt Geta and started to send him into an unbridled fury, not at you but at the man who caused you to feel this way, not only had this pervert invaded his wife’s privacy but he also made you apologise for something that was not of your own doing, as if he would cast you aside over this. Once Geta had calmed you down and covered you he stalked back outside to his guards, you followed him quietly to see what it was that he would do, to see which side of the coin Geta would flip to. 

Standing at the entrance of the door you watched on in shock, Geta was shouting commands at his guards that this man was not to be killed, you had assumed that he would have been killed on the spot for his crime, he had killed men for far lesser crimes than this yet now he was sparing him? Then you heard the word. 

Castration.

Both your eyes and the eyes of the man you saw you were locked onto each other, wide eyed in shock at what the Emperor had commanded, Geta did not want to do him the mercy of a killing, he wanted to strip away his manhood and force him to live with the Eunochs within the palace, to look upon you both every day in shame at what he had done, at how he had violated the privacy of the Empresses’ private quarters. 

Not long after Geta’s command had been given the man was dragged away, kicking, screaming and pleading for anything other than that, yet nothing he could give would assuage the Emperor’s rage at this point. Once he had been dragged out of sight Geta turned to face you, cloaked in nothing but his own red cape that he had wrapped around you, there was a look in his eyes that you could not discern, you could not tell whether it was passion or fury, though often they were two sides of the same coin, much like Geta’s moods often were. 

Before you could even decide what the look was in his eyes he was upon you, kissing you with passion like you had never felt before, passion that you were more than eager to return. It was a good thing that Geta was holding tight onto you as he kissed you for your arms and dropped the robe covering you to hold him closer, the only thing keeping you covered was Geta’s hold upon the rob around you. It wasn’t long before Geta scooped you up into his arms and carried you away, you had a feeling that you were finally going to get what you had been craving from him, though you wish it had happened under different circumstances you would welcome it nonetheless, finally excited to truly become his wife and his equal.

[abundance-of-fic-reblogs]

words unspoken ~ emperor geta

the emperor and his empress at odds. two-thousand words. geta x reader. note: this is my first fic! historical accuracy is iffy. but i just thought i'd share :)

He could be so cruel, your husband.

Dark-eyed and golden-haired, full lips twisted in a permanent sneer – it was hard for you to decide if he was handsome or not. You suppose he might be, if he ever decided to wear an expression that radiated something other than cold sadism, but those occasions are so far and few between that you’ve scarcely been given the opportunity to judge them.

A soft sigh escapes your lips, and you squirm in your seat. The action does not go unnoticed, Geta’s eyes cutting over to you, though his head does not turn away from the soldier standing before him. His warning goes without saying.

Stilling your movements, you try and fix your posture so you don’t look so...bored.

To his credit, it’s not often that Geta demands you accompany him to his meetings. Rome’s politics are best dealt with by people who know what they’re doing, and that does not include yourself. And unfortunately for the empire, whether or not that group even includes the emperors is up for debate.

You wonder, as you have many times before: Is Geta a competent leader?

No, but you think perhaps he could be. In spite of all his flaws, that head on his shoulders is more or less sensible enough. His vanity would always work against him, but at the very least he possesses an alertness that his brother lacks. A limited – but nonetheless present – understanding that those who have been gifted with supreme power will always be vulnerable to someopposing force who wants to be free of it, or who wants it for themselves.

You can only wonder what will happen when the time comes, and he’s finally tried in the fire.

Is Caracalla fit to rule?

Now, the answer to that is much more straightforward: it’s a resounding certainly not. He’s childish, petulant, and his insatiable bloodlust is hard to stomach; you couldn’t help the wave of relief that washed over you when you realized he was not to join you three today.

Though you must admit, you rather miss the presence of his little monkey companion.

The men prattle on, talking of strategy. As a distraction you take to studying the tapestry that hangs on the wall opposite you. The minutes tick by as you continue to tune them out, observing the different colors of thread in the work, memorizing the pattern, the way the gold embroidery in particular catches the sunlight streaming in through the window –

“Wife.”

Your title is riddled with an impatience that makes you jump. Is it the first time he’s called you, or the second?

The soldier is nearly out the door, and Geta has already risen from his chair. He stares at you expectantly, nose wrinkled in annoyance, arm outstretched. Hurriedly, you place your hand in his, allowing him to escort you from the room.

These sorts of gestures always confuse you. Does he have any real desire to perform such husbandly duties, or is it simply for appearances? Do the guards and servants at his beck and call, who should witness them, care for such displays? Do their opinions even matter to him?

You walk through the palace together in silence. This routine is familiar – your attempts at conversation are not often well-received by your beloved, and you’ve accepted that only speaking when spoken to is the easiest way to keep him happy. He’s typically content with your function as his empress being purely ornamental.

“Enthralled by the report today, were you?” His voice, dripping with sarcasm, startles you out of your reverie.

If you were back home, speaking with your father instead, you wouldn’t hesitate to mimic his sardonic tone and reply, “Yes, Papa, it was riveting.” And then he would laugh his great belly laugh, and cuff you affectionately on the shoulder, promising that the next time you were forced to be present for some official dealing, it wouldn’t take nearly so long.

But you’re not at home, and your Papa isn’t here. You’re in a gorgeous palace on Palatine Hill with your terrifying husband.

Looking up into his face, you wish he weren’t so difficult to read. His temper is short, and you never know what may set him off.

You decide it’s best to be honest with him, although you’re careful to do so in a way that doesn’t insult him or his soldiers. “I am interested in what I can understand,” you reply hesitantly. “But some of it is lost on me.”

That seems to satisfy him. He smirks at you. “You don’t know much of war, do you?”

Bowing your head, you answer, “I suppose not.” You don’t suppose he knows either, despite what he says, but you keep your mouth shut.

“You will learn with time,” he says dismissively. “There is always some battle to be won.”

“So I have gathered.”

You’ve arrived at your shared bedchamber, Geta releasing his hold on you enter the room. Your steps falter when you realize that he’s lingering in the doorway behind you still.

“I must relay the news to Caracalla,” he says shortly, giving you a curt nod. “I will see you again at dinner.”

And with that, he’s gone.

You groan and fling yourself onto the bed, wishing you could forget all your troubles within the swaths of linens and soft down. It’s such a strange position to have been thrust in – it’s left you lonely, frightened, and frustrated. Emperor’s wife.

Hardly! There isn’t another soul on Earth who knows you less than your husband, it seems. The only time you truly have his attention is during your nightly couplings. But maybe that was all it took, to be considered husband and wife. So long as you eventually bore him a child – a son – it would be a successful pairing in the eyes of the empire.

Your fingers toy idly with the hem of the sheet, your cheek smashed against a pillow. Why did he even pick you in the first place? He could have anyone he wanted, and there was no shortage of beautiful women in Rome who have the proper societal standing. Why not marry somebody he’s actually interested in, with such a selection available?

Head swirling, your eyelids flutter shut. You have done nothing but ask yourself questions today, and really, there’s no point – especially not when the room is so warm and the light is so low, and the gentle breeze brushing past the curtains is caressing your face so sweetly.

Sleep comes and takes you.

~

Later, Geta, finally alone in his study, paces back and forth, wringing his pale hands.

Being brought news of another successful military campaign, of Roman armies pushing further and further into desired territories – by all means, he should be thrilled.

And he might have been, months ago, but it’s becoming harder and harder to ignore the growing unrest in the streets. The air has a permanent charge to it now, like the sharpness smelt before a storm. It’s difficult to celebrate a victory taking place another world away, when his own city is calling for his and his brother’s heads.

But what’s the solution? Blood, conquest, glory...are these not what make an empire? Shouldn’t the people be happy, knowing they’re part of the Roman juggernaut?

He has no answers. And there is no one he can ask.

What he can do is grin and bear it, and drown his anxiety in another cup of wine.

Geta breathes deeply to compose himself before he must be seen again. Stepping out of the room, past the guards, he makes way for the triclinium to dine. He expects that you’ll beat him there, but when he arrives, only Caracalla is waiting for him.

“Brother,” he greets him with a weak smile.

Caracalla grunts in acknowledgment but doesn’t quite meet his eyes, gaze lingering on the platters set out before them on the table. “Where is your wife?”

“I don’t know. I assumed she’d be here.”

Caracalla picks up a piece of bread, tearing it in half with his fingers. “You don’t mind if I begin without her present, do you?”

Geta sighs. “No, I suppose not.”

Caracalla raises his wine-filled chalice, smiling easily, gold tooth flashing. “To another victory then, brother.”

Geta half-heartedly raises his own cup, nodding in return. His brother would be pleased with the news he’d relayed to him earlier. There was no nuance to Caracalla’s perception of war – he just wanted more of it, all the time.

As they eat their meal, as he listens to Caracalla’s chatter, Geta’s worry slowly melts away. Why stress tonight? The music is sweet. The food is good. His brother is of reasonably sound mind. His wife – wherever she may be, that dreamy woman – is beautiful.

He downs the rest of his wine in one gulp.

~

You wake the next morning, twisting groggily in bed, eyes blinking open sleepily. You turn and mash your cheek into the pillow, and find your face inches away from Geta’s. It occurs to you that he never looks so peaceful as he does when he’s asleep – all of his anger and meanness melts away, revealing a sort of boyish charm that he rarely embodies in his waking hours. With his rounded nose, full lips slightly parted, and reddish hair tousled over his forehead, he could be a young prince.

He lets out a quiet snore, and doesn’t stir. He must have been drinking last night. Usually he’s up with the sun, anxious to be in his swinging capes and face paint.

You feel a pang of sympathy for him. For as much as he frightens you – even sickens you at times, with his greed and extravagance, and his continuous failure to understand the needs of his subjects – you’re not sure he could have turned out any other way.

Without thinking, you close the gap between the two of you by planting a small kiss on the tip of his nose.

Geta’s eyes drift open slowly, bloodshot from drink and sleep, and meet the otherworldly sight of his wife’s pretty face so close to his that they’re nearly touching. “Hello,” he rasps, startled, the word clicking in his throat.

“Good morning.” Your voice is soft, careful, measured. He, in turn, feels stupid and sluggish.

There’s a dull, pounding ache at the back of his skull. And if that’s not bad enough, yesterday’s events come flooding back, too – news of victory but also of unrest. Yet another riot needing to be squashed by the Praetorian guard. And what did he do about it, swishing around in his gold-plated armor, in the faux-military getup not so subtly inspired by one General Acacius?

He got drunk and went to bed.

Geta groans, letting his eyes flutter shut again. He resists the urge to pull the blanket over his head.

“Shall I fetch for some water?”

“Yes,” he mumbles, tongue feeling thick and sandy.

The water appears quickly – as things often do for the emperors – and he tilts his head forward as little as necessary to drink, not wanting to move a single inch in this state.

You’re glancing around the room, evidently lost in thought. He can’t fathom what goes on in your head, though he secretly supposes that it’s probably more interesting for you to think to yourself than to speak aloud to him. The education he received as a child was lacking, especially compared to that of previous emperors – a mortifying realization that came to him far too late in life.

He can’t bear the thought of his wife realizing he’s an idiot.

“I dined with Caracalla alone last night,” he blurts, remembering your conspicuous absence. It comes out harsh, accusatory, though he doesn’t mean for it to.

“I’m sorry. I meant to join you, but I fell asleep,” you admit, biting your lip uncertainly. But if your confession upsets him any further, it doesn’t show – he simply lets his head drop back onto the pillow, eyes sliding shut once again.

“You were tired?” he croaks.

“Yes.”

He sighs, and says no more. You look away, feeling awkward. Mornings are not typically cozy affairs for the two of you.

Geta sits up, yawning, and slips out of bed. His face hardens as he goes walks across the room, calling on the servants to help him dress – going through the motions, as he does every day. They come for you, too – one woman goes about setting your hair and you sit patiently, trying not to wince when she tugs too hard your locks.

The intricate hairstyles currently in vogue with Roman women are time-consuming, and Geta is painted and clothed before you, golden laurels resting against his crown once more. He rises to exit the room and in the doorway he hesitates, turning back to look at you as though there’s something he’d like to say. But he closes his half-open mouth with a snap, eyebrows furrowing, looking vexed, before turning away again.

Without another word, he leaves.

[abundance-of-fic-reblogs]

Worth Remembering - 18

Part 17 | Masterlist

Emperor Caracalla x fem!reader x emperor Geta - 18+

Summary: You find yourself widowed, pregnant and forced to chaperone your sister-in-law at the imperial court. At least mourning traditions keep you practically worlds away from Rome's twin emperors. That is, until an injustice calls you to the other side of the imperial seaside residence.

Includes: reader is a (very tired) pregnant widow; Caracalla has mommy issues (this is an understatement); reader has a name and I think a personality (?); historical inaccuracies, because I am writing this based on what I remember from secondary school Latin classes; undoubtedly spelling mistakes (sorry!!)

Series warnings: the twin emperors; non-con/dub-con; violence in various degrees; misogyny; slavery; pregnancy

Chapter warnings: I did not edit this at all sorry; indecent dreams; suspicions of poison; miscarriage

Word count: 5.4k

Pre-scriptum

Your swollen lips, soft and wet, taste like lemons; sweet and sour. As he deepens the kiss, you dig your fingertips into his shoulders. Your soft whimpers and his greedy moans are muffled by the kiss. When you open your legs for him, his heart hiccups. Desperate to feel you, he lets his hands wander to the inside of your thighs. Your skin is even softer here than he imagined.

‘Geta,’ you sigh against his mouth.

His cock twitches impatiently. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he assures, ‘I know, my love, I know what you need.’

���No, Geta, you do not.’

Suddenly you sound far away. Startled he backs away, you are on your feet, looking down on him. The sun is setting over your shoulder. At the horizon a storm is gathering. Your figure is clad in dark red robes, as if you are covered in blood.

‘Do you not feel even the slightest bit ashamed, brother?’

The haunting ghost of you dissolves and when he opens his eyes, he is immersed in the dark of his chambers. Sweat sticks to his body like a second skin. Panting he preps himself up on his elbows. It is not the first erotic dream he has had of you, but it is the first to leave him so disheveled. To end so imminently. Most often you are soft and sweet on him, inviting you to delight in your body. Not once did your dreamform reject him. Until now. Yet, his cock is still achingly hard. With an annoyed groan he lets himself fall once again onto the mattress.

‘Augustus,’ comes the meek voice of a slave girl, ‘perhaps some water?’

He could order her to deal with his erection. He could fuck her and be done with this. But for months now the thought of any other woman in his bed than you has been enough to cool his lust. Horrible as the dream was, it still is as close as he may ever get to you. So with a hand gesture he sends the slave girl off before she may ruin his appetite. Until he has won you, his hand and his imagination will have to do.

Marcus Acacius is bestowed a triumph, to take place on the Kalendae of April. Having led the Roman troops to an overwhelming victory in Numidia, the time has come to sanctify his successes. The event causes you quite a headache, as it is up to you as empress to see to it that the official seats are distributed accordingly. Given the Roman nobility have no lack of internal feuds, it is quite a hassle to assure that no enemies are seated next to each other.

Even then, your official duties pale against your matrimonial ones. To say Caracalla is anxious about the ordeal is an understatement. The day before the celebrations, he refuses to lay down in bed. Instead, he inspects the golden armor he is planning to wear obsessively, and fusses over what Dondus should wear.

‘What you need, is sleep.’ You turn to lie on your side and gaze at your husband, sitting in front of a heap of clothing on the floor.

He says over his shoulder, ‘I am not tired.’

‘Look at me, Caracalla.’

For a moment he remains frozen, then he turns to you. With a soft smile you say, ‘Come lie next to your wife, my sweet boy.’

He blinks, his fingers digging into the little blue tunica he is holding and then finally he lets it go. He allows a slave to take Dondus from his shoulder and approaches the bed. You sit on your knees to help him out of the heavy clothes and jewelry.

‘What worries you?’ you inquire.

‘No-nothing!’

You remove his rings, one by one, letting them fall to the ground. ‘I know you. You are fussing. Why?’

He is left now only in a simple white tunica. Without his luxurious robes and decadent jewelery, he looks quite like a normal man.

‘Acacius has come back victorious,’ he says as he finally climbs onto the bed.

‘Bless the Gods for this Roman victory.’

You lie down onto your back, but Caracalla does not mirror your movements. Instead he sits on his knees in the middle of the bed, fumbling with the sheets. ‘It has been three years since Geta and I had our victory in Caledonia.’

‘You fear he will overshadow you.’

‘Rome measures her leaders by their military successes.’

You frown. ‘Do you want to go to war, husband?’

‘I…’

‘Hm?’ You reach for his hand.

Encouraged by the touch he admits, ‘I do not like… the discomforts of campaigns.’

‘You do not like war,’ you correct. ‘That seems to me a perfectly reasonable thing to say.’

‘Eventually, Geta and I — we will have to. If not on our own accord, the borders, they are —’

‘Husband,’ you interject, ‘There is nothing wrong with trusting such business to your generals. If it is your image which worries you, then I should remind you, Rome does not measure her leaders only in the wars they fight. There is always the brilliancy which they build.’

Caracalla frowns. ‘What do you have in mind?’

‘If you wish to make a statement, you could have something built,’ you suggest. ‘Baths, for example, I heard the city is in dire need for new baths.’

He contemplates your words and for a moment you fear he is going to slip out of bed again. But then he lies down on his side, wraps an arm around you and pulls you close. He smells of lavender and mint, as only an hour ago you covered his skin with a balm to ease the ache of the acne. You settle into the familiar fragrance.

‘My brilliant wife,’ he mutters as his hand moves to your belly. ‘How is our child?’

‘Tired,’ you whisper.

You are still unsure how to feel about the child growing in your womb. You assumed that, since you already have birthed one child, your second pregnancy would be at least less daunting to you than your first. Yet, the opposite is true. The hopeful bliss you felt while being pregnant of Telesina is markedly absent. Instead, there is only anxiety. Perhaps it has to do with the father. Although you have decided to put aside your ire, this child has been conceived in a period of resent and anger and disgust. Even now you are unsure how you feel about Caracalla. At nights like this, when he comes to you all sweet and tender it is easy to imagine yourself loving him. Less so when he shares mischievous glances with his brother, or returns drunk and feverish from an orgy. Yes, you laid down your anger, but not because you believe the wrongs have been righted. Only because you cannot afford to wear yourself out by holding onto resentment. You have a child to raise. If all goes well, then in half a year there will be a second.

You do not think all will go well. You place your hand over Caracalla’s lying on your tummy, once again terrifyingly convinced that the life growing inside of you will never bloom. While your husband sinks into a deep slumber swiftly, you lie wide awake for hours.

The crowd’s clamor crashes into your head like stormy waves. Last time you heard anything like this, was when the emperors and you entered the city last August. This time the people of Rome are not chanting your and your daughter’s names, however, but that of their general returned once more victorious. It are the syllables Marcus Acacius which the crowd calls again and again, and it is the man bestowed this name now making his way up the stair to the palace. Little Telesina is writhing confusedly in your arms. There is an anxiety in her eyes: she does not quite like the people’s cheers and chants. Rocking her slightly you look at the little boys and girls throwing red flower leaves onto the stairs as the victorious general approaches.

Your husband is dressed in golden armor, and although he was giddy about today’s celebrations in the morrow, now he looks more composed than you ever saw him. Geta, too, has not spared the theatrics, having donned an impressive white cloak over his golden armor. For all the authority claim to hold, they put far too much effort in their looks. You yourself have chosen for the purple stola and palla Geta gifted you, and some golden jewels. The approving looks of the senators gathered to greet the general have not gone past you. It appears your choice of dress — the imperial color, but the restraint in your choices of gemstones — is to these men’s taste. At least one member of the imperial family who does not overindulge in luxuries.

As Acacius comes to a still before the emperors, proclaiming his victory theirs, his eyes glance at you. You want to smile at him reassuringly, but you cannot permit it. The relief you feel at your most powerful ally’s return is indescribable, but you cannot let it show. As far as Macrinus’s spies are concerned, you and Marcus Acacius are cordial acquaintances.

‘Crown him in laurels, brother,’ Caracalla answers to Acacius’s proclamations, and as Geta places the victor’s crown onto Acacius graying locks, the crowd erupts in an intimidating applause and clamor.

Quite distracted you follow the three of them into the palace’s courtyard. The senators flock behind you. One of them approaches you, inquiring after Telesina’s health. He tells you a bit about his granddaughter in turn, before apologizing for occupying your time and retreating. When you join your husband’s side the subject at hand is, apparently, the general’s wife.

‘Remember the privileges we have granted her?’ He moves his jaw agitatedly. ‘Where is she now to ignore such an occasion?’

You raise an eyebrow. Lucilla’s absence has been agreed upon before. Admittedly, her excuse that events like these are simply too much to bear for her at her age is unlikely another way to thwart the emperors’ plans to abuse her exalted image in their own advantage. Yet, there is no need to bring this up now. However, you are too distracted to intervene in the conversation, because for whatever reason Geta is demanding one of the Praetorians to hand him his sword. Telesina reaches out for Caracalla, but you hush her, and take her little hand into yours.

Before Acacius can defend his wife — like any husband should in such a situation — Geta returns. With the sword in hand.

‘There are victories yet to come. Persia.’ He places the sword onto Acacius’s shoulder. ‘India.’ Onto the other shoulder. ‘Both must be conquered.’

‘Rome has so many subjects,’ the general retorts. And you must commend the man, for he does not move even when Geta presses the sword’s blade so deep into Acacius’s neck that it draws blood. Without looking away from the emperor, the general decides, ‘She much feed them.’

‘They can eat war,’ Caracalla comes in all too eagerly.

You clench your jaw. And this is the same man who last evening expressed being afraid of having to go to war. Annoyed by the general’s refusal to cower and submit, Geta throws the sword into the impluvium. It has been quite some time since you saw the two of them behave so erratically. Acting as they are now, they may fit into a badly written farce but as emperors they are only proving themselves inadequate.

‘So you want Rome to starve. How wonderful,’ you interject coolly. Before one of them can recover from you having spoiled their fun, you tell the general, ‘I am happy to see you returned safely and victoriously, Acacius.’

‘Empress.’ The general bows his head and reaches for your hand, but you tell him, ‘There is no need for that, Marcus Acacius. I have my hands full, as you can see.’

‘The little Septimia Telesina Bassiana has grown a lot.’

It remains surreal to you to hear others refer to her with the nomen gentilicium Septimia. After all, she has the Herminus nose. From the corner of your eye you see Geta clenching his jaw. Yet, Caracalla, who has already forgotten his annoyance over Lucilla’s absence, adds full of pride, ‘And my dear mellitula is expecting again.’

‘I congratulate you both, then,’ the general offers.

‘Thank you, general,’ you answer cordially. ‘I hear people have flocked to the city to attend the games held in your name. I do hope you will enjoy them.’

‘I just told the emperors that I —’

‘Your triumphs will be celebrated as tribute to the greatness of the Roman people,’ Geta interrupts him.

‘And we will hear no more protests!’ Caracalla decides with a grin, as his brother makes the general kiss his hand.

So the general does not insist on these games the twins have organized into the smallest details. You can sympathize. You as well do not look forward to having to sit for hours on hand into the imperial box as to be a spectator to violence and death. Alas, the spilled blood pleases the gods and the Roman people. You will have to suffer it, if only for five days.

What follows now is a banquet. The emperors go on to show off their esteemed general to the senators and their wives, while you sit down with your ladies. Quintina is no longer part of your inner circle, but the twins made sure Juventia Florentina would take her place. Although you cannot deny the comfort you find in having an old friend so close by, you are aware she is only welcomed at court precisely because she knows you so well. Florentina has all but admitted that both Geta and Caracalla try to pry from her information on your life before you came to court. She has promised to not reveal anything of worth, but you are still anxious. You do not consider anything you have ever done particularly scandalous or revealing, yet gods know that any inconspicuous fact may become a whip in the hands of those twins.

Even with Florentina around, you lament Nona’s absence at this very moment. You have been seeing more of her since your biweekly lunches with the senators’ wives. As agreed, she only listens and take notes — a slave’s task — but afterwards, there is always a moment to check in on her. Things considering, she is doing as well as you could hope. Her husband has stored away his violence, on the emperors’ warning, yet now their marriage is only filled with resentment. With her silence Nona has not proven to be the easy ticket into your private life, and as the emperors insist on overlooking her noble birth she does not even give him access into the Patrician circles still out of Macrinus’s reach. Now he has also come to realize she may never bear his child.

‘I am his greatest disappointment,’ Nona told you once. And then that mischievous smile you missed so reappeared, ‘I relish in this fact.’

The only worth she has to him now is your attachment to her. Thus you are assured you will see her later this evening. To the emperors Macrinus will show off the gladiators planned to fight in the arena, and to you he will demonstrate the authority he sways over your dear sister.

‘Egnatia Agripinilla is here as well,’ Messalina whispers to you as she gives Telesina a bronze rattle in the form of an owl.

Excitedly your little girl shakes the toy, giggling over the tinkling sound of the pebbles moving inside of it.

That Agripinilla has not come to greet you yet is, to say the least, indecent. You are the female head of the household, overseeing her marriage to Geta. Even when they marry, you will still have authority over her due to age, experience, and well, your child. Children. You place a hand over your belly, but it is still to early to feel the new life inside you kick.

You do not prefer to view hierarchies within families, but yours is the imperial family. Agripinilla is only a girl, however, and raised by an ambitious senator of a father. It is little surprise she has decided that between you two as sisters-in-law should exist some sort of competition. There is little you can do now to make her realize time and energy cannot and should not be wasted on such frivolous internal feuds. Hopefully, when she is settled in matrimony, she will calm down. Though, if Geta insists on evading his marriage bed, you may as well never have a sisterly bond with the girl.

‘Don’t they make a striking couple,’ you say to your ladies, as Geta kisses his betrothed’s ringed hand.

The way Agripinilla moves betrays her good education. Every movement she makes seems calculated and well-considered. As she matures, elegance will settle in her body, you are sure of it. Dressed in a pretty pink tunica, simple golden jewelry adorning her taupe brown skin, and her black hair done to the latest court fashion, she easily becomes the center of the room’s attention. It is absurd Geta seems so disinterested in her.

‘She is quite thin,’ Iusta notes, ‘It makes you wonder whether she will manage to survive child birth.’

You do not even spare the lady a glance. ‘Do not comment on her body. She is still young, still growing.’

Reprimanded, your ladies take to discussing the private life of a senator who is trying to engage your husband in conversation on what seems to be urgent business. Telesina has taken to biting on the rattle instead of shaking it.

‘I think I will need to get you a teething ring or something,’ you tell her, as your rock her.

‘It is the time for her teeth to start coming,’ Florentina agrees. ‘Does she already have a protective amulet, the type with the pierced tooth?’

You shake your head. ‘Casta advised to place a horse tooth in her crib as soon as teething began, to help with the pain, but I fear she will put it in her mouth and… choke on it.’

‘Not an unreasonable fear,’ your friend assures. ‘An amulet over her crib will suffice, I assure you. Honestly, I do not understand all that talk about placing horse teeth, wolf teeth in the crib.’

‘I’ll buy one tomorrow, after the games.’

‘No, no, I still have one. I’ll get it blessed once more by a priest and bring it with me tomorrow.’

Telesina lets out an annoyed sound, apparently feeling quite uncomfortable.

‘Thank you, Florentina.’

That is when Agripinilla, having given up on drawing Geta’s attention, finally approaches you — as she should have done before turning to her betrothed. She is accompanied by her mother, who only goes by her nomen gentilium Cervonia. She is a lithe woman from whom Agripinilla must have inherited her regal brow.

While her mother makes a respectful bow, the girl speaks boldly, ‘Volusena Thurina, I hope an event of this scale isn’t too weary on you in your delicate state.’

Her mother at least has the decency to cringe at her lack of cordiality. You do not mind, however. In comparison to Macrinus’s slyness and net of spies, you prefer the outright animosity Agripinilla shows you. And admittedly, you find her boldness quite amusing. Her comments only betray how little she knows of carrying a child or the expectations which come with being an empress.

‘I am doing quite well, Egnatia, thank you. Will you sit with me for a while?’

‘I fear I have still have a lot of acquaintances to greet. You know how it goes.’

‘I must congratulate you on the decree, empress,’ Cervonia tries to distract you from her daughter’s lack of respect. ‘I know many young girls and mothers will be happy to see that marriages under the age of fourteen are so discouraged.’

‘Even if we regard the fact no girl can be a woman before fourteen, it is well-known a pregnancy so early in life would only limit a woman’s ability to have multiple children,’ you reiterate the reasonings you brought, through your husband, to the senate. ‘I would prefer to prohibit it, but I can make peace with the senate’s decision.’

Said decision was to force any man marrying such a young girl, to pay a “compensatory sum” to the state. The decree is the first tangible fruit of your meetings with senators’ wives. Of course, there have also been declarations on proper dress code and behavior, but those are meaningless in comparison to this achievement.

‘You are empress, are you not? Why do you not just prohibit what you believe to be foul behavior?’

You eye Egnatia Agripinilla with a scrutinizing gaze. Calmly you tell her, ‘You are a senator’s daughter, are you not? And a woman too. Then surely you have all tools available to answer your own question.’

‘Empress, please forgive my daughter —’

‘There is no need,’ you interrupt Cervonia. ‘We will be sisters soon. It is only natural that we should speak boldly and openly with each other.’

Egnatia Agripinilla turns to her mother with a sly smile. ‘I am only trying to get to know my future sister.’

Noticing Telesina tugging at your stola, you stand. ‘Will you be joining us in the imperial box tomorrow?’

At this for the first time a sort of panic arises in Agripinilla’s eyes, but it is Cervonia who speaks, ‘The emperor has not invited us.’

‘There must have been an oversight. I invite you, then. If you will excuse me, a certain little girl is hungry.’

You retreat into a small sitting room not to far from the festivities. Telesina is in quite the difficult mood all of a sudden. She is hungry, but does not settle in your arms. Then she drinks from you, then she pushes you away, then she cries because she is still hungry. It must be the teething. You will have to discuss with Caracalla how to handle tomorrow. With Telesina like this, you cannot sit in the Colloseum the whole day. Once she is finally done, you set her upright against her shoulder. She lets out a burp and then a bothered cry.

‘I know, I know, sweetness.’ Then to Nerulla you say, ‘She needs a teething ring.’

The girl sets to leave, but as she opens the door, there stands Marcus Acacius.

‘General, are you lost?’ you ask.

You gesture Nerulla away, and Acacius enters the room. With your handmaiden away on an errand, you are completely alone.

‘I admit, I am here on purpose,’ the general says. ‘Please, empress, you should sit.’

‘No, no, Telesina just ate, she likes it when I walk around with her after. But please, do you sit down. You must be weary from the war and that long journey back.’

Humbled the general sits down. For a moment he is silent, and you are very aware he is investigating you. It has been quite some time since you last spoke and back then, you were not even Caracalla’s betrothed.

‘I must admit, empress —’

‘Thurina,’ you interrupt. ‘Marcus, our correspondence has been the only thing soothing my worries over Rome. So call me Thurina.’

He bows his head. What an example of Roman piety he is. How he reminds you of another man — one you had to forget and evade, lest you were to remain faithful to Cato.

‘Thurina, then. I will speak freely, if I may.’

‘Of course.’

‘When the emperors spoke to me earlier today —’

‘When they played at dramatics, you mean.’

‘Well, yes.’

He does not dare to mimic your playful smile. You are empress and can thus afford to ridicule the emperors. A general cannot do the same.

‘When the emperor Geta spoke on the conquest of Persia and India, that was cause for worry. Your intervention, however, … I believe what I am trying to say so clumsily, is that I am relieved that when Rome is bestowed two such emperors, she is also blessed with an empress like you.’

‘Do not hold me in too much esteem, Acacius, there is only so much I can do.’

‘What you can do, you do well.’

‘Perhaps in light of that, you must know, that… the talk of Persia and India will remain only that. Talk. I believe it is the company of sycophants such as Macrinus and that other one, Thraex, which makes the emperors… act up, if you will.’

‘I am unsure,’ he admits.

‘I am sure,’ you retort. ‘Macrinus wants to be emperor. And for that to happen, the current ones must prove incapable. He is trying to make them into his fools, Acacius, and I will not stand to see it.’

‘The gladiator master has indeed become a problem,’ Acacius admits.

‘My officers have noted as well, how he bribes important figures in the military. He is trying to get the Praetorian guard to his side.’

You hold Telesina a bit tighter, imagining what would happen to her if the guard decided to crown that man and his ambition.

‘This must be dealt with before the games end,’ you decide. ‘We have quite some people willing to testify, do we not? And that letter, the one sent to bribe the senator Rutilius?’

Acacius lowers his head in admittance. ‘It may not be enough to convince the emperors. But through senator Gracchus we have found someone willing to testify on a matter which just may sway the emperors to see beyond the smoke into the light of truth.’

‘Who?’

‘One of the men Macrinus sent to… to kill your parents-in-law.’ You stop rocking Telesina, your whole body becoming completely still.

‘What…’ You do not manage to speak. After all these months of investigating, you failed to gain any clearer sense on the matter.

‘He has recently become a Christian, and apparently his new faith has urged him to seek forgiveness for his sins.’ Acacius stands, but still keeps his distance. ‘This man testifies that it were Macrinus’s men who took your child all those months back. To scare you and the emperor. He had Nona’s parents blamed, because he already planned to marry her and with her parents dead, their immense wealth would go to through her to him.’

‘Oh gods, how I hate that man.’

An uneasy feeling settles in the pit of your stomach.

‘There is also… also the testimony of my wife.’

‘Acacius, I would not presume… I know that whatever she did was for her son. She does not need to be involved.’

‘No, she insists. Lucilla guessed Macrinus was behind it from the beginning, and struck a deal: she would confirm his story on the kidnapping, if he were to speak in favor for her son.’ Acacius folds his hands behind his back, standing straight. ‘But now she suspects Macrinus will have Lucius killed soon on Pandataria. The man’s ambitions know no bounds.’

‘If only all these testimonies did not come from the people the emperors believe to be their enemies. Lucilla, Gracchus, you,’ you lament.

‘The Christian, the letter, and the minor witnesses must balance that out. And you, Thurina, they trust —’

Suddenly a sharp pain pierces through your womb and black spots blurry your vision. Wide-eyed, you let out a shriek and stumble back. If it were not for Marcus Acacius’s dexterity, you would have fallen onto the floor — and little Telesina with you.

‘Empress —’

‘Take my baby, call a doctor,’ you groan through the pain.

He does as you ask him to, and as soon as Telesina is out of your arms and safely in the general’s embrace, you allow yourself to sink on the floor to curl into yourself. You are vaguely aware of Telesina’s crying disappearing in the distance, the fuss around you — slave women rushing to your side, Praetorians flowing into the room — but all you can feel is the burning inside your belly. And the slickness pooling between your legs. When finally Caracalla sinks down on his knees beside you, you look at him in tears, ‘I lost it.’

Post-scriptum

Dondus is chirping incessantly as he ruffles through Caracalla’s hair. As soon as the little monkey saw his keeper in this state, eyes red from crying, rocking little Telesina’s crib, he set to trying to soothe his master. And it worked. The only thing now keeping Caracalla’s tears at bay, is Dondus’s familiar sounds and touches.

‘I put them in danger again,’ Caracalla murmurs. ‘It is my fault, Dondus, I am… I am pathetic.’

It all happened so suddenly. One moment he was drowning himself in wine, the next Marcus Acacius called for a doctor to be brought to the empress.

To you, his sweet mellitula.

You lost the child. And from there all began to spiral. As you were laid a bed, stola sticking to your legs due to all the blood all of a sudden there was theorizing on the cause. It could be your own body failing its duties, you admitted, but it was your sister, having somehow made her way into your rooms, who spoke the word poison. And yes, that is why you called for the doctor. So that Telesina would be examined, because you had only just fed her. From that point on Caracalla failed to think straight. To think at all. As the doctor forced your poor little girl to throw up, a crowd gathered in the bedroom. Not just your sister, but your freedman, Marcus Acacius, Lucilla.

The attention turned from your weakened body to a set of letters, a group of slave witnesses and a Christian spilling a horrific story on Telesina’s abduction. Lucilla admitted to lies, in favor of her son, and a net of spies spanning his whole household was revealed. The prefect of the guard was contemplating taking a bribe. The span of the conspiracy was terrifying. As was the depth of it. Nona insisted that the miscarriage was the result of her husband’s scheming. But your own handmaiden, who admitted that since the very moment Caelius bought her into the household she had been tasked with spying on the empress, vowed to have no knowledge of a poisoning. She was sent off to be crucified nonetheless.

Whatever the cause of you miscarriage was, it has become undeniable that Oppelius Macrinus has betrayed the empire. Him. The gladiator master, imagining himself invincible, had set his mind on usurping Caracalla and Geta. But the only reason why he got so close to his goals, was because the twins themselves had been so easily manipulated. Blinded by his fatherly guise, his flattering, his amusements the twins had allowed a viper to live and thrive in their household for months.

And it has cost Caracalla his unborn child.

At least his little Bassiana is sleeping soundly. If she indeed through your milk was poisoned, then the doctors intervention had come in time. The baby shows no signs of discomfort or illness whatsoever. Yet, Caracalla dares not leave her side. He will rock this crib all night. He knows you would do so, but you are too tired and weak.

He does not hear his brother come in. Yet, when a shadow falls over him, Caracalla immediately recognizes Geta’s presence.

‘Tomorrow, Macrinus will fight to the death with his own gladiators,’ Geta decides.

‘No,’ Caracalla murmurs. ‘Have him crucified with the others. In the arena, he will only find glory in death.’

‘As you wish, brother.’

With crossed arms Geta leans over the crib.

‘I am sorry, Caracalla,’ he whispers as his gaze is on little Bassiana, fast asleep. ‘For your child. But, the doctors assessed that there are no reasons to suspect Thurina has… She is still fertile. There will be children.’

‘I put her through that.’ He looks up at his brother. ‘I am a wretched husband.’

A moment of silence and then Geta decides, ‘You are.’

Even though Caracalla accused himself, Geta’s agreement only adds salt to the wound. Dondus jumps from Caracalla’s shoulder onto his lap, and Caracalla cannot help a smile.

In a hoarse voice Caracalla remarks, ‘You are only cruel to me, because you still want to lie with her. And I cannot fault you for that, so I forgive you, brother.’

‘You should join your wife in bed.’

‘No, she worries over Bassiana. So I am right where I should be.’

‘Then perhaps I should join her,’ Geta considers aloud.

Caracalla scoffs. ‘She would scratch your eyes out.’

‘Likely.’

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I think prompt 1 with Geta could either be funny lol or honestly terrifying

[Commonly said Phrases in Writing Ask Game]

A/N: I decided to go for angst lol

Prompt #1: "I forbid you." "You forbid me from-?"

Word Count: 533 (It's a drabble, just barely.)

In the confines of your chambers, you had always felt the safest. In there, you could be yourself without the scrutiny of the empire and the senators. In there, you were just a woman—woman who deeply loved her husband.

You loved your husband and the empire he ruled. Yet, a pressing matter hung in your head preventing you from the restful sleep you deeply desired—your father.

Earlier in the day you had been sent word from one of your parent's messengers that declared that he was on his deathbed. The messenger said that your mother was beside herself and that she needed comfort. You were an only child and knew that once your father had passed she would be alone. You wished to take your mother in and to be there to witness your father's last moments.

But there was a problem. Your husband. Geta did not let you out of his sight since you had married. The most you'd gone without seeing him was twelve hours. Even then, you were being watched by the praetorians. You weren't confident if he had trusted you.

Nevertheless, you knew you had to at least try to reason with him. Could he truly be so heartless as for you not to see your father before his passing? And let your mother live in the palace?

Boldly, you decided to wake him up. You figured that if you did not do it now you never would gain the nerve to do it once again. He was slow to wake up but once he was up his brown eyes glared into yours. If you hadn't been married for almost a year you would have been scared but there was little he could do to terrify you.

"Husband. I need to ask a favor." You whispered, calmly. Geta grunted and rolled onto his side away from you. He then muttered.

"If it was of importance you would have said it by now." You wanted to scoff at him but knew better than to do that.

"I'm going to see my parents."

He sat up abruptly and quickly lit a candle. Geta then turned toward you and snarled.

"You belong to me, wife. You do not decide such things."

You sighed and looked down at your hands and felt some tears form. "Husband… my father is on his death bed. I wish to be with him for his final days."

"I forbid you." You had expected him to say something like that but it was how quickly he had said it that truly stung. It had rubbed you the wrong way. You had snapped.

"You forbid me from seeing my father?! A man who has served Rome since his birth! A man who has been nothing but loyal to you when those who were not?!"

"Yes. No go to sleep before I do something rash." With that, he snuffed out the candle and went back to sleep. You lay there watching him for hours. It wasn't until you were certain that he was in a deep slumber that you decided to make your break for it. You were going to see your parents, whether your husband liked it or not.

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Thinking about Geta being confused about what to do with a noblewoman. He’s so used to treating the women he associates himself with like whores or servants that when a noblewoman is in his presence he doesn’t know what to do.

The senate laughs at him and he’s annoyed by this but because he wants the noblewoman — you to like him he’s actually trying to be nice and considerate.

The fact that he has to be gentle makes him so annoyed but because you’re so beautiful he realizes that if he wants you to be his empress he has to let his guard down and be somewhat vulnerable around you.

Caracalla mocks him and calls him soft which Geta decides to send someone to put a snake in his chambers due to his mocking attitude. He may be trying to be nice but Geta’s wicked nature will always outweigh these ambitions.

What surprises Geta most is that he somewhat enjoys being nice to you and how you comfort him when he is stressed. Truthfully falling for you was a blessing from the gods since it had made him feel more alive than ever before. As well as making his life feel more stable.

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Worth Remembering - 17

Part 16 | Masterlist

Emperor Caracalla x fem!reader x emperor Geta - 18+

Summary: You find yourself widowed, pregnant and forced to chaperone your sister-in-law at the imperial court. At least mourning traditions keep you practically worlds away from Rome's twin emperors. That is, until an injustice calls you to the other side of the imperial seaside residence.

Includes: reader is a (very tired) pregnant widow; Caracalla has mommy issues (this is an understatement); reader has a name and I think a personality (?); historical inaccuracies, because I am writing this based on what I remember from secondary school Latin classes; undoubtedly spelling mistakes (sorry!!)

Series warnings: the twin emperors; non-con/dub-con; violence in various degrees; misogyny; slavery; pregnancy

Chapter warnings: talks of pregnancy, Geta and Caracalla are so ???, mentions of marriage, dentistry

Pre-scriptum

The distance between Geta and you appears uncrossable. Yet you are sitting right beside him, so close he could just reach out and touch you. The visit from the delegate of the Armenian kingdom quickly turned into something quite debauched. Although the sun is still warm and soft in the late afternoon sky, wine is flowing richly, the music has taken on a thrilling rhythm, and nobles — Romans and Armenians alike — have joined the dancing troupe in the most unbecoming movements. The only respectability which remains of the composed decorum that marked the morning audience and the renegotiation of Armenia’s economic ties with Rome, is you.

Clad in the purple stola and palla Geta gifted you on your wedding day, you sit almost motionless next to him. You have not uttered a word all day, and no matter what he says, you do not speak. Caracalla has been suffering quite the same treatment. You may feed your husband spoonfuls of the delicate dishes at dinner or you may adjust his garments if they loosened during a feast, but all you did for him you did only at his insistence and in cold silence. Where you used to treat your husband with a certain tenderness, there is now a void. And at this feast, too, you have shown more attention to his brother’s stupid monkey than either of the emperors.

Dondus sits nervously on your shoulder. Now and then you feed him a grape, scratch his little head. From your empty eyes Geta moves his attention to his brother, who stands dancing on a table with the young prince Tiridates. The two, apparently, have a shared taste for the carnivalesque. At first, Geta tried to reign Caracalla in, for this is not how a Roman emperor should behave, let alone when in the company of a vassal delegation. However, there appears to exist a meeting of souls between the emperor and prince, which might be beneficial in the future. Hence, Geta has let the afternoon derail. That Caracalla being distracted elsewhere leaves an empty space next to you, begging to be filled, is just a pleasant side-effect.

If only you would talk to Geta. Ever since Caracalla thwarted their plans two weeks past, you have been even colder than winter itself. Admittedly, it is Geta’s own fault — he should not have trusted his brother to begin with. Yet, his offer had been to sweet to simply ignore. Now he is paying the price for his impatience: your silence. That your resentment of him has another source, is difficult to grapple with. Nona had become tiresome at court. He feels little regret over how he handled her, yet thinking back to it now puts him at unease. Separating you and Nona had seemed all the more beneficial to him, for Nona would only blacken his name at your address for sure. Never had he anticipated you resenting him so over her union with Macrinus. Be it as it may, Nona had to marry sooner or later: not even you can deny that, so at one point you will have to forgive him. Macrinus is no worse than most husbands. Swallowing down the remainder in his cup of wine, Geta tries again to get you to at least look at him.

‘Sister, you have not drunk anything all afternoon.’

You gesture for a slave girl, but once there is a cup of wine in your hands, you only take a small sip of it. His jaw tightens.

‘You cannot continue to evade conversation with me forever. You are my sister, we share a —’

‘Quintina, I heard your daughter has been widowed recently.’

So now you do not simply remain silent, but openly prefer conversation with that old hag you have for whatever reason promoted to one of your chosen ladies. The older woman, standing by your sider, bows her head just a bit, and confirms, ‘Her husband took an arrow to the heart in Numidia.’

‘I am sorry to hear it.’ You look at the lady over your shoulder. ‘Do please offer her my condolences. Her grief must be immense. I know that I still miss my dear Cato.’

There is no use in being jealous over a dead man, let alone one who for all his time with you failed to see what preciousness he held in his hands. Yet, Geta’s body reacts to your words: his fingers dig into his knees, his shoulders tense up, and a scowl settles on his face. One night is all he needs; one night and you will forget all about that dead husband of yours. And perhaps you will finally realize how lacking your living one is.

A high shriek, the kind only Caracalla can manage, resounds through the party’s clamor and before Geta knows it, he is on his feet. Alas, he is too late, for he has barely come into motion, or there goes tumbling his brother’s small body — down from the table, face down onto the cold, marble floors. The music comes to a creaking halt, the nobles’ voices die down, until only one unwelcome strangely pitched laugh echoes through the room. Praetorians have already seized the Armenian delegate to blame for the emperor’s unfortunate fall. Prince Tiridates gets down from the table in his own clumsy manner. Geta has no eye for any of it: all his attention is on Caracalla, who lies groaning and cursing and laughing on the floor. He fell face straight onto the ground, but managed to turn onto his back by himself. Getting down on his knees beside him, Geta measures the damage. A bloody nose, blood from his mouth and —

‘You should see your face, Geta!’ Caracalla shrieks, but his laughter soon seeps into coughing.

‘You should see yours,’ Geta retorts dryly, ordering the slaves to start cleaning up the mess with a mere motion of his hand.

Yet, just as Geta is about the stand up, a shadow falls over him, rendering him motionless. For a moment he is not here, but somewhere else, some time else. He is smaller, and younger, and ready to take the blame. To take the pain. But then the shadow bends and he is here again, he realizes it is just you, reaching down to pick up the thing missing from his brother’s mouth.

‘Mellitula,’ Caracalla preps himself up on his elbows, ‘mellitula, I want a kiss.’

‘You lost a tooth, husband.’

Without a bother you let the lost piece of bone fall onto Caracalla’s belly and turn away, your ladies hurrying to follow you outside.

Caracalla picks up the tooth, and looks at it with a bothered frown.

‘Come on, little girl, are you just going to sit there?’ you ask from the other edge of the carpet.

Telesina lets out a confused sound and once again preps herself up on her hands. She is trying so hard to crawl. Spending time with the older children at court, those able to crawl or even walk, has motivated her a lot. Yet she still has not succeeded. With how she has been writhing yesterday, however, and her new found ability to support herself on her knees and little hands for just a moment it is only a matter of time before she will be able to come to you.

‘Oh, look at you!’ you coo. ‘Come here then, come to mama.’

She lets out an enthusiastic babble, tries to move her hand forward, but then slips right back onto her belly. A look appears on her little face indicating that she will start to cry, yet you are quick to say, ‘Wow, you almost did it, Telesina!’

The sheer pride in your voice, even if it is extremely exaggerated, somehow confuses your daughter enough into preventing her from crying. You cross the carpet yourself on hands and knees, and pick up your daughter in your arms. Just as you give her a peck on her little nose, the doors open and in comes Nerulla. Carefully you stand up and force your face into a void expression once more. You have dismissed your ladies and slaves for the afternoon, preferring a moment of peace, so the spying slave girl’s interference is quite unwelcome.

‘Empress, forgive me for disturbing you, but the lady Juventia Florentina requests an audience.’

A tension stretches through your whole body. Not writing your old friend has been a conscious choice. You do not wish her to experience how wretched life at court is. Yet, here she is, of her own accord or that of another. Whatever it may be, you are unable to shake the feeling that this visit is no mere coincidence.

‘Bring her in.’

You pick up Telesina’s favorite plush toy and then sit down with her on a settee.

Juventia Florentina comes in, followed by two Praetorians and a horde of your slaves. The lady is clad in a sky blue stola, her ink black hair braided and curled in the latest fashion. She is as you remember her: quite short, yet with a shimmer in her dark eyes, and that little dark birth mark on her nose. Only the lines in her face betray her having grown older, and perhaps the tired bleak shine of her copper brown skin. Your old friend bows deep. ‘Good afternoon, empress. I am grateful for your time.’

Something in you urges you on to welcome her as if nothing has changed over time. But you cannot. You did not invite her for a reason. Someone has been scheming.

‘Please rise, Florentina. It has been a long time.’

‘It has been to long.’ She smiles at your little Telesina biting on the ear of her cat plush. ‘Is this Bassiana, Rome’s little joy? How cute she is, milady. And her nose, that is quite the Herminus nose if I ever saw one.’

You take Florentina in as she stands there. If you wish it, you can have her sent away far from here. It would be better for her. However, you cannot quite estimate the situation. Perhaps it is she herself who is seeking out court, not for you, but to gain something new. In your opinion, Florentina is not the type to come preying for the emperor’s hand in marriage, but are you really certain she would not? Even then, sending her away so quickly and coldly seems too cruel. She is your old friend with whom you spent many a lazy afternoon giggling and gossiping and sleepless night exchanging secrets and dreams. You have seen her children grow up, as your belly remained empty. So you gesture her to take a seat next to you, and urge a slave to give her a cup of wine and offer her some small bite to fill her stomach with.

For the next half hour you try to catch up on three years of separation. You hear of her daughters’ engagements, her sons’ beginning careers in the army and bureaucracy, and her husband squandering their fortune all too hastily. She still speaks with the same eloquence, still walks with the same grace, yet there is something quite different about her which you cannot quite pinpoint.

‘I was so sorry to hear of Cato’s death,’ she says at some point.

Unsure of what to say, you take her hand and squeeze it. Then your friend adds, ‘When I heard of your engagement to the emperor Caracalla, I at first considered there was another woman in the empire by the name of Volusena Thurina.’

You offer her a soft smile, ‘It was as unexpected to me.’

‘Yet, if I may be so bold, it surely must be easier to convince this man to lie with you than it was to persuade your late husband.’

‘Caracalla needs little convincing.’ Telesina grows restless in your lap so you help her again on the soft carpet, so she can play with a set of wooden blocks.

‘So I hear.’

Something in her tone irks you. Straightening your back, you inquire,

‘And did you hear something else as well?’

Florentina lowers her gaze and you purse your lips in dismay.

‘Dear friend, if there is something you wish to say, speak.’

‘It is just…’ She swallows and faces your again. ‘There is talk in the city of the empress being displeased with her husband. And her brother-in-law.’

This strikes you. Usually a woman’s moods go unnoticed.

‘Is there also talk of why she is displeased?’

‘Because her husband lives licentiously and her brother-in-law is trying to fill his absences.’

You suppose this is what you get when you live in the center of the world. When all eyes are on you constantly. When you are tied to one of Rome’s two suns.

‘Why have you come to me, Florentina?’ you ask.

‘A scheme of my husband, and his aunt,’ she answers truthfully. ‘They wish for you to recommend me to emperor Geta. A divorce would come with a repayment for my current husband, and he is in dire need of it.’

‘That aunt is Quintina?’

‘If I am not mistaken, she is one of your ladies?’

You scoff. ‘She was one of my ladies.’

You have barely spoken the words, or the doors open and in walks the target of the scheme. Geta has been visiting you consistently everyday. Knowing his daily schedule, you make sure to not be alone at the moments he visits. Today he has come to you at an unusual hour, however, and if your old friend had not shown up unexpectedly he would have found you alone — as so obviously was his intention. His annoyed disappointment is evident from his clenched jaw. Whereas at first you were only slightly vexed by him pursuing you, by now his behavior disgusts you. Somehow you are more angry at him than at Caracalla for that nauseating agreement they made. Caracalla is a vile creature, you have always known that, but Geta had seemed a bit more decent. Gods, to think there is already talk of him trying to get you in his bed all through the city.

If only he were to marry. Admittedly, for a day or two you reconsidered seeing him married. After all, any woman bound to him in matrimony would suffer a cruel fate. Perhaps the twins would also expect and try to share that woman, perhaps they would subject her to even a greater form of humiliation. Yet, you see no other way to at least temper him. That Rome is already gossiping about his infatuation with you, is only an additional reason to see him settled. Geta, however, refuses to be reasonable. Every woman you have offered him up till now, he has rejected, no matter how pretty or funny or seductive. At most he takes them for a stroll through the gardens, to there fully and completely denigrate and humiliate them. It has become so bad, that there are barely any women left who come to answer your call for applications. Although you suspect Macrinus is only biding his time before offering the emperor a lady of his choosing.

Florentina stands and bows deep for her emperor, but you only slightly lower your head. Geta seems to have returned from official business, for his purple toga speaks of the authority required to settle affairs. You immediately gesture for the slaves, and they hurry forth a chair and a cup of wine.

‘It would seem that I have interrupted something, sister.’

‘This is my old friend Juventia Florentina, Augustus. We were only catching up.’

He slides his tongue along his upper teeth and leans back in the chair.

‘Is she the next one on your list of women you want to throw at me?’

‘As I am sure you have noticed from her veil, Juventia Florentina is already married.’

‘There is always divorce,’ he notes.

‘Married quite happily, brother.’

Yet his proud smirk does not falter, and you suffer him as he so obviously takes in Florentina’s form.

‘She is quite old. Can she still bear children? You should really consider such things before presenting one to me.’

‘If you are so eager to get married, brother, than I will invite the lady next on my list tomorrow morning so you can discuss the upcoming nuptials with her,’ you snap.

Geta laughs heartedly and you clench your jaw. It is the first time you have reprimanded him so sharply. Ever since discovering the agreement between your husband and brother-in-law, you have done your utmost best to remain ice cold. And now you have given him what he so eagerly has waited for all these weeks: a glimpse behind the mask.

‘By all means, send her to me. I must admit, I quite enjoy crushing their spirits.’ Before you can point out how pathetic that is, he asks Florentina, ‘So you have known my dear Thurina a long time, Florentina?’

‘Since she was a girl only just living in the city, my emperor.’

‘I suppose you never thought then you met the future empress of Rome.’

‘I would have never dared to suppose that.’ Florentina’s furrowed brow betrays her confusion over Geta’s inquiries. ‘Yet I have always known Thurina to be the example for those ladies around her.’

‘Even as she remained childless by her cock worshiping husband?’

At this you reach down to pick up Telesina, telling your brother-in-law, ‘Florentina and I are going to visit the temple of Venus Erycina.’

You only hope the annoyance and outright hurt over his cruel words and the blatant embarrassment in front of your friend have left no trace in your tone of voice. Florentina stands with you, keeping silent. Telesina is babbling impatiently. Apparently she is in no mood to be carried.

‘So you can pray for —’

You interrupt him before he can make another insult, ‘The blessing of another child, perhaps a future emperor of Rome? Exactly.’

Geta does not let you leave before he has kissed your hand and Telesina’s cheek. To Florentina he says, ‘Do stay over for dinner, milady.’

As you and Florentina hurry through Palatine Hill’s hallways, followed by a set of Praetorians, you tell her, ‘Please consider carefully whether you want to marry that fiend.’

Only out of duty you allow Caracalla to squeeze your hand so tightly it becomes painful to you. Half the court has gathered in the throne room to see the dentist perform his art. An emperor of Rome cannot walk around with a gap in his line of teeth, so at this very moment a golden replica is being inserted. The dentist made your husband drink a sort of soothing concoction so he would not feel the pain all too vividly, yet still he is holding your hand in an iron grip and groaning through his throat. At one point you even notice him kicking his feet at the dentist.

Silently you watch at the whispering courtiers, at your husband’s harem of male and female concubines, at the slave boy holding Dondus, and at Macrinus holding the hand of his dear wife. It is the first time in a month you have seen Nona, and that you cannot just walk up to her and hold her pains you so.

‘Please, emperor, hold still,’ the dentist begs for the umpteenth time. You suppose the gurgle leaving Caracalla’s throat is his attempt at uttering some insult. Annoyed with the whole ordeal, you speak up,

‘Husband, don’t be such a brat. Sit still and let the dentist do his work.’

Even now you still hold such sway over him. Looking up at you through the tears gathered in his blue eyes, he finally becomes motionless in the chair. Another five minutes and the dentist leans back, allowing Caracalla to close his mouth. You are relieved to feel Caracalla’s grip leave your hand, so he can rinse his mouth with a cup of citrus water.

‘Please refrain from hard and sticky fruits for the coming five days, Augustus, so the replacement may settle.’

Caracalla waves the dentist away, stands and shows the court a bright smile. The golden tooth catches the morning light. ‘Is this not more fashionable either way?’

The crowd applauds and cheers amiably. Caracalla wraps an arm around your waist and whispers in your ear, ‘I would say I am even more handsome now.’

You raise an eyebrow. ‘Of course you would say that.’

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. You have noticed that more often lately: how he has lost all sense of how to treat you, respond to you. Since day one you tried to appease him, be sweet to him in the hopes he would be sweet to you. Disappointment and anger had made you distant and cold, even if you still perform your matrimonial duties with the same diligence. You never refuse your husband anything, yet all your tasks you perform with lukewarm conformity. You hold his hand, but do not smile. You share his bed, but remain still under his touch. Hopefully, only a little bit longer and he will grow tired of you.

Suddenly an uneasiness settles in your stomach and you clench your jaw. Caracalla notices the change in your expression — finally something more than an empty gaze — and he asks, ‘What is wrong, wife?’

‘Give me permission to leave.’

He bites his lip and ever sweetly asks, ‘Whatever for?’

‘Because otherwise I will vomit all over your new sandals,’ you hiss in his ear.

Ultimately, you do not wait for his permission, but simply storm right past Macrinus and Nona into the hallway. You find a decorative vase and under the confused gaze of a slave girl you empty the contents of your stomach in it. Only when you lean back, your hand covering your mouth, do you realize your usual set of Praetorians have hurriedly followed you here. You motion the slave girl to take away the vase and accept one of the Praetorian’s offer of a napkin to wipe your mouth.

‘Empress, perhaps you should —’ Varus speaks up, but he gets interrupted by Caracalla’s voice.

‘Have a doctor be brought in.’

The tenderness with which Caracalla wraps his arm around the small of your back, places another hand on your shoulder almost makes you melt. It is not easy to be angry all the time.

‘I am fine,’ you say as Caracalla begins to lead you in the general direction of your shared apartments.

‘Of course you are,’ he cooes in your ear.

You could make him speechless quite easily, because you have quite a good idea of what just happened. Yet, the news would only elate him and you rather not give him another reason to be happy with your marriage.

‘We’ll get you settled all comfortable and warm in your bed. I’ll bring Telesina and we’ll wait for the doctor together.’ He sounds quite enthusiastic about it, but for you it all has the ring of torment to it. ‘Perhaps it were those snails you ate yesterday evening, or —’

His voice falters as your step does. You have caught quite a concerning sight in the peristyle’s courtyard: Geta and Juventia Florentina are walking together — and your old friend does not appear to be uncomfortable at all. Caracalla hums, ‘It appears you managed to find my brother a wife.’

Of course he would go for the one woman you refuse to offer him.

‘I think… I am going to vomit again.’

This time you do so onto Caracalla’s new sandals. At least your husband’s horrified shrieks manage to put a smile onto your face.

As expected, the male doctor does not draw the most logical conclusion from your symptoms. He advises against eating anymore buttered snails, and makes you drink a vile concoction that almost prompts you to vomit again. As far as you are concerned, you very well can go on about your day as usual, but Caracalla has both of you confined to your rooms. At least Telesina is allowed to stay with the two of you as well.

Admittedly, seeing Caracalla play with your little girl makes you all gooey on the inside. How long have you prayed to be allowed a pleasure so simple as seeing your husband make merry with your child? Yet, this dream has become tainted. Caracalla never was the sort of man you imagined to be bind to in matrimonial oath, and every primal connection you have to Telesina is jeopardized by the emperor’s desire for his very own little Bassiana. Seeing Caracalla and Telesina building towers out of wooden blocks together, makes you teary-eyed with confusion.

And to think that when Dondus is finally brought in to join the playtime as well, the monkey is dressed in the same pink sort of tunica as your daughter. Matching outfits for the monkey and the baby girl. After all, under the emperor’s gaze everyone is a mere pet.

By midday you breastfeed your little girl, while laying on the lush bed in your husband’s arms. With every sweet nothing Caracalla whispers in your ear, you feel further estranged from yourself. You suppose you must be happy to have such a doting husband, but how can you be when he is the same husband that almost every night retreats to his concubines and sends his brother to your company in his stead? The same husband who, and this thought does not leave your mind for a moment, killed his first wife? It must be a wicked desire for self-destruction which makes you speak, ‘You never spoke a word to me about the woman who came before me.’

‘What?’

‘Fulvia Plautilla’ you say. ‘You had her beheaded.’

‘She… she was a traitor to Rome.’

The words come out all brittle. Telesina has had her fill, so you prep her up against your shoulder. Caracalla only hesitates a moment before clipping your stola back in place with the loosened fibula.

‘In what way? In the way that her father schemed against you and so she must have been complicit?’

‘I do not wish to talk about this, wife.’

‘I know you do not.’ You turn over your shoulder to meet his gaze, but he keeps his eyes averted. ‘But I need you to know, that lately I have been thinking about her. Did you attempt to share her with Geta as well?’

‘Geta had little interest in her, as did I,’ he is quick to say. ‘She was… the marriage was political.’

‘As was her death?’

He grows restless against you. Even as he does not attempt to move you away, you can feel his body tense, his hands digging into your thighs.

‘She was not a good wife. Not like you. She did not make me happy.’

Telesina lets out a burp, and a soft giggle escapes Caracalla. Then in a strange tone of voice he adds, ‘My son died.’

You let the silence linger a bit longer and then assert softly, ‘I know.’

‘I was grief-struck…’

Your blood runs ice cold. ‘So will you kill me too if our child would die in my womb, or sooner or later after birth?’

‘N-no!’

‘I have told you multiple times that childbearing is no simple affair.’ You sit onto your knees and move your body so you can finally face him. ‘I may miscarry, the child may be stillborn, the child may die in the first months. There is no guarantee even that…’

Your voice lingers but Caracalla’s gaze settles on what you are looking at as well: the baby girl in your arms.

‘Don’t… don’t say that!’

‘I have to say it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I am pregnant,’ you retort.

His lips part and for a mere moment he stares at you wide-eyed, in pure wonder. Then a strange laugh burst from him and he reaches for you. The kiss is messy and wet and comes at an end when Telesina pushes against Caracalla’s head in confusion.

‘At least I think so,’ you add as soon as he has backed away. ‘My period is late. I was sick like this when… You understand.’

‘I do!’ he giggles and he leans down to bury his head against your belly. ‘My little heir is on the way!’

‘It is not that simple!’ you chastise him.

‘But it is! It is.’ He sits back up and takes Telesina from you. ‘You will get a little brother. And, and… Mellitula, I need you to, to — you know I love you. I love you even when you are cross with me.’

‘So you have noticed that,’ you mutter.

‘It is difficult not to notice.’ He presses a kiss on your cheek and then to your daughter he adds, ‘Your mother has been cross with me, little Bassiana, for weeks now, because I behaved badly.’ Caracalla gets of the bed, walking around with your little girl all eagerly. ‘But I still love her, I will never stop loving her! And she will forgive me, and then, then she will love me again and — I am sure, she will forgive me and soon! We have it all planned out, you’ll see, little one, you’ll see. By the time your brother is here, she’ll love me again.’

You sit a bit straighter on the bed and demand, ‘What are you talking about, Caracalla?’

Rubbing Telesina’s little back he looks up at you with a mischievous grin. ‘You’ll see!’

Post-scriptum

Caracalla rubs the relief of the golden coin with his thumb. It is one of the new pieces, the one where your likeness is printed on. Geta, meanwhile, is pacing back and forth while fidgeting with his rings nervously. The sight makes Caracalla gnaw on his lip. You are his wife, and although he is not opposed to sharing you with his brother, Geta has no business acting more agitated than him.

‘After this, she will have to forgive us,’ Geta mutters once more.

‘But you still will have to marry.’ Caracalla mentions it more to thwart his brother than anything else. ‘So your pursuit of her will not sully her image anymore.’

‘We have already agreed on the matter, brother, no need to mention it again.’

‘I just wanted to remind you, lest you forgot.’

Geta seizes his pacing and comments evenly, ‘Consider me reminded.’

Then the doors finally open, and Caracalla jumps to his feet. Given the late hour, you are already unveiled, dressed in the long-sleeved blue tunica in which you usually lay to sleep. The expression or your face makes him almost wring his hands together in shame.

‘Mellitula —’ he begins, but you interrupt unbothered, ‘Why am I here, husband, brother?’

A pair of slaves close the door behind you. Geta bows his head only a bit, and gestures towards one of the lecti.

‘Please, take a seat.’

You press your lips together in a tight line, but without comment you do as is asked.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Caracalla whispers to his brother, but Geta only offers him a side-eyed glance.

‘What is this about?’

‘This is an apology,’ Geta says.

‘Yes, an apology,’ Caracalla echoes, only to not give the impression he is uninvolved in this scheme. ‘We want to ask you for your forgiveness.’

‘I see. So you two have seen the error of your ways? You will seiz these attempts to share me like a common whore?’

‘Not like a whore!’ Caracalla objects, just as Geta says, ‘We never intended that, milady.’

‘This is already going awry,’ you note.

At this Geta takes hold of the scroll placed neatly on the side table.

‘Sister, you have to at least give us a chance,’ he insists as he offers you the scroll. ‘And take a look at this.’

You open it and read it with that skeptic frown Caracalla finds so incredibly adorable. When you refold it and look up at them, you speak no word.

‘And?’ Caracalla tries.

‘You want me to host a meeting of the noble women of Rome every two weeks to discuss mores and fashion and other superficial business. What has this to do with an apology?’

‘As you have read, Hermina Nona will be allowed to be the secretary of these meetings,’ Geta clarifies.

Caracalla finds himself tapping his feet. This is not going as smoothly as he hoped.

‘And I must be grateful that you have degraded my sister, born as noble as they come, to a mere secretary?’

‘Macrinus is a rich man, no noble man. Nona could not discuss along the wives of senators,’ Caracalla notes.

Geta adds, ‘But this will allow you to see and speak with her regularly. That is what you wanted, was it not?’

‘No.’ You hand over the scroll.

You are about to rise, but Geta adds, ‘Macrinus has been warned, too, that any… needless violence to his wife will not be tolerated.’

‘I want them divorced,’ you reply.

‘That cannot…’

‘Geta will marry,’ Caracalla interrupts his brother. ‘He will marry the girl, what was her name? That senator’s daughter.’

‘Egnatia Agripinilla,’ Geta clarifies.

You only nod, but Caracalla can see it in your eyes: how you are slowly swaying.

‘She is an acceptable match,’ you admit. ‘Albeit young.’

‘Fifteen is a suitable age for a girl to marry.’ Caracalla cannot help but come a bit closer, but he dares not cross the distance completely. Instead he circles around you, like the earth the sun.

You nod slowly and then tell Geta, ‘You will treat her with the respect she deserves.’

‘Naturally, sister, she will be empress of Rome.’

‘Your wife, she will be,’ you clarify, and then in a voice which makes Caracalla almost tremble in delightful fear, you add, ‘If I ever catch wind of you and Caracalla trying to share or degrade her as you tried me, you will be sure to suffer.’

‘You truly think me so vile?’ Geta sounds truly aghast.

‘What else should I think you to be?’

At this Geta does the one thing Caracalla never expected him to do, not ever for you. He sinks to his knees. ‘Sister, I beg you to forgive me. It was never lewd lust that made me pursue you. I — I love you.’

‘You lie,’ you whisper, but Geta shakes his head.

‘I do not. It is the truth,’ he insists, holding your gaze. ‘I am sorry that I insulted you. I see now that I have blemished your character, and that is why you want me to marry so urgently. I will follow your wishes in this and take that girl as my wife, but I will not lie with her as I cannot put aside my love for you. Please see that I am trying. And forgive me and my brother for only doing what we thought would bring all of us happiness.’

Caracalla blinks down at his brother. The last time he knelt so was at their mother’s feet. Slowly Caracalla approaches you, as you stand there looking down at Geta with your arms crossed. Placing his hands on your waist, Caracalla whispers in your ear, ‘I am sorry, melitulla, I thought… he is my twin. It is only natural for him to love you like I do.’

‘And in what manner do the two of you love me then?’ you ask in a small voice.

Caracalla leans in to you, relishing the sweet scent of you. ‘In every manner.’

‘Sister, please.’ And Geta’s voices cracks.

‘I almost believe you,’ you finally admit. ‘Stand up, Geta. I forgive you, and you, my husband, as well. But only for the sake of our family.’

Geta rises slowly. ‘Thank you, Thurina.’

‘What of Juventia Florentina?’ you ask him then.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I saw the two of you, just yesterday, what…’

‘She advised him,’ Caracalla interrupts as he lets his fingers wander along the back of your neck.

‘Caracalla, are you serious?’ Geta grumbles, just as he goes on, ‘On how to regain your favor. She is your old friend, he figured, so she would know.’

You scoff. ‘What did she say?’

‘To… gain your forgiveness, she advised me to restore your public image by marrying, to demonstrate our respect for you as wife and empress, and to show true humility,’ Geta admits, ‘and… something about cheesecake.’

‘Oh,’ you look around, ‘is there cheesecake?’

And finally, there is that soft smile on your face again. It only took weeks to see it once more.

‘Bring it in!’ Caracalla shouts, and in walks a slave carrying on a silver plate a simple cheesecake.

You hum contentedly, and intertwine your fingers with your husband’s.

‘Florentina always gives wonderful advice,’ you decide as you gesture a slave to give you a slice. ‘Caracalla, Geta, I believe you finally understand how to treat an empress of Rome.’

Caracalla looks up at his brother with a grin. Geta tries to hide the relieved smile by chewing on his lower lip, but fails. You are no easy woman to please, but seeing you close your eyes as you taste the cake, Caracalla only feels inspired to do everything and all he can to keep you happy and satisfied. You and the child growing in your belly. Perhaps that is why he then tells his brother in an urgent stammer,

‘She — she — my sweet mellitula is pregnant.’

Geta becomes pale, as if he has seen a ghost, and Caracalla cannot help but burst out in bright laughter.

Taglist: @queenofviolenceandnerds @mirage-of-a-victory @naysha140 @causeimhappinesss @t6gse370 @syraxnyra @jakesullyswhore @chloe-skywalker @x-vadon @hayleesoph @lover-rep-fanfic @et-mberg @uglyclown666 @aliensfeltmyjoy @kawaii1kitten @feral-postings

A/N: So it took a while to write this!! I saw some posts lately like "is the Caracalla/Geta fandom dying?" and I need you to know I am still here!! But my life is in shambles so writing 6k a week is simply not possible right now. (did you know this fic is in total now more than 90k words, i.e. it's already novel-length (gods help me)).

[abundance-of-fic-reblogs]

Emperor of Wrath and Empress of Mercy

About: Emperor Geta x Empress Reader

A/N: I can't believe I updated twice in one day. This hasn't happened in years. Lmao.

Summary: You tell Geta to murder somebody, and he has never been prouder of his kind, submissive wife.

Warnings: Talk of murdering someone, swear words, talk of virginity, the reader not knowing much about sex, reader is super submissive and is kinda manipulated by Geta, kissing, sexism, and historical inaccuracies probably.

Word Count: 850 (Short but who cares)

Likes, comments, and Reblogs are always welcome!

"You must kill someone for me." You said, standing before your husband. The night had made the palace eerily quiet. Those who were still out were drunk or seeking sexual pleasure. Yet, Emperor Geta sat on his throne. Even though he would have done those same things, he hadn't participated in them. He was busy with his royal duties. Nevertheless, for his wife to come to him while she should have been sleeping deeply pleased him. It even made him giddier to know that it was for foul reasons. Wordlessly, Geta leaned forward. The look on your husband’s face was nothing but amusement.

In truth, He had never pictured those words coming from your sweet pink lips. You were but a flower in Rome’s desert garden. You were the empress of mercy to his emperor of wrath. Yet, it seemed even kindness and compassion had their limits. Perhaps, his blasphemous habits had finally rubbed off on you. He couldn't be more pleased.

The emperor licked his lips and smirked. “Who must I kill, my little dove?” His dark onyx eyes glowed with excitement. His voice had deepened, causing you to shiver as you took a step forward. You searched his eyes and saw nothing but love, happiness, and trust. The Emperor would do anything you required.

Without hesitation, you spoke swiftly. “Macrinus. He made a lewd remark about me not being a virgin before we laid together.”

Geta stood up from his throne, his amusement had quickly turned to rage. “He what?!” His temper flared as he tightened his fists. The many rings that adorned his fingers dug into the skin of his palms, making the shade a bright red. Mars had taken his excitement and twisted it into rage.

To a lesser Roman, they would have been scared by his outburst. But you knew Geta better than anyone else. His anger was fueled by love and his love for you. Nothing bad could ever happen to you. Nobody could talk poorly of you. Least of all, one of his senators.

"It brings me no pleasure to tell you this husband."

Your husband walked toward you and stood in front of you. His dark eyes gazed upon you, calculating his next words. His next actions. Geta then took your small hands into his own and declared. "Do not fret, my little dove. It shall only bring me nothing but pleasure to end Macrinus’ life. He is replaceable, while your reputation is not. I shall relish watching the life leave his eyes." He then raised your knuckle to his mouth and kissed it gently.

You knew little about sex and anatomy. From what you did know was what Geta had taught you. He was a good teacher, but you felt foolish at times. You were younger than him, but not by much. Regardless, due to being sheltered and raised in the cult of Vestia, you did not know much about sex. When Geta had heard about your beauty, he had sent for you. He didn't care if you had made an oath for thirty years of virginity to the goddess of the hearth. When the emperor wanted something, he would get it.

It had deeply surprised him that you enjoyed sex and were happy to be married. You had once even told him that you felt like this oath that had entrapped you. And that from a young age, you knew that you had desires that the oath would be displeased about. It didn't take long for Geta to fall for you. He had made you his Empress briefly after your arrival at the palace, and ever since, you had been his and he had been yours.

"How…" you paused. "Do you know that I am… at least before we laid together... That I was pure, husband? I do not think there is a way to tell by looking at someone. Could there possibly be?" Geta gave you a small smile and stroked your hair. He loved how, even after a few months of marriage, you were still so pure. He felt like he could shape and model you into whatever he pleased. And you would hardly resist him.

"You are correct in your assumption. You bled, little dove. You screamed as I entered you. I know what it feels like to enter a virgin. Your cunt was not tainted as that bastard claims. I tainted it for it was mine to commandeer. For it shall only be mine to claim. You are a whore but for I and I alone."

Geta kissed you roughly, taking the wind out of your lungs. He wrapped his arms around you and held you close. Demanding that you be engulfed by him. He bit your bottom lip and demanded that you open your mouth for his tongue to explore. You did so willingly. Making the already power-crazed Emperor even more boastful. He had never met someone so submissive. And he was convinced he never would meet another as submissive as you. For you were the empress of mercy, and he was the emperor of wrath.

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Emperor Geta Taglist: @somethingvicked @ladamari68 @samslvrgirl

[abundance-of-fic-reblogs]

Johnny Storm NSFW Alphabet

A/n: This gif has me on life support 😵

Like always, this is NSFW!!! Minors do not interact!!! Only +18!!!

Word Count: 2,188

Comments, likes, reblogs are very much appreciated!

A = Aftercare (What They're Like After Sex)

Johnny is pretty lazy after sex. The dude doesn't move much. He's just tired and goofy after sex. You wouldn't want to cuddle with him after sex, though. This man won't be able to control his body heat for a while. Your bed literally has burn marks on it. (Rip to your mattress and to the smoke detectors. They're doing overtime.) But seriously, to avoid first-degree burns move to the other side of the bed. Every once in a while Johnny will clean you up after sex. But don't count on it. (This doesn't mean that he doesn't love you. He's just lazy.)

B = Body Part (Their Favorite Body Part Of Theirs and Their Partner's)

Johnny is proud of his arms. He's not super toned (when it comes to his abs) but when it comes to his arms he spends a lot of time working on them. He wants to be able to carry you for hours if he has. Which is why his arms are so strong.

Johnny is obsessed with your lips and your thighs. He would kiss you all day if he could. Your lips sometimes hurt from all the kissing that you and Johnny do. (Frankly, you could care less about the pain.) When it comes to your thighs, Johnny believes that the safest place in the universe is between them. He’s always touching your thighs.

C = Cum (Anything to Do with Cum, basically I'm nasty)

His cum is super warm but like in a good way. Unless it’s summer then it’s too hot. Johnny will cum all over your bedsheets. His pull-out game is shit because he just makes a mess each and every time. You don't really complain because you find it hot. Not to mention your on the pill so you've got no grievances when it comes to his cum getting everywhere.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty Self Explanatory, A Dirty Secret of Theirs)

He's tried on your underwear before. He was bored at first and was just curious about what it felt like to wear your panties, so he picked out your prettiest pair and put them on. He thought they were comfortable and so soft. (Since it is before the 70s, they don't have G-strings yet. Johnny would definitely not like G-strings, at least when he's the one wearing them.)

E = Experience (How Experience Are They? Do They Know What They're Doing?)

It's Johnny Storm. Of course, he's not a virgin.

F = Favorite Position (This Goes Without Saying)

He loves to bend you over and take you from behind. He's such an ass man. He's always grabbing your ass and just smirking like an idiot. If you even bend over in front of him, Johnny will be right next to you within seconds. He also loves it when you ride him. He's absolutely in awe as you move and grind on top of him. The first time you ride him he's just bug-eyed and gives you the blankest expression of his life. Luckily your eyes were closed for most of it since his blank expression would have distracted you.

G = Goofy (Are They More Serious in The Moment? Are They Humorous? Etc.)

Johnny is somewhat between being serious and goofy during sex. He's mainly serious because he's focused on fucking you and worries that somebody will walk in ruining the moment. So, he's locked in on sex. But nobody is in the Baxter Building or it's the middle of the night I can see Johnny being less serious and more goofy. Those fears of being interrupted go away once he knows the chances are low. (Frankly, there's been too many times where somebody has walked in on you guys fucking. That the two of you somewhat expect it to happen again. Mind you, the door is always locked. But Reed or Ben can easily open it.)

H = Hair (How Well Groomed Are They? Does The Carpet Match The Drapes? Etc.)  

He's not super hairy. But he's got a nice trail that you enjoy playing with. It's a bit darker than his natural hair color. He keeps it groomed but you're too shy to ask if it's because he burns it off or shaves it off. You'll honestly never gain the courage to ask him.

I = Intimacy (How Are They During the Moment? The Romantic Aspect)

Johnny will say romantic words every now and then but for the most part he's not talking. He's just enjoying every second he gets with you and if you need more talking during sex then Johnny will just have to work on that.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation Headcanon)

Johnny doesn't really masturbate too often. But if you're at work then there's a high chance that he might. Especially if he finds your lingerie while looking for clothes. As he's fisting himself he's groaning and muttering "Stupid 9 to 5 job." As he cums he accidentally burns your lingerie set and he panics. Johnny would feel super bad and embarrassed so for some stupid reason, he decides he just needs to replace them. So like an idiot, he goes to a department store to try and find the same pair of lingerie he accidently burned. Only to get kicked out by the sales clerk. Later, he'll have to explain what happened, and you're just laughing your ass off at him.

K = Kink (One or More of Their Kinks)

Praise Kink: Johnny didn't even know he had a praise kink until you called him a "good boy" while he was eating you out. At first, he figured it was because you were pulling on his hair so hard that was the reason he liked it but then you called him a "good boy" while he did the dishes and he realized.

Temperature Play: If you have ice powers. It's gonna get super fucking kinky with the temperature in your bedroom.

L = Location (Favorite Places to Do the Deed)

Your shared bedroom or your shared bathroom. The two of you often float the idea of getting your own place just to have sex all over the apartment. But it doesn't seem likely to happen since Johnny is too busy to move. He's got a super important job of saving people after all.

M = Motivation (What Gets Turns Them On, What Gets Them Going)

You can just say his name and he'll be hard. Johnny is super whipped for you. Just say the word and he's ready. The only time he wouldn't want sex is if he's gotta save the world from some sort of terrible monster or stop some evil guy's plot. But even then he's thinking about you the whole time and is extremely impatient to see you.

N = No (Something They Wouldn't do, Turn Offs)

He will not talk about his sex life with anybody. Maybe back in high school or college, he would talk about his sex life. But once you tie him down he's not saying one goddamn word about. This isn't because he hates you or you are bad at sex. But because he loves your sex life so fucking much he can't risk anybody finding out that he's got the very best.

O = Oral (Preferences in Giving or Receiving, Skill, Etc.)

The bastard loves receiving more than giving. Sure, he'll give you oral but the whole time he'll be thinking about you giving oral. He does enjoy it, however, just not as much as him getting it.

P = Pace (Are They Fast and Rough? Slow and Sensual? Etc.)

His go-to pace is rough and fast but he knows that you get bored of that quite often so he'll go slow for you. Obviously, the most important thing to him is that the two of you are enjoying yourselves. So, just say the word and he'll go fast if you want. Or say you want to go slow and he'll go slow.

Q = Quickie (Their Opinion on Quickies, How Often, Etc.)

Johnny is fine with a quickie but he'll always want more later on. Typically quickies are done before you go to work in the morning or before dinner.

R = Risk (Are They Game to Experiment? Do They Take Risk? Etc.)

Not really a risktaker. He prefers behind closed doors or lewd acts in secret but somewhat out of sight. (I.E. him eating you out while you're at a desk and nobody can see you. Johnny fingering you while you are under a blanket.) He loves to try new things. You constantly read Cosmopolitan (or know what it is) to gain new ideas for your sex life. Johnny doesn't know that you read Cosmo so he just assumes you've got an extremely dirty mind.

S = Stamina (How Many Rounds Can They Go For? How Long Do They Last?)

The question really should be how many rounds can you go for? Because let's face it. Johnny is a fucking superhero. He's got fantastic stamina. He could fuck you all night if you'd let him. He tries not to cum until you cum but sometimes he'll cum before you. But he can last up to five minutes when inside of your pretty cunt.

T = Toys (Do They Own Any Toys? Do They Use Them? On A Partner or Themselves?)

I did some research and dildos became more available during the 60s. Because let's face it that was the sex and feminist movement. I like to think Johnny would be confused if you brought home a dildo one day. Maybe you'll say you bought it as a joke and then Johnny ever the jerk says "I want to see you use it." You'll flush and possibly tell him no. But the look in his eyes tells you he's not suggesting it. But telling you. He'll watch so intently and he'll feel somewhat jealous but so turned on by you using it. Then one day you find it missing and before you can ask what happened to it you hear Johnny moan from the shower.

U = Unfair (How Much They Like To Tease)

Motherfucker is such a tease. He's always got his hand on your lower back. His hand will somehow get on your ass. He accidentally touches your boob in public. Johnny is all over you. Constantly. Also, he'll just pretend to lick something off his finger whenever he feels like it. The whole time he's making eye contact with you.

V = Volume (How Loud They Are, What Sounds They Make, Etc.)

 Johnny typically keeps his voice down. Y'all live with three other people so it's close corners. Not to mention, you essentially live with his sister and brother-in-law so family dinners can only be so awkward. Which is why Johnny chooses to be quiet most of the time during sex. You, however, are loud no matter how much Johnny begs for you to be quiet. One time you decided to be quiet and Johnny realized he didn't actually like it. So he decided to stop complaining about your loud moans.

W = Wild Card (A Random Headcanon For the Character)

He's tried to fuck you in space once. Sadly, it didn't work out. (Sex in space has never been attempted and probably won't happen anytime soon.) At least you guys got to make out in space. But still, it would have been cool if the two of you could have been the first people to have sex in space.

X = X-ray (Let's See What's Going Under Those Clothes)

Just lick it. Okay. Lick it. It's warm it's pretty and you just gotta lick it. No, but seriously, Johnny is girthy and so vainy that you can't keep your hands to yourself. If you even put your hand on his knee the two of you know it's gonna end up in pants before the end of the night.

Y = Yearning (How High Is Their Sex Drive?)

Extremely high. Johnny will be all over you in seconds if you just give him a look. If you're just doing the dishes he's crowding you and will start to kiss your neck. Much to the groans of Sue and Ben. If you're reading one of Reed's research papers and you're focusing very intently then he's all over you in seconds. If you're putting on lotion he's all over you in seconds. Johnny is crazy with you it's that simple.

Z = Zzz (How Quickly They Fall Asleep Afterwards)

Johnny would be restless after sex. He'd want more or just probably be unsure of what to do with himself. How the hell is he supposed to act like nothing happened when you gave him the best he's ever had? Like how is he supposed to be normal? He wants to scream it from the mountain tops that he has had sex with such a beautiful lady. But sometimes you'll see just snuggle up to him and he can't help but fall asleep. You are his calm while he is your storm.

[abundance-of-fic-reblogs]

Emperor Geta NSFW Alphabet

A/N: Kinda gets dead dove in one of the sections, but you can easily skip that, so yeah. I put a warning on that section. Also, this is my first time writing Geta. I want a write a much longer fic for him, but I have too many wips at the moment. So it'll be a while.

LIKE ALWAYS! 18+!!! MDN!! I will block you!

Like always, Comments, likes, and reblogs are always welcomed! I love validation lol.

Word Count: 1.8k

A = Aftercare (What They're Like After Sex)

It would take a little bit of time before Geta would ever be soft with you after sex. The first time it happened you were utterly surprised and said nothing. Geta didn't like this, as he wanted to be close and tender with you, but he realized it had to build trust with you, so he did just that. With time, he took to taking care of you after sex. He would kiss you sweetly, stroke your hair, and shower you with praise.

B = Body Part (Their Favorite Body Part Of Theirs and Their Partner's)

Geta's favorite body of his is his hands. Especially his thumb. It brings him so much thrill that he can decide if someone lives or dies simply with the movement of his thumb. He also uses his hands to bring you so much pleasure.

Geta worships your breast. He definitely has a lactation kink once your milk comes in. Geta would drink your milk and bite your nipples. You'd have to remind him not to drink all your milk because his heir would need it. And Geta would just roll his eyes and ignore you.

C = Cum (Anything to Do with Cum, basically I'm nasty)

Emperor Geta will never clean up his seed. If you even attempt to clean it up he's pissed off instantly. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? DO YOU NOT WANT ME TO HAVE AN HEIR?" The first time he yelled at you like this you shivered and looked at him in total fear. That was an instant turn-on for the Emperor. You knew after that to never get rid of his seed.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty Self Explanatory, A Dirty Secret of Theirs)

(Kinda dead dove. Heads up. Just skip to the next one if you don't wanna read it). Don't think this counts as a secret but probably not far from canon but Geta has had a three-way with his brother. I don't want to get too dead dove but you can't convince me that it's not possible.

E = Experience (How Experience Are They? Do They Know What They're Doing?)

Of course, he knows what he doing. He's the emperor of Rome. He's been a part of orgies since he was a teenager. I believe that he was probably trained to learn how to pleasure a woman, as well. After all, it is extremely important to produce an heir. So, there's a high chance he had to be trained in how to have sex and give pleasure. (Most likely with a concubine.)

F = Favorite Position (This Goes Without Saying)

Geta's favorite position would be doggy style. In that position, he is able to touch your ass, cunt, and breast all at the same time. What bliss. He also finds it to be one of the lewdest positions and it brings him nothing but pride that he can bring you pleasure in that position.

G = Goofy (Are They More Serious in The Moment? Are They Humorous? Etc.)

No. It's never humorous. Emperor Geta sees fucking you as a religious experience. He must perform to the best of his abilities or else Juno will not bless the two of you with heir to the throne. Though, I can picture him mockingly laughing at you especially if you choke on his dick.

H = Hair (How Well Groomed Are They? Does The Carpet Match The Drapes? Etc.)  

Why would the Emperor cut his pubic hair? He probably sees it as a gift from the gods, that all must worship and adore. In truth, he sees nothing wrong with body hair.

I = Intimacy (How Are They During the Moment? The Romantic Aspect)

Emperor Geta is only romantic when you are pregnant. Or when he is sad about something. It's only then that is he vulnerable with you. Otherwise, Geta is nothing but a harsh and cruel lover.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation Headcanon)

I just know this motherfucker has made every servant watch him jack off. He's probably jacked off in from of senators and in front of generals. Why? Because he's nasty and he sees it as a form of estilating dominance over others.  

K = Kink (One or More of Their Kinks)

Breeding Kink: This is such an obvious kink. Like of course Emperor Geta has a breeding kink. He deeply desires to see your belly swell with his child. He wants to see your breasts grow and hips widen. He is completely and utterly obsessed with the thought of you being pregnant. He prays to Juno each and every single night.

Degradation Kink: He's always leaving markings on you. Geta has never hit you without your passion. He may be ruthless and wicked but you are his light and he can't change you hating him. But when he does smack your ass or breast and degrades you it is very clear that he is enjoying it.

L = Location (Favorite Places to Do the Deed)

Geta is so conflicted. Like he wants to fuck you in front of everyone and everywhere. But at the same time, he wants to protect your modesty. So, he's often conflicted. His favorite place would be in his courtyard in front of the statues of the gods. He typically takes you there whenever he is feeling extremely sentimental and romantic. It's only there will he screams that he loves you. Otherwise, it is in chaste whispers and in secret.

M = Motivation (What Gets Turns Them On, What Gets Them Going)

Geta feels wrong if he does not make love to you each and every day. The longest he has ever gone without fucking you is one month. But that was because he was away to attend to important business involving Rome. Once he returned home he made love to you for hours.  

N = No (Something They Wouldn't do, Turn Offs)

You are not allowed to fuck anybody but him. His worst fear is that you will fuck Caracalla so he's always got someone following you. He claims it is for your protection. But you already know that he worries that you'll fuck Caracalla behind his back. It's a good thing you're not too interested in his brother.

O = Oral (Preferences in Giving or Receiving, Skill, Etc.)

Geta only enjoys giving oral to you. He was a much greedier lover before you. But with you, he is much softer and desires your mewls and pleas for his tongue on your wet cunt. He will always demand oral from you. Geta enjoys it deeply and will call you a whore and smack your tits in approval.

P = Pace (Are They Fast and Rough? Slow and Sensual? Etc.)

He can do both. The first time he's actually soft with you. But it's rare after that. Typically, when he is upset he will fuck into you with a vast force and make you cry. Once, he gets you pregnant he will be much softer. He worries that he will hurt the baby. (To be fair it's ancient Rome so they probably don't know much about the womb. Feel free to prove me wrong.)

Q = Quickie (Their Opinion on Quickies, How Often, Etc.)

Lmao. Quickies do not exist in Emperor Geta's mind. Nothing is going to get him off you. Not the Senate. Not his brother. Not even the gods. Geta will spend as much time as he wants fucking you. The shortest amount he even spent fucking you was when you accidentally squirted breast milk while he was fucking you roughly. He had never cum faster in his entire life.

R = Risk (Are They Game to Experiment? Do They Take Risk? Etc.)

Yes. Geta will try every position with you at least once. But if you complain about the pain he will begrudgingly not do that position again.

S = Stamina (How Many Rounds Can They Go For? How Long Do They Last?)

Geta will fuck you even if he's soft. He literally doesn't care. Nothing will get off you. But if he's had a long day I think he'd only fuck you twice. Otherwise, it's a long night.

T = Toys (Do They Own Any Toys? Do They Use Them? On A Partner or Themselves?)

(Y'all know I'm a dirty girlie. I've done a lot of research on sex toys throughout history in my time in the fandom space. Because I love to be correct and I enjoy learning. With that being said.) In ancient Rome, you could buy these bread-shaped dildos and use them for sexual pleasure. I can definitely picture Emperor Geta using this on you. Along with a smooth stone dildo just to pleasure you. He gets jealous of them and will through them across the room if you cum too hard and then will fuck you roughly.

U = Unfair (How Much They Like To Tease)

Geta will never stop teasing you. If he does then that means your days may be limited and that he is bored of you. Luckily that has not happened yet.

V = Volume (How Loud They Are, What Sounds They Make, Etc.)

 Grunts. Moans. Growling. Geta does it all and more. Geta tries to be louder than anybody during sex. He wants all of Rome to know he is fucking and will not let anybody have any peace until he reaches completion.

W = Wild Card (A Random Headcanon For the Character)

Geta loved orgies before the two of you met. He was probably the most nastiest motherfucker at them. But now he despises them and finds them beneath him. A concubine tells you about his behavior at them just to spite you and upon hearing it you interrupt his meeting with the senate. Geta takes you somewhere quiet for the two of you to discuss it and the wicked look you give him makes it very clear. That tonight, you are going to make him completely forget about those orgies. (You also tell him to kill the concubine. And that makes Geta so horny.)

X = X-ray (Let's See What's Going Under Those Clothes)

Emperor Geta is long and his cock is monstrous. When you first see it, you are nothing but amazed and scared. How the fuck would he be able to fit inside your cunt? Well, as it turns out it's not that hard. He's girthy and it seems like his cock is always leaking for you.

Y = Yearning (How High Is Their Sex Drive?)

Very high. Geta is such a bastard. He's always thinking about sex, blood, murder, power, and riches. Once he meets you, he careless for bloodshed and murder because you constantly make him horny. Just say the word and Geta is all over you.

Z = Zzz (How Quickly They Fall Asleep Afterwards)

Geta is pretty restless. But I think after a couple of rounds he'll fall asleep. It's never going to be after the first round. Geta will always hold you close when he does fall asleep. It's mainly because he is possessive, but deep down, he worries you will leave him, and he can't risk it. So, he holds you close. Because he loves you. Even if it's hard to believe.

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Emperor Geta Taglist: @ladamari68 @somethingvicked @samslvrgirl

[abundance-of-fic-reblogs]

pleaseeeee can i have a ciabatta sandwich with chicken and lots of swiss and monterey jack cheese? 🫣 tysm love your sandwich ideas ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Ocean’s Away

emperor geta x fem!reader

word count: 2.0k+

summary: Sandwich Shop Request from minamoomoo | After a careless misjudgment on invitations sent, you find yourself at an Oceanside Villa with the Emperors— and are coming up short on somewhere to sleep.

warnings: Nothing that I know of. A little mutual pining. (Might allude to some nasty business goin down in Caracalla’s room)

notes: Order up for Mina! Thanks for stopping by! This was a lot of fun to write (I struggled), I forgot how much fun it is to write the emperors (I love doing it for Tara and Angie). Big thanks to @prettycalla & @robinbuckleywife for reading this over and bigger thanks for @peachyproserpina for editing!

The sea gleamed beyond the marble terrace, endless and shining under the afternoon sun. The wind whispering as it whips through the cypress trees, carrying the scent of Mediterranean salt and oleander. Inside the walls of the little villa, Caracalla’s voice rang out, echoing back and forth off of heavy stone as his guests flooded each room, their sandals loud against the mosaic tiles.

This trip was meant to be a retreat— a little getaway, a coastal reprieve away from their duties on Palatine Hill, just for the elite. Your involvement in the entire trip had been orchestrated by your father, who had pulled every string he could to get you invited— under the not-so-subtle hope that you may end up engaged to one of the emperors. Caracalla had taken a liking to another political daughter weeks ago, which had promptly removed him from your list of viable options. That left Geta. And try as you might— lingering in the same rooms, angling for conversation with him, forcing your charm in ways you couldn’t believe were possible— you hadn’t managed to catch his interest. At least, not in the way your father had hoped. Week after week, lingering looks were shared between you both. Hello had been the only words exchanged between the two of you for God knows how long. You’d sooner brave another one of your father’s overlong, meandering speeches than admit what the real issue was— your own feelings were inconveniently tangled in all of this. This was not a political marriage you’d been trying to secure. Geta meant something to you. You had listened and watched as he was read poetry, a smile tugging at those full lips. You had stolen glances across the quarters as his eyes were painted dark and he was sent on his way. He was perfect. 

But instead of using this time to relax, everything around you had succumbed to total and utter chaos. Servants rushed back and forth like chickens with no heads, banners sagged in the harsh afternoon heat, there were murmurs plaguing your group of too many guests and not enough beds. You find your feet planted near the fountain, your arms folded delicately over your belly, watching the disaster in front of you unfold. “Did no one think to count the guests before the invitations were sent?” you huff out the question, more to yourself than anything else.

A voice answers behind you— it’s quiet, smooth, and edged with an amusement you did not foresee. “You expect order from my brother?”

You turn suddenly and find Geta standing there. Pale robes hang from his shoulders, his demeaner calmer than you have ever seen. The expression he wore gave nothing away, but his tone always told more than his face did. You had only met Geta on those handful of occasions, they had always ended the same way. Your chest clenching and he seemingly not noticing you for any longer than a mere moment. Each time he did see you, there was a look in his eyes… like he saw straight through you, always had.

“My Emperor,” you say softly, offering a nod.

He shakes his head, lifting a hand to stop your words from flowing. “Don’t start with titles, please. Not here.”

You hesitate, your lip catching between your teeth as you try and find your next words. “Then I’ll simply ask— what possessed him to invite sixty when this villa holds twenty?”

“A fondness for spectacle,” Geta said, clasping his hands together behind his back, “And a talent for ignoring the consequences.” His eyes linger on you for just a moment too long, before he’s turning to make his way towards his brother’s voice.

By nightfall, the problem had escalated. The entirety of guest rooms were spoken for. The women’s quarters had long since overflowed, and you had found yourself standing in the middle of that dark corridor with a small bundle of your belongings and absolutely nowhere to sleep. “I’m sorry, Miss,” One of the servants whispered to you, avoiding your gaze. “There’s truly nothing left. I’ve tried everywhere that I can.” Her gaze flicks behind you, the feeling of eyes shooting daggers through your spine. And by the look on her face, you knew just who it had to be. One of the Emperors. Before he could say a word, you turn on your heel to see Geta standing there, watching the conversation from a distance.

“I have space,” Geta explains softly, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. His robes hang open slightly to show off the skin of his bare chest. 

You couldn’t help but stare. 

“There’s a bed in my chamber. It’s large enough.” His voice was carefully neutral, waving a dismissive hand to the servant. Once he was sure she had disappeared into her own chambers for the night, he smiles. But it does not comfort you, no, in fact— it sets every nerve in your body on high alert. It sends you into a panic. He continues to speak. “You’ll sleep on one side. I on the other.”

You hesitate, your body frozen despite the stifling heat beating through the windows. The ice in your veins not subsiding as you take in a breath, a bit ragged and shaky. 

“You’ll be comfortable,” he adds, much quieter now as he takes in just how nervous you seem to be. “And you’ll be safe.”

That last word. Safe. It plagues you, rings through your ears like a bell— back and forth, bouncing from side to side until it finally settles deep into your brain.

“…Very well,” you say softly, clutching your things to your chest.

He doesn’t smile at you, but he didn’t look away either. His eyes more relaxed that you had ever seen them before. He stands there for just a few moments before offering his arm.

You’re skeptical for the first few seconds, letting yourself indulge in the sight in front of you. His robes are closed at the waist, one large hand holding it there. His bare chest reflecting the very last rays of sunlight back at you. You let yourself gaze upon his skin, before you take a step forward. You loop your arm slightly around his, letting your hand settle against his bicep as he leads you down the corridor to where you would be staying. With him. 

His bicep, where your hand rests, is hot under your skin. Warm in ways you couldn’t imagine. The smell of salt from the waters outside wafts around you as you lean in closer to him. It’s a long walk, through dark halls with only the flickering of very few torches to light your way. The softest call of Caracalla’s name fills your ears as you pass by his room, stopping at Geta’s door. 

His chambers were overlooking the sea. A cool breeze drifts through the open doors. Each gust lifting the linen curtains with easy, letting the sound of waves breaking against the cliffs carry inside delicately. You adore that sound, love the smell of salt in the air. There’s a torch hanging against the wall, flickering across the edges of the room. You take it in, the bed in the middle of the room was far too large for one man. And still, standing there next to him with your bodies pressed so close, looking at it still felt too small. Knowing that in just a few moments you both would be trying to put as much space as possible between you.

You stand on one side of it now. Your robe is drawn tight around you, as you watch how his moves with each twist of his body. You let go of his arm, allowing him to round the bed. Geta sits at the edge of the mattress, reaching downward to undo his sandals. He turns his face toward the window.

“This wasn’t necessary, My Emperor,” you say softly, watching how his back and shoulders flex with each of his ministrations. 

He turns to you, his gaze settling in. “Geta.” He corrects, then adds, “It was necessary.”

“I could have managed in the atrium. Or the servants’ quarters—”

“You’re the daughter of a senator,” he says bluntly, like he’d ever let you forget. “You don’t sleep on the floor like a soldier.”

You look at him and then shake your head, voice soft. “That’s not why you offered.”

He stays silent.

You climb into the bed slowly, sticking to the edge. He does the same. Both of your bodies sliding beneath the blanket. The space between you was wide, polite, and most certainly unbearable.

“Thank you,” you say at last, fingers fiddling with the hem of the blanket. 

He turns his head slightly, letting himself look up at the ceiling. “You shouldn’t be thanking me. I only did what was right.”

“You always do.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, like what he had just heard was nothing more than a joke. “Not always.”

The silence that followed settled in thick enough to be cut with a knife. Your heart beats like a war drum beneath those thin sheets. You take in a breath, your own eyes fixated on the ceiling above. Neither you, nor Geta, have moved. And finally, you sigh, “I can’t sleep.”

“Too warm?” 

“Too close,” you whisper out and let your eyes close for just a moment. Letting yourself feel the feelings you’d been trying so hard to push away. “And too far.”

He shifts, just slightly, letting his head loll to the side to face you. Eyes scanning your profile as he thinks of anything to say. “What do you mean?”

You almost don’t answer. Almost roll over and bite your tongue and let this confession die in the dark, where it should. But Geta has an effect on you, one that makes those words tumble out anyway. “I mean… I’m in love with a man who sleeps beside me and pretends he feels nothing at all.”

You feel him go still. So you wait. Both of your breathing are so shallow. Then you hear a whisper, soft as ever: “You’re wrong.”

You turn your head, barely, just enough to meet his eyes in the dim torchlight. “Am I?”

“I pretend,” he says softly, letting his eyes flick to yours before he turns back up to the ceiling, his voice low, “because it is easier. Because if I don’t pretend, I’ll say things that can’t be taken back.”

You moved closer to him in the wake of his confession— it’s only a few inches, but to you? It felt like crossing a chasm. “Say them,” There’s a smile on your face. Filling yourself with the immense joy a confession like this is sure to bring.

He reaches across the space between you then, slowly, his fingertips are brushing yours. He doesn’t lean in for a kiss. Doesn’t pull you into an embrace. Just this… his hand against yours in the dark, too afraid to even hold it. You’ve never seen him afraid. Your Emperor is never afraid, so it seems. “I have wanted you,” he said, “every day since you first looked at me like I was more than my name.”

You felt the tears rising, your chest tightening with each word he spoke. You blink them back, not letting them fall.

“And I have loved you, Geta,” you whisper, letting your fingers curl around the edge of his hand. You give it a gentle squeeze. You never wanted this to end, “since you stopped calling me ‘daughter of Marcus’ and started calling me by my name.”

He smiles. Just barely, but it’s there. Then he retracts, letting go of your hand. “We should sleep,” he murmurs into the dark, punctuated by the flickering torchlight.

You nod, lying back. Your eyes on the ceiling. Geta does the same. Neither of you moved, neither dared. But the space between you no longer felt as empty.

It felt full of everything still to come. 

tags ;; @robinbuckleywife @bib200 @hazydespair @djomorelikedelulu @dancininseptember @samslvrgirl @peachyproserpina @missjadesfics @meetmeatyourworst @prettycalla @getaapologist

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Worth Remembering - 16

Part 15 | Masterlist

Emperor Caracalla x fem!reader x emperor Geta; - 18+

Summary: You find yourself widowed, pregnant and forced to chaperone your sister-in-law at the imperial court. At least mourning traditions keep you practically worlds away from Rome's twin emperors. That is, until an injustice calls you to the other side of the imperial seaside residence.

Includes: reader is a (very tired) pregnant widow; Caracalla has mommy issues (this is an understatement); reader has a name and I think a personality (?); historical inaccuracies, because I am writing this based on what I remember from secondary school Latin classes; undoubtedly spelling mistakes (sorry!!)

Series warnings: the twin emperors; non-con/dub-con; violence in various degrees; misogyny; slavery; pregnancy

Chapter warnings: the RC has a sort of moral crisis; referenced domestic violence; sexual harassment; threats of violence; Geta and Caracalla are vile

‘If by loyal wife you mean calling male visitors to her villa as soon as her husband has left on another campaign, then yes, dear Messalina, you can call the lady Claudia Avita a loyal wife,’ Casta drawls.

To this Iusta, younger but just as much of a gossip as her sister, adds,

‘I heard she once invited a whole set of actors into her home. And by daybreak they wobbled outside, completely exhausted.’

‘She makes Palatine hill sound like the house of the Vestals,’ Messalina giggles.

You keep quiet, your fingers busy sowing the hem of a little tunica for your daughter. She is seven months old now, and she grows every single day. Although you could leave the task to the slaves, you quite enjoy spending the few quiet moments you have sewing together a little dress for your daughter from those pieces which she has already outgrown — and listening to the court’s gossip. As empress you have eyes on you at all times, that Nona has reminded you of, so it only seems proper to keep your own ears and eyes open.

Gathering a select group of noble ladies around you was mostly a matter of pragmatics and tactics. To give your little get-togethers a guise in which the men of the court would not find a reason for suspicion, you have chosen ladies who, similar to you, find themselves raising young children. Both Casta and Messalina are young mothers themselves, and Iusta’s belly is round with her first child. Only Quintina you have allowed into your group out of simple sentimentality: she is an older lady, and when she sows little pieces of clothing, it is for her grandchildren.

These four women you now see almost daily. Your children play together, you bathe together, lunch together. And two times a week, on a set time in the afternoon, one can find you and your ladies in the blue and golden sitting room closest to the throne room, sewing and weaving and gossiping. You rarely comment, and never have something to add. Not that you are unaware of any scandalous going-ons at the palace. It is simply of more benefit to you to keep quiet and listen. These women have become valuable sources of information — not that you believe what they say at face value, but they offer a clear view on who is currently loved and hated by Rome. So you listen and remain silent about the fact that the lady Claudia Vita is an old friend of yours, who indeed is quite licentious, but only because her husband enjoys here in that manner.

‘Where do you girls even hear such vile stories?’ Quintina asks, and you have to bite down a smile.

Casta grins. ‘You do not suppose I will share my precious sources with just anyone.’

‘Just go to the public baths once a week and you will know all there is to know,’ Messalina reveals with a shrug.

That is the moment Messalina’s little boy, a dark haired child of three, comes running to her, face all stained with tears and lips trembling. Simultaneously Casta’s oldest child, a girl of four, shyly approaches her mother to whisper something in her ear. You leave the two mothers to take care of the squabble between their children, and check in on your little Telesina, currently in the care of Nerulla. Your baby girl is lying on her belly, moving her arms and legs desperately in an attempt to crawl after Casta’s youngest, who is at his nine months already a little acrobat. Just a few more days and your girl will be crawling after him, you think.

‘They grow so fast, don’t they?’ Quintina sighs. ‘You wait and see, milady, in no time she will not just walk but run. And you will run after her, to keep her from doing all sorts of mischief.’

You are suddenly reminded of Nona, her promise to teach your child all sort of bad behavior. There is nothing more you can do but bite down the grief. You would love for her to be here with you now, to indulge in the court gossip herself. But Macrinus keeps her at home, except on banquettes or other festivities where he needs another gem to show of.

‘I hope you don’t have to run after your grandchildren like that,’ you note.

‘I am the only one who does it, I fear. If it were up to my daughters and their slaves, these children would get anything and everything they want.’

‘My husband is quite the same with my little one.’

‘I can imagine. He is not much for restraint, is he?’

That is why you have indulged in including Quintina to your group. She has little scruples about anything. Of all ladies at court, she is one of the few who does not euphemize, downplay or diminish. Even she plays the same game as everyone else.

You scoff. ‘No, he is not.’

Finishing the last petal of the little flower she is embroidering in a dress for her granddaughter, she inquires, ‘If I may, empress, am I right in guessing that you manage to… restrain him? As to not, well, exhaust your body with an oversoon second one.’

You meet her gray eyes, but remain silent. In all honesty, that is exactly what you have somehow succeeded in. Caracalla all too eagerly indulges in your body, but as soon as the novelty of your marriage made way into everydayness you figured out how easily he can be convinced to spill his seed not inside you, but on you. He apparently enjoys to see you covered in him. He still speaks of children, of course, and as an obedient wife so do you — but they can wait just a bit longer.

‘You do not have to admit to it, of course. But I assure you, I understand delaying the matter. A woman’s body needs time to restore before it can bear fruit again.’

A knock on the door is followed by the entrance of your trusted freedman, Sejanus. You smile at his visit, for it has been quite some time since you have seen him face to face. Your empresshood has kept him busy. After all, he is the only one who you can trust to run errands for you, when so many places are infiltrated by Macrinus’s little rats. Due to Sejanus’s devotion you have figured out just how well-developed Macrinus’s net of spies is. It reaches throughout the whole empire and, yes, even inside your bedroom. Apparently, no one told Geta that the slave girl he bought as a present for you, was one of Macrinus’s goods — and even if someone had told him, you doubt he would have cared. For now you have not touched Macrinus’s web.

All in due time. But as long as it is in place, you insist on feeding it exactly what you want to feed it: boringness, everydayness, childrearing and weaving. And occasionally you offer the rats a treat: you talk openly about your menses, knowing Macrinus must be interested in the coming of a child who could possibly inherit Rome; you feign complete lack of understanding of matters of state, supposing it is better to come across as uninterested and unknowledgeable; and when you speak about Macrinus, you only do it in lamenting sighs of wishing he is taking care of your sister well. The web can be played almost too easily you found, when you once lied about Caracalla’s preferences for a courtier whose staring and whispers had made you uncomfortable. A few days later, the patrician fell from a window — leaving him quite dead.

His quite timely demise did not horrify you as much as your lack of horror over it.

As Sejanus kisses your hand, you think on the treat you plan to offer the little spies today. It is perhaps too tasty, too sweet — but it will lure Macrinus from the shadows for sure, and that is what you need him to do: to reveal himself for what he is.

‘I hope you have been well, milady,’ Sejanus says and you smile.

‘I am. How good it is to see your face, old friend.’ You gesture him to take place on the chair beside yours, just brought in by the slaves. ‘How is Lima? And the little ones?’

Sejanus sits down, and you notice the wariness with which he does so. Perhaps you are straining him too much. He is not so young anymore. Even when you first met him, a decade or so ago, he was already gray. But the lines in his face have grown deeper, and he has grown thinner.

‘Not so little anymore, empress.’ Empress, empress, the word still has a strange ring to it, even more when coming from his mouth. ‘But just as mischievous as ever.’

‘It was the oldest one, Macro, who once cut little fish from your wife’s clothes wasn’t it?’

Sejanus gives a soft smile. ‘And now he has eloped with the neighbor’s daughter.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘It is quite alright. I’ve settled the affair. As I have settled yours.’ He gestures to the heavy wooden box some slaves carried in behind him. ‘I have gathered all cadastral records on your properties here, milady. I have also provided an inventory for each estate. Of much surprise to me was the villa you have inherited near Tarraco.’

‘In Hispania?’

‘It has been yours since your aunt died.’

You had no idea such an estate was included in that inheritance. Yet it makes sense. Through her father your aunt had Hispanic blood. Humming you note, ‘It must be in disrepair.’

‘I added information on the freedman in whose care it was left,’ Sejanus offers.

‘Ever resourceful you are, old friend. Thank you for your service, Sejanus, it is much appreciated.’ You turn to a slave girl. ‘See to it that my freedman is fed and rewarded for his efforts. Oh, and of course, I must see to a wedding gift for your son.’

‘Empress, you are too kind.’ Sejanus stands and bows deep. ‘I am sure my son will be ever grateful for your congratulations alone.’

You scoff. ‘Nonsense. Family life is no easy ordeal, he can use some practicalities to help him on the way.’

‘Thank you, empress.’

You watch your freedman leave and once the doors have fallen, you decide it is time to feed Macrinus web a new treat, too sweet it may be.

‘Now that affair is settled, I can set my mind to the next task,’ you decide, and your companions look at you with much expectancy. Yet you keep a tone of practicality as you note, ‘Ladies, I believe my dear brother is in need of a wife.’

The words are said, the wheels put into motion. You hope it will be enough to catch Macrinus off guard and make him act too boldly. And perhaps, it may even solve another issue, only growing more worrisome to you each day. You cannot be wife to two emperors after all.

‘The emperor Geta?’ young Iusta exclaims.

You can already see the disappointment in her large, dark eyes. She laments that she is already married and pregnant with another man’s child — a man too lively and important to just divorce from, at least. Pretty, young Iusta is just one of the dozen ladies who dream about becoming your sister, another empress to Rome.

Off-handedly you retort, ‘Do I have another brother?’

‘If I may, empress, the young emperor does not seem especially keen on matrimony,’ Quintina offers.

‘And that is precisely the moment a man should get married,’ you remark, ‘when he is not swept of his feet, not infatuated by lust or love.’

Casta’s side-eyed look does not go past you. This woman is an open book and you can clearly read the lines of her thoughts right now: the emperor Caracalla married you precisely when in the thralls of passion. Not to mention Geta’s eye has fallen on you as well, something the court is starting to notice.

‘Do you have any lady in mind, empress?’ Messalina inquires.

‘There are a few I consider.’

Casta is the first to speak her mind. She must think herself clever, but you know that every lady she names is either related to her, or otherwise indebted to her. Quite like a crow your companion is, collecting shiny secrets in her nest. Her knowledge on others’ scandalous personal lives makes her feel secure, too secure perhaps. Young Iusta follows her sister’s suggestions, but Messalina has some cousins and even a niece of barely fifteen who she believes to be great matches each. All of these women, you are assured, are pious, humble ladies whose talents and beauty are only outmatched by, how ever else could it be, you. Yet, it is Quintina who suggests the only name you had not expected to hear, ‘Juventia Florentina.’

Your old childhood friend from Volaterrae. How does Quintina know of her? She is a woman as obscure as they come. You should not inquire, you should not allow them even a glimpse of your thoughts, but here you make a mistake, ‘She is married, is she not?’

‘Her husband is old and ill and squandered his wealth,’ Quintina says.

‘She has bore him a son and a daughter, is still young, and given the financial concerns the couple would be easily persuaded into divorce if offered a sufficient sum. She would make a fertile match for sure.’

You give a slow nod, but refrain from comment. Casta takes the opportunity and praises her primary suggestion, a cousin of hers, into inconceivable heights. You allow her to talk, if only to be allowed the opportunity to remain silent yourself.

The word of you looking for a suitable match for emperor Geta spreads around the palace swiftly. Just as you hoped it would. Mothers seek audiences with you to introduce their eligible daughters, ladies who failed to get into your inner circle show renewed efforts to leave a positive impression and, to your own amusement, some especially fervent women bat their lashes at your brother-in-law himself. Once the whispers reach your husband, he comes to you just as you and your ladies are enjoying a recitation of Sappho. Casta and Iusta silently make way for him, and unabashed he lays down on the lectus to rest his head in your lap. He is all grins and giggles.

Toying with the soft fabric of your pink palla he notes, ‘You are seeking to have my brother be wed.’

‘It will do him good to have a wife,’ you note.

He is looking at you again like that: as if he is contemplating eating you alive. You thought the consummation of your marriage would still his thirst for you, but he seems as enthralled by you as the first time you met. There is a request in his blue eyes. Ever the dutiful wife you obey and stroke your fingers through his copper hair.

‘I believe he is quite satisfied as a bachelor.’

Dryly you retort, ‘As he is now, he appears impotent.’

At this Caracalla breaks out in laughter so loud the old slave woman falters in her recitation. Yet, ever the professional, she quickly recovers, and so your ladies can go on pretending they are enjoying the poem, and not eavesdropping on your private conversation.

‘Impotent you call him, but while his concubines surely feel neglected, I do not think his hand has had a moment’s rest.’

‘I do not care about the ongoings of his concubines or his hand, you little pervert.’ You tug at his ear, making him grit his teeth, but the devotion in his gaze does not falter for a moment. ‘What matters is that he is emperor of Rome and while you have entered matrimony for a second time, he remains unwed. It makes him and Rome look weak.’

‘Geta is weak, I will admit, and it is all the fault of a certain someone.’

You still your fingers’ movements, heart beating strongly against your ribs. He cannot be alluding to that. Surely, your husband would not speak in such a jesting manner on Geta’s barely concealed infatuation with you.

‘There are many eligible ladies in Rome,’ you dismiss. ‘I am sure I will find one to his tastes.’

Caracalla sits up, caging you in. His breath tingles against your lips. ‘I have found a woman to his tastes already.’

You let your husband kiss you, but do not reciprocate. It matters little, for when he leans back, his eyes land on little Telesina, sleeping in the crib beside your settee, and he smiles. ‘Let’s make sure to give her a little brother soon, wife.’

‘Husband,’ you only respond.

He slips of the settee and whispers in your ear, ‘Your friends look as if they want to burn you alive.’

Caracalla’s words echo inside your head long after he has taken his leave to attend to matters of state. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer, they say. Yet, without Nona and Priscilla, you only have to latter to surround you with. You are well aware that it is not loyalty which binds these women to you, but envy and greed. Even Quintina is not your friend, truly. She may not want empresshood for the women in her family, but she does seek to see her daughters and granddaughters rise above their station. At times you believe you can navigate this labyrinth of animosity. But as you drown in Sappho’s verses, a deep and dark dread spread through you. The lion’s den has become your home.

Perhaps it is this fear which carries you to the most luxurious guest quarters of Palatine hill. Cradling Telesina, who is gurgling and babbling as if engaging in conversation, you approach the lady Aurelia Lucilla just as she is applying new strings to a lyre. You have kept your distance from lady Lucilla ever since the abduction and return of your baby girl. Try how you might, you still do not now exactly what happened then and what role Lucilla played in it. Although you believe that whatever she did, she did out of love for her son, you find it more difficult to trust her. Even then, compared to the likes of Casta and Messalina, she is not so poisonous or treacherous. Aurelia Lucilla actually knows the price of power and realizes it is not worth it.

‘Good day, empress,’ she greets you, bowing her head slightly.

‘Please, milady, do not call me that,’ you say as you sit down on the settee opposite of hers. ‘What a pretty instrument you have there.’

Lucilla looks ever splendid, in her white golden stola and her elegant poise. Once more you are reminded of all you are not. Regal, elegant. Truly, each day it becomes more of a mystery whatever Caracalla saw in you that supposedly makes you fit to be his wife.

‘My father gifted it to me when I was a mere girl,’ she tells you.

‘That instrument has seen history unfold.’

Lucilla smiles and as she tests the tension of one of the strings, asks,

‘How is little Telesina?’

You appreciate her using the name you chose. Everyone now calls her Bassiana, completely disregarding your preference.

‘She is very social.’ You sit her down onto your lap and bob her on your legs a few times, making her gurgle from enthusiasm.

‘So I hear.’

‘Your husband, if I understand correctly, is making good progress in Numidia.’

Lucilla nods. ‘If things keep going this well, he will return in spring.’ ‘Victorious.’

‘As always,’ she admits.

‘I will pray that this is the last one,’ you say rather clumsily. ‘He has seen enough war, I believe.’

‘He has seen more of it than any man should,’ Lucilla agrees. ‘To keep him from yet another front line is something not bequeathed through prayer, I fear.’

Nervously you swallow down the lump of anxiety in your throat. Why did you come see her? And then she speaks again, ‘Thurina, you do not look well.’

‘It’s the February cold,’ you lie with a soft smile.

A tepid silence settles in, reaching into every pore of your skin. It fills and numbs you. You should not have come to see Aurelia Lucilla. You should not be here. But by all what is right, you should not be in this palace, playing at being an empress.

‘How is your sister?’ Lucilla asks after a while.

‘Unwell,’ you blurt out.

But perhaps this lapse in decorum is precisely what you needed.

Lucilla puts aside the lyre and adds, ‘As is Lucius.’

‘I am…’

‘Do not say that, for you are not to blame. No, no, this is just another… They were not always so cruel, Thurina,’ she tells you. ‘I saw them grew up, for their father kept me at court, much in the same manner as they do now. They were sweet children, truly, and they played games with Lucius. But that stopped, of course, when Septimius Severus decided to beat the friendship they felt for my son out of them. Their father is gone, but his cruelty lives on within his sons. My son is foolish, but that is all. And your sister, she is — well I think her vein, but that too does not warrant such a brutal punishment.’

Cruelty, brutality. Yes, that is the name for it. You have been sleeping with that malice at night, staring into its eyes at sunrise, and sharing every meal with it, all while pretending it is something else, something kinder and gentler. All while pretending it is not he who has cost you so much. Priscilla has not died randomly, your daughter was not taken from you by accident, and Nona was not condemned to violence by fate. It has all been the doings of the emperors, of your husband and brother-in-law. You know that, you have always know that, but you have never faced it. You are bound in matrimony to one of your greatest tormentors, and the other one pursues you even if it contradicts all mores. And you have only been playing along.

How disgusting you are.

‘I bid you a good day,’ you whisper in a hoarse voice.

As you rise, so does Aurelia Lucilla. She bows deep and you see her as from far away, from far outside of yourself.

You dismiss your ladies for the rest of the day and confine yourself to your rooms with your handmaidens and baby. Somewhere within yourself you find the energy to play with Telesina, placing blocks in various shapes into the right silhouettes cut out for it in a box. She is slowly starting to grow hair, locks in the same color as yours. Each day she seems to change just a little bit, and while one day you think she looks more like Cato, others she looks more like you.

But now she appears to you somehow akin to your husband. There is something of Caracalla in her laughter, and how she tries over and over again to put a cube in triangular shaped hole. While you nurse her, you find yourself imagining her growing up to become a redhead, surrounded by little brothers and sisters looking much the same. How strange. For years you wanted a large family, denied it for so long by your husband’s preferences, but now knowing this will be your predicament you feel quite like a caged bird. When Telesina is finally put to bed, you feign a headache and send Nerulla to excuse you from dinner. In the state you are in, nauseous with anger and frustration, you cannot possibly lay down beside your husband in the triclinum.

Dismissing help from your handmaidens, you change into the comfortable, long sleeved tunica in which you usually sleep. Even with the floor heated the cold seeps so deep into you that you slip on some socks and pull over your shoulders a thick blanket. All bundled up you slip into the sitting room to open the heavy wooden box Sejanus brought to the palace. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, you go through all the documents he gathered for you in silence. You barely register any of the scrolls’ contents. Lucilla’s words have somehow pulled you completely inside out. All the feelings you have subdued for weeks, months are now dripping out of you. The sense that an injustice has been done to you and all whom you have hold dear for years is simply unshakable. Everyday Caracalla tells you he loves you, but you do not feel loved. You feel owned.

The tears spill when you see what Sejanus has buried at the bottom of the box: the elaborate collection of letters which you had stored at Cato’s village just outside of Rome. Among it are letters you received from you aunt when you were a mere girl, recently married and not yet accustomed to the duties of a matron. Other letters come from cousins, now all dead, and old friends, some from Juventia Florentina as well. You cannot much say how your friendship fell into obscurity. She left to live in Gallia for a few years, as her husband had been called as an assistant to its praetor. When she returned to Rome Cato had just died and there was already talk of you joining the court in the bay of Neapolis.

You do not wish for her to be married to Geta, even if that would mean having her close by once more. It would be too cruel and you would not be able to protect her. You could not even protect Nona. How are you ever going to be able to keep your promise to her? How will you retrieve her by springtime?

The doors open and you wipe away the tears with the palms of your hands. There is no use in your husband seeing you like this. He would not understand your anger or sadness either way. He only loves you when you are happy, any other emotion you show him, makes him uneasy. But you recognize the footfall nearing you, and it is not Caracalla’s. It is Geta’s. Blinking you look up at him. In the dim orange light of the oil lamps, shadows move in an ethereal dance over his face, his kohl lined eyes. He is dressed, as usual, in fine clothes of black and silver. No silver laurels adorn his copper locks tonight. He should not be here. These are the quarters you share with his brother, in the next room sleeps your daughter, and in the other stands your matrimonial bed. Slowly you refold the letter you just opened, and all the while he gazes down at you in silence. His glare leaves an unpleasant scorch on your skin.

‘Sister, I came to check on you,’ he speaks in his low timbre.

‘You should not have.’ You carefully place the letter on the pile you created on the floor.

‘You look unwell,’ he insists. ‘Should I call for a doctor?’

You scoff. ‘It is only a headache.’

You move to stand, but the unsteadiness inside you makes you tremble. Only just in time Geta moves behind you, placing his hands on your waist to keep you in balance. The distance, which you both in silent agreement keep between the two of you, has been closed so easily. Now you feel him: his hands, placed firmly around your waist; his chest pressing against your back; his breath against the back of your head. Your mouth goes dry.

‘Perhaps you should go to sleep,’ he says softly.

When you try to move away from him, his grip on your waist tightens, keeping you in place.

‘What are you doing here?’ you ask carefully.

‘As I said —’ As if admitting defeat or error, his touch falls away from you and you turn to face him. ‘— I came to check on you. I was…’

He falters and his gaze slides over you, down, then up. He is letting it sink in, you in this state of undress. You adjust the blanket better over your shoulders.

‘Where is my husband?’ you ask.

‘Elsewhere occupied.’ You nod, yet before you can respond he adds in a more bitter tone, ‘With his concubines.’

You almost roll your eyes. This is precisely why you need to get this man married: his antics towards you are growing tiring. ‘Do you still expect me to be dismayed about what can be considered your brother’s natural behavior?’

‘There is nothing natural about my brother,’ Geta retorts.

‘Then you too must be very unnatural, Geta, giving you come from the same womb and seed.’ You turn away from him. ‘I will sleep this headache away. Good night.’

And then he reaches for you — your heart skips a beat as he wraps his hand around your wrist, pulling you back close.

‘What are y—’

With a sneer, he interrupts, ‘It is not a mere headache that plagues you.’

‘Let go of me!’

But he does not, instead he wraps his arm around you pulling you close so that the warmth of his body seeps into yours. Placing your hands on his chest you try to push him away, but there is more strength in him than you anticipated. How strange it is, the softness with which he speaks to you, ‘I can see it in your eyes: your anger, your… your disgust. I understand it, Thurina, I do. A woman like you — an empress should not be neglected so. Certainly not when in pain.’

‘You understand nothing,’ you mutter, just as he says, ‘Let me take care of you.’

With widened eyes you face his deep, dark irises. Thoughts swirl like a storm inside of you. There is so much you want to tell him, so much you want to scream at him. Yet you only whisper, ‘You made her marry him.’

A moment of silence passes before he, slightly retreating asks,

‘Who?’

‘My sister,’ you hiss, hitting your clenched fist on his chest. ‘You made her marry that man, knowing he would beat the liveliness right out of her. My sister, Geta, you condemned my sister to torment, and now you come to me. How dare you touch me? Who are you to speak of consoling me? You — you sick bastard, you understand nothing!’

Just then the doors open and to your sheer confusion in waltzes Caracalla, cheeks flushed, lazy smile on his face. Drunk.

‘Brother,’ he drawls, ‘how are you enjoying my wife?’

Mouth agape you let his words sink in, the tone of them. There is no ire in them, no animosity in them. Why does he react so unbothered to finding his wife in his brother’s arms?

‘Caracalla —’ Geta begins, his touch finally leaving you, but your husband goes on, ‘I have changed my mind. I want to fall asleep in my wife’s arms. Perhaps tomorrow you can have her.’

Have her. You put a step back from the both of them, only just escaping Caracalla’s greedy hands. A laugh, so beyond yourself, leaves your lips and you shake your head at the two of them. How they appear to you now — one brother intoxicated and unsteady, another brother suddenly distant and unsure — you feel quite the fool for allowing them to ruin your life.

‘You filth,’ you whisper.

Your husband fails to hear you, so he just reaches for you again. ‘Mellitula.’

Once more you step away. When you speak now, it is clearly, loudly, the disgust you feel almost tangible, ‘You vile creature.’

Caracalla stills. Geta seems to have the decency to turn away from you in shame.

‘You send your brother to me as if I were some whore?’ you demand.

Your husband frowns. ‘You are my dear wife, he my dear brother. If he wants to fuck you —’

‘He can go fuck himself,’ you sneer. ‘And you can fuck yourself too, husband.’

‘How — Wife, you forget —’ Caracalla begins, but when he tries to approach you, he stumbles over his own feet, falling to the ground.

You look down at him.

‘You forget, Caracalla, what I told you. I am from the noble gens of the Voluseni. I will not be touched upon anyone’s leisure but my own.’

He sits up on his knees, frowning like a boy. Geta finally turns to help his brother onto his feet, telling him, ‘Your wife is displeased.’

Yet as Geta speaks his eyes are on you. You cannot decode the strange, grim expression on his face.

‘But why?’ Caracalla exclaims, his voice a delicate tremble.

And you see in his gaze, that he truly does not understand.

‘She does not like this game,’ Geta notes.

Caracalla stands trembling slightly on his knees. ‘But…’

‘You must commend her, brother, for she is faithful to you,’ Geta tries to console him. ‘We have insulted her with our antics.’

‘It goes beyond mere insult,’ you intervene harshly. ‘I see now that while both of you claim to revere me, you only long to possess me. You hold no care for my wellbeing.’

‘Mellitula,’ Caracalla whines, but you shake your head.

‘What right do you have to call me that, when you so cruelly take away any and all who I hold dear? I never… I never wanted to ma —’

‘Volusena,’ Geta interrupts you.

A warning. One you do not heed.

‘I knew from the first time I saw you, you would make me miserable. For you are cruel even without realizing it. You do not even see what injustices you did to me.’ You take a deep breath, ignore Geta’s last plea to keep silent, and then you speak the words you should not speak, ‘I never wanted to marry you. I never wanted to be close to you. Yet, you made me. And now you want to make me your brother’s whore as well? I am beyond disgusted.’

A silence, followed by a small whisper. ‘I am… your husband.’

Dryly you note, ‘Unfortunately.’

The soft haze in his eyes dissipates. And something in him catches fire.

‘I am your husband!’ he repeats louder and suddenly he lunges for you.

Geta, just in time, wraps his arms around his brother’s waist and holds him back. Yet, even as he keeps Caracalla at bay, he glares at you with a piercing darkness.

‘I am your husband and I command you to… to… get on your knees. Get on your knees and ask for my forgiveness!’

You lit the flames. You do not mind burning now.

‘Brother, she is unwell, she does not know —’ Geta tries to calm him, but Caracalla sneers, ‘She is my wife! She should love me! She has to love me, adore me. And obey!’

In the distance a crying resounds. It are Telesina’s cries. Immediately the lucid calm makes way for panic. What have you done?

‘Wife, get on your knees!’

Somehow Caracalla manages to slip from his brother’s arms. He cups your face in his hands, pinching is fingertips in your cheeks, his nails scratching your skin.

‘Beg for forgiveness before I — I —’ His lips move but no more words spill from them.

Telesina’s shrieks echo inside you, but they do not seem to reach Caracalla. In him is only seething anger, and the unfolding determination to do something horrible. To you. And perhaps to her? All hollowed out you sink onto your knees, and lower your head, his touch slipping away from you.

‘I am sorry, husband.’

And you feel not quite like yourself anymore, when you reach for his hand and press your lips against the red ruby of one of his rings.

‘I am sorry,’ you repeat. ‘Please forgive me.’

'I forgive you.’ His fingers comb through your hair, yet it is without any emotion that he says, ‘Tell me… Swear to me. You love me.’

‘I love you,’ you find yourself saying, as if from afar. ‘I love you.’

Daring to raise your eyes, you find him looking down at you with trembling lips. ‘I love you too, mellitula. And it is with love that I sent my brother to you. To care for you, pleasure you. You know he has been yearning for you, and he would… honor you.’

‘I am your wife,’ you remind him.

‘You are empress. Geta is emperor. It is only right.’ He takes a breath and says, ‘But your loyalty to me graces you.’

Telesina’s crying thickens.

‘Let me go see to our daughter, husband,’ you plead.

He gives a slow nod, allowing you to rise. ‘After, come to bed. I think… Yes, I will place an heir inside your belly tonight. Perhaps that will calm you down.’

How you want to slap him. But Telesina is still crying. Telesina has her whole life ahead of her, while you are already halfway through. What does it matter if you are happy or not? You have had a decade of happiness; that must suffice. You look at your husband, at Geta’s undecipherable gaze from the shadows, and you decide you can endure them. You have to endure them. Telesina has her whole life ahead of her.

Caracalla retreats into your bedroom, but you turn the other way. To reach Telesina, you have to move past Geta. But he does not just let you slip away so easily. He hinders your way, only to whisper in your ear, ‘Of the Voluseni you may be, but you are empress now. You are touched upon my brother’s leisure, not your own.’

‘Do you not feel even the slightest bit ashamed, Geta?’ you whisper back. ‘To embarrass yourself so for your brother’s wife?’

He swallows and says, ‘Not anymore, Thurina. I will gratefully accept you, in whatever way I can.’

‘I can only be one man’s wife.’

‘I do not need you to be my wife. Make me marry whatever woman you please, but know that every thought I have will be of you.’

You scoff, try to move past him, but he grips your arm.

It is with delicateness that he says, ‘I promise you, that once you have lain with me, you will want me to return to your bed. I will not fuck you all clumsily and harshly like he does, I will make love to you, sister. I love you.’

‘A liar you are, just like your brother,’ you note.

And slipping from his grip, you step around him. Your daughter needs you.

Post-scriptum

Once Caracalla has fallen asleep, his seed still sticky between your legs, you slip from the bed and return to the box filled with estate listings and letters. As you expected, the box has a false bottom. You read the scroll inside of it by the glow of a dying oil lamp. The work Sejanus has done for you is priceless. Most names listed you recognize, having spent your whole life among Rome’s high society.

Yet, there is but one which truly consoles you.

The name Marcus Acacius stands at the top of the list of those inscribed in your coalition against Macrinus.

You read each name on the paper at least twenty times, differentiating carefully between those listed as friends, and those as enemies. You lock the precious information deep inside your memory, before burning the paper.

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A/N: Thank you everyone who shared their thoughts/hopes/ideas for the remainder of the fic. You all have such thrilling ideas, I hope to incorporate many of them in the actual fic. I feel much more inspired for the remainder of the fic, but alas - I still have little time to write.

I must admit, I did not plan on writing a fight between the RC, Geta and Caracalla, but I think many developments have been leading up to this. There is such a complicated tension between Caracalla and Geta's devotion for the RC, their expectation that she submits to all of their whims, and of course their habitual cruelty. Not to mention that, since the RC has been raised from childhood to be a man's obedient wife, I believe she lacks some fundamental vocabulary to make sense of what is happening to her. Yes, Caracalla married her and made her an empress, but neither Geta or Caracalla backed down from condemning a woman she considers to be her sister to a terrible fate. After all, I do think they still fail to see her as a true person, and not just as a wife, a mother, and a body to be used. Only Lucilla, who I think through her relationship with her brother understands the predicament of women in such very systemically patriarchal circumstances much better, could possibly help her realize the true weight of this.

This of course makes the fic quite dark, but well,,, I have been including the non-con/dub-con and misogyny tags since chapter 1?

[abundance-of-fic-reblogs]

CONFEARREATIO | EMPEROR CARACALLA

summary: your royal wedding to Emperor Caracalla

I am a history major, this is what a VERY RELIGIOUS roman wedding would have looked like, except with Caracalla.

kinda hate this and think it’s dumb but here you go anyway.

The atrium of your father's house, usually a place of familial warmth and bustling activity, was transformed. Polished marble gleamed under the light of numerous torches, and the air was thick with the scent of incense, mingling with the nervous energy of anticipation. Today was your sponsalia- the betrothal ceremony that would bind you, daughter of a respected patrician family, to Emperor Caracalla.

You stood beside your father, your posture straight despite the tremor in your heart. You were dressed in a simple, elegant white toga, a supposed symbol of your purity and status. Your hair, carefully styled by your personal ornatrix, was braided and adorned with delicate ribbons. You could feel the weight of tradition pressing down on you, the knowledge that this ceremony would alter the course of your life.

Senators, their faces solemn and dignified, filled the room. Thier clothes were immaculate, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and political calculation. Powerful men, used to commanding armies and shaping the fate of nations, were here to witness a marriage- a union that was as much about politics as it was about personal connection.

A hush fell over the room as Caracalla entered. He moved with a self-assured grace, his imperial bearing commanding attention. He was younger than you had imagined, his features sharp and intense, face framed by a head of red curls. His eyes were light, when they swept over the assembled guests, held a flicker of impatience, but when they finally settled on you, they burned with an intensity that made your breath catch.

He approached your father, his voice a low rumble that resonated through the atrium. Formal greetings were exchanged. Your father, usually a man of formidable presence, seemed slightly subdued in the Emperor's presence. The negotiations had been extensive, the dowry meticulously calculated to ensure your security and reflect your families standing.

The moment arrived. Your father took your hand, his touch both protective and resigned. He placed your hand in Caracalla's, the gesture formal and binding. A frisson of energy passed between you, something you hadn't expected, and you gazed at him.

Caracalla's hand was soft, his grip firm and possessive. He held your gaze, his eyes searching yours as he spoke the words of betrothal. His voice was soft and resonant, filled with atrium, the ancient Latin phrases echoing softly. You responded in kind, your voice slightly softer but equally resolute, pledging yourself to this man, this Emperor.

The ring, a simple gold band, was presented. Caracalla took it, his fingers brushing against yours as he slipped it onto the third finger of your left hand. The cold metal felt like a brand, marking you as his, a tangible symbol of the commitment you had just made. The symbolism of the third finger, believed to be connected directly to the heart, was not lost on you.

A contract, detailing the terms of the sponsalia, was signed by both parties and witnessed by the assembled dignitaries. The document outlined the agreed-upon dowry, the date of the wedding, and the obligations of both families. It was a stark reminder that this union was not solely a matter of the heart, but also a legal and political agreement.

Following the formal ceremony, a celebratory banquet was held. The atrium was transformed, tables laden with delicacies, music filling the air. You sat beside Caracalla, the center of attention, as guests offered toasts and congratulations. You played the part of the gracious betrothed, smiling and engaging in polite conversation, but beneath the surface, you were acutely aware of the man beside you.

Caracalla was a study in contrasts. He could be charming and charismatic, captivating those around him with his wit and charisma. But there was also a darkness lurking beneath the surface, a sense of volatility and untamed power. You sensed a complexity in him, a depth that both intrigued and intimidated you.

The days and weeks that followed the sponsalia were a whirlwind of preparations for the wedding itself. Seamstresses worked tirelessly on your tunica recta, the simple white tunic that symbolized purity and tradition. The fabric was the finest wool, imported from Gaul, its texture smooth and luxurious. The nodus Herculaneus, the intricate knot that would fasten the tunic, was a particular focus of attention. It was believed that only the groom could untie this knot, symbolizing the consummation of the marriage.

Your hair, destined for the elaborate sex crines hairstyle, required meticulous care. Skilled ornatrices visited your home daily, tending to your hair with oils and unguents, preparing it for the intricate braiding that would transform it into a regal crown. The six braids, reminiscent of the Vestal Virgins, symbolized chastity and virtue, qualities highly prized in a Roman bride, especially one marrying the Emperor.

The flammeum, the vibrant orange veil, was another crucial element of your bridal attire. Its fiery hue was believed to ward off evil spirits and protect the bride. The process of creating the flammeum was a closely guarded secret, involving rare dyes and intricate weaving techniques. When the veil was finally placed upon your head, it partially obscured your vision, creating an ethereal and somewhat surreal effect.

In the days leading up to the wedding, you participated in a series of rituals and traditions. You offered sacrifices to the household gods, seeking their blessings on your union. You spent time with your family, cherishing the last moments of your life as a daughter within your father's house.

The vigiliae, the offering of your childhood toys, was a particularly poignant moment. You gathered your dolls, figurines, and other cherished objects, arranging them carefully before presenting them to the children of your household and the surrounding neighborhood. It was a symbolic farewell to your innocence, a recognition that you were crossing a threshold into a new and unfamiliar world.

The day of the wedding arrived, and Rome was transformed into a spectacle of imperial grandeur. The ceremony was to be held in the Forum Romanum, the heart of the city, a space usually reserved for political gatherings and public events. Today, it was adorned with flowers, tapestries, and symbols of imperial power.

You awoke early that morning, your heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. You were bathed and dressed by your ancillae, your personal attendants, their hands gentle and reverent. The tunica recta was placed upon you, its simple elegance belying the hours of painstaking work that had gone into its creation.

Your hair was styled into the elaborate sex crines, each braid a testament to the skill of the ornatrices. The hasta caelibaris, the spearhead, was carefully placed to secure the braids, its sharp point a reminder of the ancient tradition of bride capture. Finally, the flammeum was placed upon your head, its vibrant orange a stark contrast to the white of your tunic.

You were led from your father's house in a grand procession. Senators, priests, and Vestal Virgins formed an honor guard, their presence lending an air of solemnity and importance to the event. The streets were lined with cheering citizens, their voices a mixture of awe and celebration. The sheer scale of the event was overwhelming, a testament to the power and reach of the Roman Empire.

As you approached the Forum, you could see the raised platform, draped in crimson and gold, where the ceremony would take place. It was a magnificent sight, a stage set for a drama of epic proportions. The air was thick with the scent of incense and flowers, and the murmur of the crowd was a constant hum of anticipation.

You ascended the platform, your steps measured and deliberate. The crowd fell silent as you appeared, their eyes fixed on you, the bride of the Emperor. You felt a sense of vulnerability, but also a sense of pride. You were about to become Empress of Rome.

Caracalla was already on the platform, resplendent in his imperial robes. He stood imposing, his gaze fixed on you as you approached. There was an intensity in his eyes, a raw power that both thrilled and intimidated you.

The ceremony began. The Pontifex Maximus, the high priest of Rome, officiated, his voice booming across the Forum. He invoked the gods, particularly Jupiter and Juno, beseeching their blessings on your union. The prayers were long and elaborate, filled with ancient pronouncements and solemn vows.

The farreum libum, the sacred cake of spelt, was presented. It was a massive creation, decorated with intricate carvings and symbols of fertility and prosperity. The Vestal Virgins, their presence adding a touch of divine grace to the proceedings, had prepared it with their own hands.

The moment arrived for the exchange of vows. You turned to Caracalla, your heart pounding in your chest. "Ubi tu Caius, ego Gaia," you declared, your voice clear and strong, the ancient words resonating across the Forum.

Caracalla's response was equally solemn, his voice deep and resonant. "Ubi tu Gaia, ego Caius." His gaze locked with yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to fade away. There was only you and him, bound together by these ancient words.

The dextrarum iunctio followed. You extended your right hand, and Caracalla took it in his. His grip was firm, his touch sending a shiver of electricity up your arm. It was a simple gesture, yet it felt profoundly intimate, a joining of two souls in the heart of the Empire.

The anointing with oil was a sacred ritual. The fragrant liquid was smoothed onto your foreheads, a blessing from the gods. Caracalla, in a bold move that deviated from tradition, declared that you would share his name and title, Empress of Rome. The crowd erupted in cheers, a testament to your newfound status and the Emperor's favor.

The tabulae nuptiales, the marriage contract, was presented. The document, written in elegant Latin, detailed the terms of your union, the dowry, and the legal implications of your marriage. You signed your name with a steady hand, your signature a symbol of your acceptance of this new role.

The domum deductio, the procession to Caracalla's residence on the Palatine Hill, was a spectacle of unparalleled magnificence. You and Caracalla rode in a golden chariot, drawn by white horses, through the cheering crowds. The streets were adorned with flowers and tapestries, and the air was filled with music and the scent of incense.

The symbolic "kidnapping" was a brief but significant moment. As strong men lifted you from the chariot, feigning a struggle, you couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement. It was a reminder of the ancient traditions, a nod to the founding myths of Rome.

Being carried over the threshold of the imperial residence was a moment of profound transition. As Caracalla lifted you in his arms, you felt a sense of finality, a crossing of a boundary into a new and unknown chapter of your life. The cheers of the crowd faded behind you as the heavy doors closed, sealing you inside the opulent palace.

The wedding feast was a lavish affair, a display of imperial wealth and power. Tables groaned under the weight of exotic delicacies, and the finest wines flowed like water. You sat beside Caracalla, the center of attention, as guests offered toasts to your health and happiness.

You played the role of the gracious Empress, smiling and engaging in polite conversation, but beneath the surface, you were increasingly aware of Caracalla's presence beside you. He was attentive, his gaze lingering on you, his touch possessive whenever he guided you or offered you a drink.

As the night wore on, the guests began to depart, their laughter and well-wishes echoing through the vast halls of the palace. Finally, you and Caracalla were left alone. The silence that descended was heavy with anticipation, thick with unspoken desires.

Caracalla led you to the imperial bedchamber. The room was even more opulent than the banquet hall, draped in rich fabrics and illuminated by flickering oil lamps. The air was heavy with the scent of exotic perfumes and the subtle aroma of incense.

He turned to you, his expression a complex mixture of desire and tenderness. He reached out, his hand gently tracing the line of your jaw. "Gaia," he said, his voice husky and low, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

He carefully removed the flammeum from your head, his touch lingering on your hair as it cascaded down your shoulders. Then, with deliberate movements, he began to untie the nodus Herculaneus at your waist. The simple act felt charged with erotic tension, a prelude to the intimacy that was to come.

As the tunica recta slipped from your body, pooling at your feet, you felt a surge of nervousness, but also a growing sense of excitement. Caracalla's gaze intensified, his eyes burning with a hunger that made your heart pound in your chest.

He stepped closer, his hands reaching out to explore your body. His touch was both demanding and reverent, his fingers tracing the curves of your hips, the swell of your breasts. You gasped softly, your breath catching in your throat.

What followed was an exploration of passion, a merging of bodies that was both primal and sacred. Caracalla's movements were deliberate, his control absolute, yet he treated you with a tenderness that belied his fierce reputation. He was a man of extremes, and he approached intimacy with the same intensity he brought to everything else.

You surrendered to the moment, allowing yourself to be swept away by the sensations. His kisses were deep and demanding, his touch igniting a fire within you that you never knew existed. You arched against him, your body responding to his with an eagerness that both surprised and thrilled you.

In that moment, surrounded by the echoes of history and the weight of tradition, you were no longer just a pawn in a political game. You were a woman, desired and cherished by the most powerful man in the world. And as you and Caracalla became one, you knew that your life was irrevocably changed, bound to his in a way that transcended the bonds of marriage and empire.

[abundance-of-fic-reblogs]

An Eventful Evening 彡 Geta x f!reader x Caracalla

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Pairing: Geta x f!reader x Caracalla

Synopsis: You finally give into them, so they reward you by teaching you how to please an emperor

Wordcount: 2,7k

Tags: Smut 18+ minors DNI, threesome, oral (both m and f receiving), implied breeding kink, degrading kink, praise kink, fingering, male masturbation, hint of deepthroathing, cuckolding (?), dirty talk, nipple play, Caracalla has mommy issues its canon

A/N: The long awaited smut! I have decided to make it a little serie since y’all love it so much. Decided to make Geta and Calla a bit of polar opposites. I love pathetic mommy’s boy Calla and dom teasing Geta sm. If you wished to get tagged in the next part please join the taglist here!

While sitting at your vanity desk, you let your maid brush your hair, in your hands you nervously play with the coral bracelet that Geta had gifted you a while back. The night air swept through the room, making the silk curtains dance ever so slightly. It was a calm night, the calmest night since you had gotten to Rome so far. Usually, you could hear a banquet from one of the senators, one of the emperors’ orgies or a mewling cat on the streets. But not tonight. It was eerily quiet on Palantine Hill. You had promised the twins you would join them for dinner and you knew where that was going to lead. You wanted to make sure you looked presentable and to their liking. Since noon you had been busy. Your maid, Alba, knew exactly what the two emperor’s would like. She had soaked you in donkey milk bath, scrubbing you squeaky clean. Then she insisted on rubbing beeswax with saffron on your skin. Alba knew exactly what she was doing. Deep down you had no idea what to expect. Of course, you knew how everything worked. You just had never done it.

“You will make a fine empress, my lady.” Alba spoke as she applied some rouge on your cheeks. You looked at yourself in the mirror. She had applied some paste to make your skin more even, erasing any blemish you might have. You didn’t look like yourself, but if this is what the twins would want you to look like you were going to have to get used to it.

“I am no empress yet, Alba.” You nervously roll the beads of red coral between your fingers. “What if I am not to their liking? They will throw me away like a used toy.” You couldn’t help but confess your worries to her.

“They would not have vouched for your attention this long if they do not want to keep you around.” Alba helps you into your gown. It was a sheer silken stola that had a slight purple tint to it and gold trimmings. Your nipples harden because of the cold air, perking through the sheer fabric. You had decided to keep your hair down, an intimate gesture. Despite the simple look, you thought you looked beautiful.

Alba smiles at you. “Trust me, my lady, they seem to be fond of you.” She continued to brush your hair, letting the shiny locks fall into her caring hands. “They have not been interested in a noble lady before, they must intend to marry you.”

The thought was exciting to you. To be the empress of the greatess nation on the planet. Not only that, you would have both the emperors’ attention and love. It also made you nervous, you grew up on the country side. How would you manage to actually survive in a city like Rome for the rest of your life. Surely, there were people here that would want you dead. It was a threat you rarely faced back home.

Home. You did miss home a lot. Your family, the animals and most definitely the peace and quiet. Almost every night in Syracuse was as quiet as this night in Rome. But Rome was your new home now, you knew the emperors would not let you leave after tonight. Not that you minded, you came to enjoy the idea of living with them over time. Besides, Clemens would come to the city soon. You would have your family close again.

A knock on the door made both of you turn your head. It was soldier. He had told you the twins were ready to receive you. You inhale and exhale deeply, pushing down your nerves. After bidding Alba farewell you followed the soldier. Alba had given you a sympethetic look as you left, She knew your faith, as did you.

The soldier announces your name and titles as you entered their chambers. You took a good look around. The room was twice as big as your own. The dining table was already filled with all sorts of food. You followed the marble pillars in the room to a bed. They were making you have dinner in one of their bedrooms.

“Please have a seat, my lady.” Geta’s voice made you flinch. Caracalla was already seated at the table, slouched in his seat. He did not say a word, biting the nail of his thumb as he watched you. Geta offers his hand for you to take, leading you to your seat. He was at the head of the table, Caracalla was across from you. “I hope the food is to your liking, it would be a waste to throw it all away because of your lack of appetite.” There was a certain threat in his voice. They did not want you to wither away as you have been these last few weeks.

“The food looks divine, Ceres has truly given us her blessing this year.” You smile politely while grabbing a fig. The juice was dripping down your chin after you bit into the ripe fruit.

Caracalla had been watching you the entire time. First just your face, then he noticed your gown. Without any shame he had been staring at your chest, then back at your face, and then your chest again. Still, not a word came out of his mouth.

“I assume your brother has received our invite?” Geta spoke again, his voice echoed through the room. “You see, our citizens get rewarded if they are compliant, my lady.” A grin spreads onto his features. Suddenly, Caracalla was watching his brother. Geta gets up to walk to the side of the bed, he never was a patient man. “Come.” He basically commands you.

“But your majesty, the food-”

“I said come.” His tone was harsher. There was no room for debate. You get up, your hands folded infront of you as you walk to Geta. Like a cat, Caracalla maneuvered around you as he followed you to the bed.

“That wasn’t that hard, now was it.” He reached out to touch your body, his hand landing on your hips. It trailed up to your breast, brushing softly over your nipple. Geta watches your reaction like a predator watching its prey. “You have been so good to me, to Caracalla. Haven’t you?” He whispers as his thumb circled over your hard nipple, he got a small moan in return. You could feel the heat rise between your legs.

You look around, trying to find Caracalla. He had managed to sit down on the bed without you noticing. There was a big smile on his face as he watches his brother take what he wanted to have for weeks now, the look on his face mirroring that of when he was watching the games in the Colosseum.

After brushing over your nipple one more time, Geta’s hand travelled up to wrap around your neck. He wasn’t squeezing your throat hard, it was probably to test your reaction. When he noticed you did not protest he moved to slip his fingers under the straps of your stola. Gently, he pushes them off your shoulders, making the gown pool around your ankles. The sight alone of you, bare, in front of him made his loins stir.

There you stood, naked. The cold night air hit your skin, making you shiver. Geta’s smile only grew when he finally got see what he had been dreaming about all this time. He places a finger under your chin, making you look up him. “You have been hiding this beauty under those clothes all this time.” Geta brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, moving his hand to cup your cheek. “You want this, don’t you?” He was coaxing the right answer out of you.

You couldn’t even speak, your desire clouding your moan. Not trusting your voice to do the talking, you just merely nodded. In return you got a hum of approval from Geta. “Let me show you how to please your emperor.” He turned to Caracalla, who was still sitting in silence on the bed.

Geta leads you to the bed and within the blink of an eye, Caracalla was all over you. His lips were attached to your breast, his hands softly kneeding the other. He sucked them like a man dying of thirst. ”You are so divine, my love. The Gods should hide in shame because of your beauty.” He muttered between his kisses.

You lean back against Geta’s firm chest, who was drinking up every sound you made. His large hands find your thighs, slowly spreading them for his brother. Caracalla latched off your breast and smiled at the sight of your wet cunt. He couldn’t help himself as he lowered himself between your thighs, leaving a trail of kisses on your stomach. “So beautiful.” He spoke before diving between your legs, lapping at your core.

You couldn’t control the moans that left your lips. With the way Caracalla was eating you out and the way he was looking up at you, you felt like you were up in the clouds with the Gods. “You like that don’t you? Not so innocent now hmm?” Geta started to whisper all sorts of filth in your ear. “Can’t wait to fuck you pregnant, would you like that my lady?” You could feel his hardness against your lower back, he was getting off on watching his brother eat you out.

“Yea — ah, Yes please.” You moan as Caracalla sticks two fingers into your sopping cunt, he was going to have to prepare your virgin hole to take either one of them. He slowly pumps them into you as you started whining. “You sound almost like a whore, my love. Are you sure that we are you are not a whore?” Geta bit your earlobe as he continued to speak depravities into your ear. “Well?”

“No! Y-You’re my first.” You couldn’t even think straight any more. This was unlike anything you had ever felt before. Of course you had tried pleasuring yourself, but in the fear of your father finding out you always stopped your attempts before you got anywhere. This was all extremely overwhelming.

Caracalla removes his mouth from your core. He sucks on your breast again, his fingers still pumping into you. It leaves you feeling needy so you turn to look at Geta. He smiled, kissing your cheek. “Is the lady needy?” He says as his hand travels to your clit, his finger softly rubbing the sensetive bud while his brother still had his fingers inside you.

It was all a bit too much. They’re hands were everywhere, turning you into a moaning mess. The combination of Caracalla moaning sweet nothingness’ and Geta whispering absolute filth into your ear made your head do summersaults.

With the way you were clenching around his fingers Caracalla knew you were going to orgasm soon. He dove between your legs again. “Wanna taste you cum.” He mumbles, pushing Geta’s hands away so he could suck on your clit again.

Geta was smirked, you could feel it against your ear. “You’re gonna cum already? Go on, cum on your emperor’s tongue.” His hands strays upwards to play with your tits. Just as you were about to cum, Geta kissed you, swallowing up all your soft moans. Your orgasm washed over you, painting Caracalla’s tongue with your juices.

You laid against Geta’s chest for a moment, catching your breath. Caracalla gave your pussy another kiss before sitting up straight and giggling at your blissful face. “We should have that painted, hang it up for the senate to see.” He grins as he sits on his knees, his cock painfully hard through his blue robes.

“Such a good girl.” Geta wiped his spit of your lips. “We have been awfully generous, how about you return the favor, hmm sweetheart?” He nodded toward Caracalla.

“I don’t— I’ve never done that before.” You stumble over your words after you understand what he was getting at.

“Don’t worry, I told you I would teach you wouldn’t I?” He said, gently placing a hand on the beak of your head and pushing it down. You followed his lead, hovering your face above Caracalla’s dick. It was larger than you expected, bright red and standing proud.

“Spit.” He told you. You opened your mouth and let the spit fall onto Caracalla’s cock. “Now give it a few pumps.” Like a dog you obeyed his command, wrapping your hand around his member. It felt heavy in your hands. “And now you suck it like the good little whore you are.” Geta pushed your head a little again.

You followed his lead once more, wrapping your lips around the tip. Caracalla threw his head slightly back at the feeling of your warm lips. He replaces Geta’s hands on your head, burrying his hands into your hair. “You gotta—” He helps you bop you head on a comfortable pace. “Just like that, so pretty. Taking me so well.”

You could feel Geta move around on the bed, you nearly choked on Caracalla’s dick when you felt Geta drag his tip along your wet slit. Instictively, you moved your hips back. Geta clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Tch, you would like that wouldn’t you? Want me to fuck you full of cum.” He collected your slick with his dick, giving himself a few strokes before he sat down next to his brother.

“Such a nasty girl. Not tonight tho. Wouldn’t want to upset Juno by giving you my child before we are wed.” Geta knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted you to crave this as much as he craved you. And as far as he could tell from the way your pussy was drooling for him, it was working.

“Can you stop it. She is supposed to be paying attention to me.” Caracalla sneered at his brother, giving your head a harder push. He tried his luck, pushing your head all the way down so your nose touched his red hair. When he noticed you struggling he quickly let you go.

“As long as you don’t break her, she isn’t one of your whores.” Geta retorted, jacking off to the sight of you sucking dick. The tears in your eyes only spurring him on more

Carcalla was a little gentler, but his grip on your hair was still rough. The sounds he made went from groans to desperate whines and moans. Once again, he melted under your touch. He was petting your head, mumbling incoherent sentences. His cock hit the back of your throat when he started bucking his hips.

“Can I cum in your mouth? Please?” Geta had never seen Caracalla ask, but something in you brought that side out of him. It was beautifull display, watching his future empress naked on all fours sucking cock. He didn’t care that it was his brothers’.

Before you could even try to reply, Caracalla pushed your head down again. With a breathy moan he came in your mouth, shooting rope after rope of hot seed into your throat. He let you stay there for a moment, before letting you go.

When your mouth popped off, Geta quickly moved his finger under your chin. “Not yet. Just hold it in there a little longer.” He kneels, furiously pumping his cock infront of your lips. “Open up sweetheart.” With his fingers he pried open your mouth, shooting his cum into your mouth aswell.

He sits down in front of you when he was done, both their seed mixed in your mouth. Geta placed a hand on your throat. “Now swallow.” He could feel both their loads get swallowed, a smirk on his face as he watched.

Gently, Caracalla crawls to kiss you everywhere. Your neck, your cheek, your lips. “You’re so good to me. So sweet.” He mumbles as his hands kneed at your flesh again. Like a needy child he pulls you close to lay with him in the bed, revelling in your warmth. He latched onto one of your nipples again, sucking it softly. Though this time it seemed he did it for comfort, not as a sexual act.

Geta sits next to you. He looks at you, a gentle look on his face. “Are you alright?” He asks, cupping your cheek.

“I am fine.” You smile, your voice was a bit hoarse. “That was fun.”

He kisses your forehead, also laying down besides you. He leans in close, his hands around your waist. “Can’t wait to pump you full of my children, my empress.”

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both arms cradle you now - emperor geta

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The chambers were quiet, cool, dark. The torches flickered against the wall, providing little light. You were waiting anxiously - you were always anxious waiting on these nights. So many things could go wrong, disastrously so.

You tensed as you heard footsteps coming down the hall - the moment of truth. This was always the scariest part, the unknown, the potential for trouble. You wrung your hands together, fussing with the material of your tunic.

The footsteps neared. You could see the light from the torch they were carrying. Then, around the corner - you released a breath, a smile spreading across your lips at the sight of your love, your emperor.

He returned the smile, one that was rarely seen on his regal face. He stowed the torch on the wall and approached you quickly, arms wrapping around your waist in a tight embrace.

“My love,” he greeted you, his voice full of emotion. “I have missed you.”

“I think I’ve missed you more.” You were smiling so big your face hurt, your heart beating rapidly against his chest, a mix of fear and longing.

Geta leaned down with his tall frame and kissed you, his hand tenderly resting on your cheek. His lips were slightly dry. He had been working too hard, stressing too much, not taking care of himself. But here with you, he could feel like himself. He could feel loved.

When he pulled away, those anxious thoughts crept into your head again. “Where is-“

“Shh,” he shushed you with his finger against your soft lips. “I do not want to speak of her. I am here with you.”

You always thought of the Empress. The woman who had what you wanted more than anything in the world. You knew the marriage was political, you knew there was no love between them, but it stung. Another woman shared a bed with your love. Another woman had his hand in marriage.

But you had his heart.

“Let me lay with you,” he whispered. “Let me be here with you tonight. Let us not worry of anything else. Tonight, I am yours.”

Before you could protest, Geta’s lips were pressing to yours once more. He pressed forward, walking you back to your bed. You often wondered what it might be like to lay with Geta in his bed - you imagined it was much more comfortable. But that was impossible, and he never complained.

He laid you down gently, his hands caressing down your body. He climbed over you, his lips never leaving yours. His thick thigh slotted between your legs, rubbing against your core. You were so needy for each other - these dalliances were rare, you had to savor them when they happened, even though you had little time together before Geta was expected somewhere.

No one could find out about you. It would make him look like a weak ruler, turn public opinion against him. Rome always came first. Even when he didn’t want it to.

Geta’s lips worked down to your neck while his large hands slid up your tunic. You had prepared specifically for this, spending extra time in the bathhouse, coating your skin in his favorite scents. He breathed you in, his favorite drug.

He undressed you swiftly, his eyes hungry for more of you. Your hands worked at his tablion before removing his robes, his gorgeous, toned body revealed to you. How lucky you were, to see all of your emperor in this way.

His cock was already hard, ruddy tip leaking from his desire. He could never control himself around you, always needed you right away. He thought of you constantly in the times you were apart, always looking forward to the next chance he had to be alone with you.

Once your tunic was gone his mouth went straight for your breasts, mouth eagerly wrapping around your nipple as he sucked, his tongue running over the nub before he grazed his teeth ever so gently over it, making you gasp. He loved the little noises you’d make, they got him going like nothing else.

“Beloved,” he groaned against your breasts, nipping gently at the skin, leaving marks. “You are divine. You are a blessing from the gods themselves, placed in my hands. All mine.”

You loved his words, but there was always that nagging voice in the back of your head that you weren’t his. You were just a slave. He was the Emperor. He had a wife. The negative thoughts made their way back, tears welling in your eyes. Geta noticed immediately.

“My dove,” he murmured, a hand on your chin turning your gaze to meet his. “Why do you cry?”

“It’s just…” You tried to hold his gaze, but found your eyes dropping. “I just wish we could be together.”

Geta’s chest ached. He wanted that more than anything. He would give anything for your happiness, anything to have you. But it was impossible. There was simply no way.

“I know, my love,” he said. “As do I. But let us not think of it now. I am here, and I want to make you feel good. I want to be one with you. I want to show you how much I love you.”

You tried not to dwell as he went back to kissing all over your body, throbbing cock pressed against your core. He slowly rocked his hips, cock sliding just between your folds, coating himself in your wetness. He longed to bury himself inside you, to thrust in to the hilt and take you for his own.

He reached between you to line himself up, pressing just barely inside you before pulling back out, teasing you - and himself. You whimpered at the loss before he was pushing back into you, his girth stretching you like no other man could.

“Geta-“ you let out a choked moan as he filled you in a single strong, slow thrust, his low groans vibrating against your neck.

“You feel incredible,” he groaned against your skin, rolling his hips in a slow pace, savoring the feeling of being inside of you. Every inch of him was buried into you, the pleasure all encompassing for you both. “Like no other.”

You hated the thought of your love with other women. You knew he had been, of course. He was married, after all, and before you there had been others, concubines. It still twisted your heart in your chest. Knowing you were his favorite (and his only, now) only soothed the sting a little.

The thoughts were pushed from your head as he thrusted particularly deep, cock pressing against your bundle of nerves in the way only he could. Geta was the only man who had ever brought you to orgasm, and he made sure to every time. He loved it. He loved bringing you pleasure.

His large hands spread your legs wide, and he looked down to where you were joined, a soft whimper escaping the emperor’s lips at the sight. His pace faltered for a moment, hips stuttering into you as he lost control for only a brief moment.

“Fuck,” he let out in a quick breath, his fingers digging into the skin of your thighs. You thought about examining your body later, seeing all the proof of Geta’s claim. He liked to mark you up, liked to see you around the palace with the proof of what he’d done to you, although he was the only one who knew.

You clutched onto his strong arms, whining as he began to pound into you. Your back was arching, vision going spotty, nerve endings coming alive. Your body felt like pure energy, a storm brewing deep in your core.

“Geta…” you cried, your hips moving up to meet his thrusts. “I’m…”

“I know, my dove,” he said, eyes meeting yours, looking deeply into them. “I can feel you. Can feel you clenching around me, needy little thing. Go on and cum for me, cum for your emperor.”

Your mouth dropped into a wide O as you felt it, that feeling Geta brought you every time. It spread through your body like lightning, and you came hard, crying his name over and over. 

Geta bent over, burying his face between your breasts, placing kisses all over them as he grunted with every thrust until he was stilling, filling you deeply with his spend. Your mind was so hazy from your orgasm you didn’t think twice about how he didn’t pull out and finish on your stomach and breasts the way he usually did.

Geta’s trembling hands held onto you for a while longer as he breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. When he finally did, he pulled out of you, rising from the bed and reaching for his clothing.

You watched, your heart sinking. “Must you leave so soon?”

He turned to you, his expression genuinely hurt. “I must. I am sorry, little dove. I will be back as soon as I possibly can.” He reached for you, his hand resting on your cheek. “You know how they watch. It is not so easy to slip away.”

You understood, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. Instead you laid there, still naked with Geta’s seed between your legs, as he dressed and placed a final kiss to your lips and the top of your head before leaving.

And you were alone once again.

It had been but a few months since that night with Geta when you knew something was wrong.

Your cycle was regular. It was something you could count on. When it didn’t arrive, that was your first worry. Then your breasts began to swell and ache, sensitive even to the feeling of your clothing rubbing against them. When you noticed the slightest rounding of your stomach, you knew there was no denying it. You were pregnant with the Emperor’s child.

He didn’t visit for a while. It always hurt when he didn’t come, having to see him through the palace acting as if he didn’t know you. It was like a sword to the chest, yet a pain you knew all too well.

When you received a missive through Geta’s most trusted courier, a message letting you know he would be coming, your anxiety increased. This was it. You would have to tell him. How would he react? Would he be angry? Happy? That was naive, you thought. You would never be a family.

This pregnancy could have you killed. Your child could be born into slavery. The thought itself made you sick to your stomach.

So as you paced your chambers, waiting for Geta’s arrival, you thought and thought. There had to be something you could do to save the child. There had to be.

You heard his footsteps. As always, you tensed, listening closely. When he came inside, a soft smile spreading across his face at the sight of you, you let out a breath. He always brought a comfort that wasn’t entirely logical.

He said your name gently as he approached, taking your soft hands in his. Your returned his smile, wanting nothing more than to collapse into his arms and tell him everything, and have him tell you it would be alright. 

His eyes roamed your body, as if he could see a change but didn’t put it together. His large hands came to rest on your hips, rubbing your body over your clothes.

“I have missed you,” he muttered, his head dipping towards you, lips nearing yours. You accepted the kiss, but when he tried to deepen it and you knew where it was headed, you gently pushed at his chest. He moved back, looking down at you with his brows drawn together.

“What is the matter, my dove?”

You didn’t know what to do. He would know once your clothing came off. You had to tell him. But how? “Geta…”

His hand rested on the side of your face, thumb gently tracing your bottom lip. “Something is bothering you.”

“I…” You paused, unsure how to continue. “My cycle…it…I didn’t…”

Geta just stared at you. Then, a grave understanding passed over his already pale face. “Oh.”

You watched his face for any further reaction. But he had withdrawn into himself, his mask he never wore around you coming over his features. Your heart sunk. Was he angry with you? Would he - gods forbid - have you killed to keep his secret? 

He looked away from you and you watched as he lifted a shaking hand and ran it through his ginger hair, blowing out a long breath. He began to pace your chambers, shoes scuffing against the floor. This was a version of him you knew from around the palace - stressed, thinking, burdened. You were his only reprieve from this form of himself, yet here he was.

“Geta…” you said gently, taking a tentative step forward. He held up a hand harshly and you stopped in place, startled. He was never this way with you.

He turned toward you, face immediately softening at your hurt expression. “I am sorry, my dove,” he said, walking back over to you. His hands rested on your upper arms. “But this is…”

You blinked back tears. You knew there was no happy ending. Nothing you had dreamed would come true. It was foolish. You were foolish.

He wiped at your tears with his thumb. “Please do not cry,” he whispered. “I hate when you are sad. Please. We…we will figure this out.”

That surprised you. “What do you mean?” you said, your voice cracking.

“I will not let harm come to you,” he said firmly. His eyes glanced down at your stomach. “Either of you.”

“But what can we do?”

“I…” He looked down. “I do not know. But I will find something.” His hands dropped from you and he moved to sit on your bed. “Come lay with me for now. I wish to hold you.”

You obeyed your emperor, walking slowly until you reached the small bed. He laid down, holding out an arm for you. You fit yourself into the mold of his body, your back pressed against his chest. You could feel his breathing as he wrapped his arm around you, holding you close.

His hand caressed your arm, your side, until he hesitantly reached forward and placed it over your stomach. His breath hitched as he felt the bump there, the proof of the life growing inside you. The life you had created together. You could feel his heart thudding against your back.

He didn’t move away. Instead, he placed a soft kiss to the back of your shoulder, rubbing your stomach. His mind raced. His emotions confused him. This was not good. This was disastrous. Yet, he was happy. The thought of you carrying his child, the child he had given you, warmed him from the inside out. He imagined what the child might look like, if it would be a boy or a girl.

He knew he would never know.

When you awoke, Geta was gone. You must have fallen asleep in his arms and he snuck out after. You had never fallen asleep with him before, but your bed suddenly felt much colder than it ever had.

You went about your day, your mind on the child growing inside you. You felt a fierce protectiveness. You looked over your shoulder throughout the day, terrified someone knew of your secret and would be coming for you. But no one bothered you.

When you returned to your chambers, you were surprised to find Geta waiting there for you.

“Geta…?” you asked hesitantly to the man sitting on your bed, his head in his hands. At the sound of your voice he looked up, standing and walking to you. He pulled you into a tight hug, holding you close to his large body.

“My dove…” he muttered into your hair, not letting you separate an inch from him.

“Geta…what is it?” you asked him, pushing him back only enough to look into his dark brown eyes.

“I…”

You could see pain in his expression, and that terrified you. You held onto him tighter. “Please. Tell me.”

His trembling hand came to rest on your cheek. “You know I love you. More than anything on this earth or above it.”

Your heart beat faster. “Yes. I love you, too-“

“I would do anything to protect you. And our child.” His voice cracked on the last word, as if he were choking back tears. You had never seen him cry.

“What is it?” you whispered, eyes searching as if something in his face would tell you.

“I’ve arranged to have you sent away,” he said.

Your heart stopped. “What?”

“It is the only way,” he said, and you could tell it was the painful truth. “They will have you both killed. I cannot have that. I will never let that happen, do you hear me? I will never let that happen.”

“So you’re sending me away?” you asked. “Alone?”

“You will be safe in the countryside,” he said. “I have arranged for you to stay with a family there. They will take care of you and the child. You will get the care you need. You will be safe.”

Your lips parted, tears welling in your eyes. Geta watched as they fell, helpless to take your pain away. Helpless to take his own pain away. “Will I ever see you again?”

He didn’t know how to answer that. His lack of an answer brought more tears, and he pulled you into his chest, rubbing your back.

“I would do anything to keep you both safe,” he whispered again. “Anything.”

His heart cracked as he held your shaking body, sobbing into his chest, soaking his tunic. His own eyes brimmed with unshed tears. He had to be strong for you, especially now, despite the intense despair he felt, the hopelessness.

“I will try to write to you,” he said. “I will try to visit.”

Try. You knew deep in your body that you would never see Geta again. But if it was the only way to keep the child safe, you would do it. You had no choice. You pulled back and looked up at him with red rimmed eyes. Your emperor, your love. The man Rome was terrified of, your only comfort. The only person who had ever loved you properly.

“I do not want to lose you,” you admitted, voice weak.

“You will not.” He took your hands in his and kissed the knuckles. “I will love you until my dying breath.”

With your few belongings packed, you stood outside the palace. Servants loaded your bag into the back of the carriage. You looked around, wondering if Geta would come to say goodbye. No one came.

“Are you ready?” the carriage driver asked you, tearing you from your reverie. 

You blinked the tears out of your eyes. “Yes.”

You climbed into the carriage, and then you were off. Off to a new life. You rested your hand over your stomach, thinking of Geta. You allowed yourself to dream for only a moment of a life together. Geta holding the tiny babe, small fingers wrapped around his. The child of the emperor. Not that they would ever know it.

While you were still lost in thought, the carriage stopped abruptly, jolting you forward. You felt the panic rising in you, and you covered your stomach with your arms protectively.

“Wait!”

But you knew that voice. You opened the door and stepped out, seeing Geta running towards you from his own carriage. Both drivers looked forward, giving you privacy as if they weren’t even there.

He wrapped his arms around you once he reached you, pulling you close to his body. “My love,” he said. “I could not let you go without saying goodbye.”

The tears were back, streaming down your face. You clutched onto him tightly, wishing he’d never let you go. When he pulled back to look you in the eyes, he stroked your hair gently.

“The gods truly blessed me when they brought you to me,” he said quietly. “But my life has always been nothing but sacrifice.”

“Come with me,” you said, foolishly, knowing it could never be so, but desperate for him, desperate to hold onto him. “Come with us.”

Something broke in him then. “I cannot,” he said, and all the pain in his body could be heard in the words. “I wish I could. More than anything, I wish I could run with you. But I belong to Rome.”

You looked up at him with tear stained cheeks. “Will I ever see you again?”

“I will do everything in my power to see you again,” he said, and you knew that was the best promise he could make you. “I love you. If you remember anything about me, remember that. You will be in my heart for all of eternity.”

He pressed his lips to yours, not caring that the drivers were still nearby. He put all of his emotions into that kiss, both of you could feel it through your bodies like a current. He pulled away, and stepped backwards, reluctantly dropping your hand.

“Be well,” he said. “I love you, my little dove. I love both of you more than I have ever loved anything.”

You watched with a broken heart as he climbed back into his carriage and they left, heading back towards the city. You felt in your chest it would be the last time you ever saw him.

You climbed back into the carriage, a hand resting on the swell of your stomach. A new life. A new beginning. And an ending.

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[abundance-of-fic-reblogs]

bob reynolds !! sfw alphabet

let me know if ur interested in an nsfw alphabet! enjoy <3

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

bob comes across as very shy and closed off with newer people, but with his friends he's very touchy and sweet. he wants the people he cares about to understand how much he cares about them with hugs and gifts and acts of service. he needs the reassurance so he assumes everybody else does.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

kind of like how the thunderbolts took one look at this sad wet cat and decided 'that's mine now', he kind of has that affect on everybody. he trusts you a lot.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

he would cuddle with an s/o or a best friend. bob loves the contact, it grounds him and makes him feel human so best believe he's all about cuddles when he's comfortable enough with you. He likes to spoon the most, he doesn't mind being the big spoon but he prefers little.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

as i've said before, bob can't cook great. he makes decent sandwiches thanks to his horrible upbringing but he's used to survival foods since he spent most of his time high or backpacking and homeless. he's hesitant to have kids though he does want one or two if you're interested.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

he would hate himself for it, but it would take a LOT for him to even consider it. like a lot. he wouldn't end it over text, he'd want to treat you first with dinner and maybe let you down easily, staying friends if it wasn't an absolutely horrible thing.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

you're gonna have to propose. he's a nervous wreck, scared of committing in case he messes it up. he has a lot of past trauma and baggage that he doesn't want to put on anyone, despite you telling him it's okay. once you're over the first part of your relationship and he's comfortable with casual affection, he'd 100% want to get married.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

he's very gentle. like you're fine china gentle. after he voided out and learned what he was capable of, he was scared of himself for so long and would hate himself if he was even a little rough with you. emotionally, too, he's very hesitant to share his feelings and emotions, he's very much a push over and easily manipulated.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

when the thunderbolts defeat the void with the power of friendship. send post. yes, he likes hugs. yes, he initiates them often and he is very soft and warm, he runs hot.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

he says it platonically, so he's fast to say it with his partner. his friends are very close to him and he truly does love them all.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

bob doesn't get jealous, he just gets really sad. he needs the reassurance. if you're touchy with a stranger, he's stuck in his head and thinking that he's not doing good enough for you, or he doesn't satisfy you enough.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

he loves forehead kisses but regular chaste kisses on the lips are great too, makes him flustered when you pepper them all over his face. he wasn't so experienced when he kissed you at first since he's never had time for anything romantically charged, but he gets it quickly!

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

he likes children, he's good with them, but they make him uncomfortable when he's babysitting or have to be around them a lot. he hates children in restaurants.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

mornings are slow. he gets out of bed late, slips out quietly and reads a book with a mug of tea. very calm, very nice.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

nights are also slow, very relaxed and sweet. he likes to cuddle in bed and is very touchy when he's tired, his hands glued to your hips or waist. the physical contact helps him feel like everything is real.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

he does it very slowly and needs to be prompted. he works through things with his therapist, helping him with his memory issues. those would be a big hurdle in getting to know much about him.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

he gets angry and sad at the same time. like the shaking with tears. if he's being annoyed nonstop he will cry, but if something's happening to his friends and he can't do anything about it. boom. void.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

he tries his best, bless him, he's not the best with remembering things. he knows your full name, birthday, but that's pretty much it. unless there's something big about you that's similar to him, he's already forgetting it.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

he loves the little things but his absolute favourite moment is when he was trying to bake cupcakes for you because you told him you liked them, and absolutely making a mess of the kitchen. you caught him in the act and helped him clean up the mess. the look on your face when he told you he's done this for you is burned into his retinas. he loves your smile.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

bob's protective in his own way. he's always got his eyes on you whenever he's concerned or worried, and if you're out of sight he'll text every 30 minutes or so to check up on you. he's not too bothered with being protected, he knows he's safe and he wouldn't purposefully put himself in danger again.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

he sets reminders on his calendar for things like these, and yes he absolutely goes all out. he likes to be romantic. he wants to give you everything he's got. it's really sweet. everyday tasks are really all he has, so yes he goes above and beyond for these too.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

he picks and bites his nails. it's a habit he's had since he was small and he has no interest in trying to stop, so his nails are always short. he also still gets withdrawals from meth so he scratches at his arms or tugs on his hair when he's feeling them and hides it from you because he's ashamed.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

he's not too concerned. he's looked much much worse than he ever will again so he's just happy to be healthy again.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

yes. once you're in a relationship with him you are a part of him. his arms feel empty when you're not there and his heart aches when he's not with you. he's clingy and it's sweet.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

he's very specific with his hair. he likes it cut a certain way and he doesn't like getting it dyed (he only did it because valentina really wanted him to).

he loves fidget toys.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

drugs, alcohol, anything with an addictive nature. it scares him. otherwise he can adapt, he's happy to take what he can get, and he loves you too much for something to get in the way of it.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

he doesn't sleep much. a lot of the time he lays awake and still, it's quite creepy when you wake up and he's just staring at you wide-eyed. he sleeps more when the sun's out than when it's dark because he doesn't feel safe when it's dark.